by JoAnn Ross
His mouth came down on hers, crushing, claiming. His hands moved roughly on her body, pulling her off the love-rumpled sheets and holding her hard against him.
Then, before she could catch her breath, Cash dragged her into the whirlwind, proving to her that love and unbridled passion were not mutually exclusive.
She had made a tactical error, Roxanne decided grimly. Now her sheets were truly ruined. And unless she wanted her bedroom to reek like a goddamn outhouse, she was going to have to let George use her shower.
She made him leave the bathroom door open, so she could monitor his movements. Meanwhile, after stripping the bed, she changed into a pair of royal purple lounging pajamas with gold piping and a pair of gold mules.
Then she sat down in the wing chair, lit a cigarette, and pointed the revolver at the bathroom door.
“Would you put that goddamn thing away before you give me a fuckin’ heart attack,” he complained as he came out of the bathroom with one of her monogrammed towels wrapped around his waist. “Besides, it’s not even loaded.”
“If you think that, why don’t you take it away from me?” Her tone was patient, her half smile sly. “Remember the night you got drunk and made me play Russian roulette?” She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, enjoying the harsh bite of nicotine and smoke in her lungs. “But that time, you were the one holding the gun. And I was the one begging you not to kill me.”
“Shit, I wouldn’t have killed you, Cora Mae. Ms. Scarbrough,” he corrected quickly when her lips turned down into a tight frown. “I was just funnin’ with you.”
“I was terrified,” she said on a billowing cloud of exhaled smoke. “The same way you were earlier. It isn’t a very nice feeling, is it, George?”
“So that’s what that little melodrama was all about? Payback time?”
“In a way.”
“Fine. Then we should be even.”
She shouldn’t have let him shower, Roxanne decided, realizing she’d made another mistake. He’d been a great deal more docile and desperate with shit and urine all over his ass and thighs.
“Of course we’re not,” she snapped. “Because you raped me.”
“You can’t rape your wife.”
“The courts feel differently about that these days, George. But it’s a moot point. Since we’re divorced, dammit.”
“That’s what you keep sayin’. But I notice that you still haven’t dragged out the paper proving it.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“I’ve seen you work. You don’t misplace so much as a goddamn paper clip. You sure as shootin’ wouldn’t lose a divorce decree.”
They were getting off track again. “You raped me.”
“That’s what you say now. But I remember when you used to scream because you liked it rough. You couldn’t get enough. Remember? Not even when you were pregnant.”
“I don’t want to talk about that!”
She was on her feet, her hand trembling wildly. He shook his head, reached out and took the revolver away. “It’s not exactly my favorite subject, either,” he muttered.
He opened the gun and spun the cylinder. “Empty. I didn’t think you’d do it. A dead man in your bedroom might be a little difficult to pull off, Cora Mae. Even the rich, famous and glib Roxanne Scarbrough probably would have trouble getting out of that fix.
“Now, you can lie all you want, but you can’t deny all those fuckathons made us a baby, sugar. A baby you didn’t want.”
“I couldn’t be a mother,” she insisted. “Not then. I had things to do.”
“Like killin’ your stepdaddy?”
“You know I didn’t kill him. You did.”
“It probably don’t matter which of us swung that hammer,” he said with a shrug. “Since in the eyes of the law, the other one would be an accessory after the fact. But there’s no point in rehashing it, sugar. Because it’s yesterday’s box score.”
He tossed the unloaded revolver onto the unmade bed. “I’m your legally wedded husband, Cora Mae. And it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman. And those punk fairies in prison aren’t exactly my type, if you know what I mean. So other than my hairy ole palm, I ain’t had a lot of sexual companionship these past seven years.”
“Seven years? What on earth were you in for?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He flashed a dark, evil grin. “I had sex with a girl on top of a pool table in a Phoenix bar. I say she was willin’. But the goddamn cops called it rape.”
He decided not to mention the little matter of the porno movies. If she thought he might have filmed her, the next time she’d make sure the gun was loaded.
“You really are sick, George.”
“Now that may be, Cora Mae.” His menacing old ways returned, in spades, as he walked toward her. “But the way I see it, you’re stuck with me. For better or for worse.”
She whirled away, opened the dresser draw and pulled out the knife. As she held it out in front of her, the blade caught the light, making it look like a straight bolt of lightning.
“You’re forgetting the line about until death us do part,” she warned. “You touch me again, George, and I swear I’ll kill you. Even if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“You’d never do it.” His eyes were beady little black marbles. “You’ve worked too hard for all this to throw it all away and end up on your knees giving head to a bunch of prison dykes in the shower room.”
Her eyes were cold steel. “Just try me.”
He gave her a long look. Then shrugged. “You were always a lousy lay anyway.” Turning his back on her, he strolled over to the smaller of the two closets in the room, opened the door and began looking through the rack of men’s clothing that Vern had begun keeping at her house for his frequent visits.
“What are you doing now?”
“I need something to wear,” he said simply. “So I figured old Vern wouldn’t mind sharing some of his clothes with me. Since I’m willing to share my wife with him.”
“That’s a $250 shirt,” she complained when he chose a blue silk custom-tailored shirt.
“And worth every dollar, too,” he agreed, his cheer restored now that the power had shifted back to him.
Vowing that she was going to get rid of this evil monster—and soon—Roxanne watched him dress and imagined slashing the blue silk, and the flesh beneath it. Again and again.
It would almost be worth going to prison, she thought. But she had a horrible feeling that George was like all those monsters in the horror movies. Whatever she did to get rid of him, just when she’d think he was finally dead, he’d pop up again with that evil, devil’s grin and try to destroy her.
The trick was to destroy him first.
But how?
After a long, love-filled night, Chelsea and Cash were having breakfast in bed, when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Roxanne, Cash scooped it up. “Hello?”
His response was greeted with silence.
“Hello?” he tried again.
“I was calling for Chelsea Cassidy,” the modulated female voice said. There was enough similarity in inflection to give Cash a very good idea who it was.
“The operator put you through to the wrong room,” he said, wanting to spare Chelsea having to come up with explanations she was not yet prepared to make. “Just a minute, and I’ll go get her.”
He covered the receiver with his palm, earning a curious look from Chelsea. “Is that for me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who is it? Roxanne? Surely not Nelson?”
“I think it’s your mother.”
“My mother?” She unconsciously pulled the sheet up over her naked breasts. “She’s calling me here?”
“Seems so. I figured I’d let her think you slept in your own bedroom.”
“Thank you.” Chelsea had a very good feeling what her mother was calling about. She sighed and held out her hand. “I’d better talk to her. Before she comes to the hotel
and begins banging on our door.”
“The clerk won’t give out our room number.”
“The clerk isn’t supposed to give out our room number,” Chelsea corrected dryly. “But you’ve never seen my mother in action. Hello, Mother.” Chelsea forced a cheery, surprised tone into her voice. “How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t that difficult,” Deidre Lowell said. “When Nelson told me you’d returned to the city this weekend, I simply began calling hotels. I started with the Plaza, then the Four Seasons and the Waldorf. Then I tried the Grand Hyatt. To tell you the truth, Chelsea dear, the Paramount was very far down on my list of possible choices.”
Her disapproving tone suggested that Chelsea had suddenly taken to wearing leather and turned biker chick.
“I’m sorry you had to go to all that trouble.” Chelsea dragged her hand through her hair and wondered how it was, that no matter how old or how successful she became, her mother could make her feel like a seven-year-old with scraped knees again. “I was going to call you.”
“Were you?” Deidre’s tone suggested she didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Of course.”
“When? From the departure gate at La Guardia on your way back to Georgia?”
Chelsea closed her eyes as she felt the familiar frustration beginning to build. “Please, Mother, can we discuss this some other time?”
“There’s no time like the present. What’s your room number?”
“Actually, it’s a suite. A two-bedroom suite.”
“And surely one of those bedrooms has a room number?”
Chelsea sighed, knowing that there was no point in trying to refuse her mother’s demands. She revealed the number.
“Fine. I’ll be right up.”
“You’ll be what?” Chelsea gave Cash, who was sitting beside her nibbling idly on her shoulder, a panicky look.
“I said, I’ll be right up.”
“You’re here? In the hotel?”
“Of course. I’m calling from the lobby. The impossible young man at the desk refused to give out your room number. Even after I explained I was your mother.”
Chelsea silently blessed the desk clerk who was obviously made of tougher stuff than he appeared. “Why don’t I meet you downstairs?” she suggested. “We can go out to breakfast. It’ll take me a few minutes to get ready, because I still have to shower and dress—”
“We can talk while you dress.”
“But—”
“Chelsea, you’re my daughter. I’ve seen you without clothes. I’ll be right up. I do hope you’ve at least ordered coffee from room service.”
Chelsea sat there, momentarily frozen, the receiver still to her ear, listening to the hum of the dial tone. Then, she leaped out of the bed.
“She’s coming up here.” She ran into the adjoining living room and scooped up her discarded dress and shoes from the floor. “Now!”
“So I gathered.” Cash followed her into the other bedroom, watching as she began tearing apart the bed, desperately trying to make it look as if it had been slept in.
She shot him a quick look, groaning when she noticed that he hadn’t bothered to put any clothes on. “You’ll have to get dressed. And try to keep her busy while I take a shower.”
“That’ll take some time. Maybe you should just throw on a robe—”
“I have to take a shower! Or else she’ll know what I was doing all night!”
Personally, Cash thought, taking in the sight of her swollen lips, and cheeks reddened from his beard stubble, Deidre Lowell would have to be blind not to know how her daughter—her adult daughter, he reminded himself—had spent the night. But since he didn’t want to give Chelsea anything else to worry about, he didn’t mention that.
“I’ll do my best to keep her entertained.”
“Thank you. You truly are a sweetheart.” She pulled some underwear from the zipper compartment of her suit-case, stopping long enough to give him a quick, heartfelt kiss on the way into the adjoining bathroom. “And whatever you do, don’t let her intimidate you. If you give my mother an inch, you’ll end up lying facedown on the floor with tank tracks running up your back.”
“I’ll do my best to survive.” He kissed her back, then released her, closing the bedroom door behind him. He’d just managed to pull on some briefs, a pair of jeans and a shirt, when there was a brisk, determined knock on the door.
Buttoning the shirt, he left his bedroom, and although he didn’t believe they’d get away with the ruse for a moment, he closed the door to hide any overtly incriminating evidence. Then he opened the door to the suite.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lowell.” He bestowed his most cordial smile on the woman dressed in the oatmeal-hued raw silk pantsuit. The style was classic, expensive but subdued. It reminded Cash of the outfit Chelsea had been wearing when he first saw her on television. Although the look had been all wrong for her daughter, he decided it suited Deidre Lowell perfectly.
He held out his hand. “I’m Cash Beaudine. It’s nice to finally meet you after all these years.”
She looked at his outstretched hand with overt distrust. But good manners prevailed. She slipped her manicured hand into his, barely touching fingers.
“Cash Beaudine?” She frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve heard Chelsea speak of you.”
“We knew each other a long time ago.” He moved aside, inviting her in. She brushed past him, surrounded by a fragrant, obviously very expensive cloud. “At Yale.”
“You went to Yale?” Her gaze swept over him, quickly, judiciously, and although her polite expression didn’t waver, he knew he’d just been sized up and found lacking. His sharp eyes noticed the way that little line had deepened between her brows when she took in his bare feet.
“Yes, ma’am. I majored in architecture.”
“Architecture?” This time a hint of blatant disbelief slipped into her tone.
“Chelsea has a very strong interest in the subject.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Oh, she’s quite an expert. We used to have many long discussions arguing the relative merits of the early 1900s Eclectic Period versus Post 1940s contemporary housing styles.”
His smile was as smooth as whipped butter. Deidre blinked, obviously trying to decide whether or not he was putting her on.
“Would you care for some coffee?” He turned toward the tray he’d brought into the living room from the bedroom. He figured she didn’t need to know he’d dumped his and Chelsea’s cups back into the pot.
“Thank you.” She sat down in a suede-covered tub chair and crossed her legs. When her back remained as straight as every old photograph he’d ever seen of Queen Victoria, Cash realized that it could be a very long morning.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Just black.” She watched him fix the coffee, glanced over at the adjoining door, where the sound of running water had suddenly stopped. “So, Mr…. I’m sorry, but I’m terrible at names—”
“Beaudine,” he said helpfully, handing her the coffee.
“Beaudine.” She took a tentative sip. Then, apparently finding it acceptable, eyed him over the rim of the cup. “Your accent tells me you’re not from New York.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. I was born in Raintree, Georgia. That’s a little town about thirty miles outside Savannah.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I have some very dear friends in Atlanta. Martin and Lucinda Callaway. I don’t suppose you know them?”
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“They have a lovely home in the Buckhead area. A white Georgian that has always reminded me of that house in that movie. What was its name…?”
“Tara.”
“Yes, that’s it. It’s truly exquisite. And they have the most beautiful gardens. I’ve often told Lucinda that I would give anything to be able to get things to grow so well at my Long Island home. I suppose it’s your climate. All that sun. And moisture.”
“Things do tend to g
et hot and steamy.”
Her eyes narrowed again, as if she suspected him of making a joke at her expense. “Are you employed here in the city?”
“Actually, I’m currently working in Raintree.” He couldn’t resist tossing his résumé into the conversation. “Before that, I worked in San Francisco. As a partner at Mathison, Tang, Kendall and Peters.”
She arched a narrow blond brow. “That’s a very well-respected firm.”
“So I was told when I was hired right out of school. Yale,” he reminded her easily.
“Yes. So you said.” She took another sip, then put the cup down onto the black kidney-shaped coffee table. “I have friends in San Francisco, as well. Pamela and Ramsey Jennings. Of Pacific Heights.”
Cash nodded. “Them, I know. I worked on an office design for Ramsey’s law firm.”
He’d also slept with a very predatory Mrs. Jennings his first year in the big city. Admittedly a fish out of water in the lofty echelons of high society, at first the attention from all those rich, sleek, attractive women had him thinking he’d landed in tall cotton. It hadn’t taken Cash long to realize that Pamela and her pampered friends had considered him merely a sexual toy.
“May I ask what you’re currently doing in Georgia?”
“I’ve established my own firm. I refurbish old houses.”
“How interesting.” Only the faint twitch of her lips revealed that she obviously considered this a step down from his high-profile commercial work in the Bay Area.
“I think so. I’m currently working with Roxanne Scarbrough.”
“So is Chelsea. Isn’t that a coincidence?” Her deepening frown suggested she did not find it a pleasant or encouraging one.
Before Cash could respond, the bedroom door opened and Chelsea came out, wearing a halter-style dress with a very short flip skirt and white sandals. The fact that the huge white daisies covering the dress had been painted onto a fire-engine red field told Cash that she was not feeling as brave as she seemed determined to appear. More daisies bloomed on the scarlet acrylic earrings dangling from her lobes, and across the wide matching bracelet.
