“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
Dakota shrugged. “It’s just that I would never have figured you for a pragmatic woman.” He looked pointedly at her three-inch red heels. “You certainly don’t look like one.”
His disapproval stung. “What exactly is your problem? You’ve been on my case since you first laid eyes on me.”
“That’s easy,” Dakota answered, getting to his feet. “I don’t approve of you.”
“Well, since I’m not looking for a daddy, it doesn’t much matter whether you approve of me or not, does it?”
“You know it wouldn’t hurt you to act more like a lady.”
She hid the fact that her feelings were hurt. “It wouldn’t do a thing for my image. My fans expect me to be outrageous.”
Dakota looked at her without comment, then surprised her by asking, “Where are you staying?”
“I’m staying at the Opryland Hotel. Why?”
“So I know where to send someone for your things—if I’m not unblocked by morning.”
“Excuse me, I don’t recall saying I’d sleep with you, even if you are Dakota Law.”
“And I don’t recall asking—even if you are Chelsea Stone,” he said darkly.
“Then what exactly are you suggesting?”
“I have a ten-acre place that will afford us a lot of privacy about a half hour from here. I’m suggesting that if we spend enough time in close quarters together, maybe you’ll annoy me so much, I’ll get unblocked just to rid myself of you.”
“I don’t know how I can refuse such a charming offer,” Chelsea said, shooting him a sardonic look. “And for my part, I promise to do my very best to annoy the hell out of you.”
“I doubt you’ll have to try.” Dakota mumbled.
CHELSEA RAN HER HAND appreciatively over the soft buttery leather interior of Dakota’s new sports car.
“Actually I think you ought to thank me for wrecking your car. This one is a huge improvement,” she said.
Her comment only drew a scowl from Dakota.
She tried conversation again. “Do any of your family live with you?”
“No.”
Interesting. His no had been both final and unbreachable. She’d have to think about that—later. At the moment, she needed a subject that would interest him.
Since his songwriting was the reason the two of them were hurtling through the star-bright Tennessee night together, it was probably a safe bet. “You really shouldn’t worry about it, you know.”
“About what?” he asked, glancing over at her.
“Your writer’s block. I’m certain the more you keep thinking about it, the harder it will be to break through it. I know it’s difficult to be creative when you’re anxious about ever writing again. And when you can’t come up with any ideas, it’s easy to get down on yourself and give up.”
“You can put your mind at ease. I’m not giving up. I don’t plan on having you for a permanent houseguest. You’ll get your song somehow. What I can’t figure is why you’re fixated on my being the one to write a song for you. Not when your songs are playing on MTV and MTV refers to country music as yee-haw music.”
“I’m not thrilled about being forced to make this career change, but as you said, I’m a pragmatic woman. After my throat surgery, I knew I couldn’t go on abusing my vocal chords as I had in the past. I knew your romantic ballads would be kind to my throat. Besides, I think it might be interesting to rock some country.”
He slid her another glance. “You really think country music is ready for Chelsea Stone?”
“It will be if I’m singing one of your songs,” she said, laying on the sugar.
Dakota snorted in derision. “More likely it’ll kill two careers with one song.”
“I like you, too.” Chelsea turned her head to stare out at the black-and-white ribbon of highway unfurled before them. They rode for a few minutes in silence. She considered the reasons why Dakota might be blocked. Was it because he was being too hard on himself? Too impatient? Or was it because he was afraid to fail, afraid of losing the success he’d grown accustomed to? She could certainly relate to that particular fear.
The silence between them began to make her nervous and she reached to turn on the radio.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Dakota interjected covering her hand with his. “Hearing other people’s music depresses me at the moment.”
“Okay,” she acquiesced, pulling her hand back to rest in her lap. “I know, let’s play.”
“Forget it.” Keeping his eyes on the road, Dakota added, “I’m not counting out-of-state license plates or anything remotely like that.”
“Good grief, what kind of women do you date—and what age? I meant let’s play around with some song ideas. You never know, you might come up with a lyric or a good hook for a new song.”
“All right,” he agreed, but without much enthusiasm. “Go ahead and throw something out.”
“Black lingerie, red lipstick and motor oil,” she suggested.
“You have a really weird mind. Motor oil… where did that come from?”
“We passed a gas station back there. Anyway, the trick isn’t to judge the ideas—just to play around with words. Go ahead, you try.”
“Go away… don’t come back… leave me alone,” Dakota declared, glancing over to gauge Chelsea’s reaction.
She clapped her hands together in mock delight. “Oh, the hermit song!” Then she shook her head. “Nope, it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because nothing rhymes with hermit, except maybe Kermit.”
“Ah, but you’re wrong.”
“Name something.”
“Okay, how about permit?”
“Use it in a sentence,” she challenged.
“Okay.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve got it. You shouldn’t be allowed out in that red miniskirt without a permit.”
Chelsea bristled. “I’ve just thought of another word that rhymes.”
“What?”
“Cram it.”
“Chelsea! I guess there’s no hope at all of making you into a lady.”
“None.”
“It’s a shame….”
“Why?”
“Because only ladies sing my songs.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re blocked.”
Dakota made no comment on her saucy remark. He stared straight ahead, his lips drawn together in a tight, angry line. The car began to slow and Chelsea wondered a bit anxiously if he was going to leave her on the road, miles outside of Nashville. She relaxed when Dakota geared down and turned into a long, winding drive.
The drive, edged with flower beds, led up a slight incline to a large, pillared house of light-colored brick that sprawled at the top of the hill. A steeper hill was visible behind the house, which, despite its size, nestled gracefully amid trees and gardens. The whole area, including the flower-lined drive, was illuminated with a soft white light.
Chelsea stared around her for a moment, then gave a long, low unladylike whistle of pleasure.
The house was that beautiful—a perfect home for him to bring a debutante to. But a debutante would probably swoon, not whistle, Chelsea thought wryly.
HOURS LATER, DAKOTA sat alone in his kitchen regretting the decision to ask Chelsea Stone to move into his house. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. He’d been angry about his writer’s block and he wanted someone to take it out on. She’d made it easy by accepting the blame.
He tipped his head back and took a long drink of chocolate milk straight from the carton. When he caught his reflection in the chrome toaster on the counter, he smiled. He looked like a kid with chocolate all around his mouth. He felt like a kid, too—like a boy who’d just discovered the attraction of the opposite sex. He’d been all keyed up and unable to sleep since he’d shown Chelsea to her bedroom hours ago.
It had be
en that line about black lingerie and red lipstick she’d come up with that was to blame. He kept picturing her in nothing but.
Chelsea Stone. If he was entertaining any romantic notions about her, he must be crazy.
There wasn’t one area of his life Chelsea would fit into. In her black leather and Chrome Heart accessories, she’d stand out everywhere she went in Nashville.
He imagined what it would be like to take Chelsea Stone home with him. He could just see her wearing her red minidress to one of his parents’ charity galas. Hell, if he weren’t already disinherited, she’d take care of it in a heartbeat.
Maybe that was why he found her so exciting, he thought, putting the half-empty carton of chocolate milk back in the refrigerator. Chelsea Stone was a woman outside his experience. She could care less that he didn’t approve of her, that his family wouldn’t. She didn’t even seem to realize that she’d have to make some effort to fit into Nashville. It might be the seat of the country-music business, but its atmosphere was that of a small town.
Surely she didn’t believe she could flaunt every convention and then win everyone over with his song.
What was he worrying about? There wouldn’t be any song. He couldn’t write. All his success had been pure luck. He was a fraud just waiting to be discovered.
All he needed was three verses and a chorus. Yet he couldn’t string a sentence together, much less a verse.
Let’s face it, he didn’t really believe Chelsea could actually help unblock him; he’d invited her so he could torture her—pay her back for having wrecked his lucky car.
As he lay in bed an hour later, the provocative image of Chelsea in black lingerie still teasing his mind, he wasn’t sure who was the one being tortured.
“Go away… don’t come back… leave me alone,” he muttered to the image, then punched his pillow and balled it under his head.
CHELSEA COULDN’T BELIEVE Dakota Law had actually asked her to move into his house.
It had been so easy. She hadn’t had to scheme or plan; he’d just handed her what she wanted. It disconcerted her.
She stood at the window of the spacious bedroom Dakota had shown her to. It overlooked a small stand of white birch off to one side of the entrance. The delicate leaves on the trees trembled in the gentle breeze. They reminded her of how Dakota made her feel when he turned his clear blue eyes on her.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea being so close to him. Sometimes when he looked at her as if she were a fancy truffle he shouldn’t eat but wanted to, she liked it. But what was his problem? Was he afraid he might like her?
That was it. Dakota was really afraid of her. She smiled. She knew it instinctively.
And she knew why.
She knew from what she’d read about him that his family was in banking, was probably a stereotypical banking family whose men locked up their emotions in the bank vaults along with the money. But if that was true, then how could a man who came from a cold, unaffectionate family write love songs?
Just maybe, he’d come to realize he was faking it; realize he needed a passionate woman in his life.
Her.
What in the world was she thinking? From the fact that his family was in banking, she’d invented a whole history, a catalog of needs. But Dakota Law was probably better adjusted than she was. Which wouldn’t be that hard, according to Tucker.
He didn’t need a woman. He had that debutante-type assistant. And fans—thousands of adoring female fans.
Dakota was blocked because he actually believed that stupid car was magic.
He was nuts.
And her career depended on him.
5
CHELSEA HEARD A muffled, distant pounding.
She fought her way up from a deep sleep, but then the sound stopped.
She was drifting gratefully back to sleep when she heard it again.
She opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. The noise, she realized, was someone knocking at her bedroom door. This time it was accompanied by a sharp, insistent bark.
“Tucker, is that you?” she called out when the pounding ceased.
“Hell, no,” a voice growled on the other side of the door.
Chelsea recognized the voice and the excited yip that had come through the closed door. The annoyed response came from Dakota Law and the playful bark from his black Lab, Pokey.
She wasn’t on the road touring with Tucker, and she wasn’t in another strange hotel room. She was a guest in Dakota’s home. Probably not a very welcome guest, but a guest nonetheless.
“Is this a fire drill?” she called out. It felt as if she’d just fallen asleep.
“Can we come in?” Dakota asked through the door, while Pokey scratched at it and barked.
Chelsea pushed herself up in bed, reached for the quilt and tucked it around her naked body. “Come on in.”
The door opened and Pokey bounded onto the bed and licked her face happily.
Dakota, who had just set down Chelsea’s bags in a corner of the room, turned to remonstrate the dog.
“Pokey, beha—” he began, then stopped, looking stunned.
Chelsea followed Dakota’s gaze and saw that Pokey’s playful welcome had caused the quilt to slip, displaying her right breast. “Oopsies,” she said, adjusting the quilt.
Pokey plopped down beside her, panting and grinning like she’d known exactly what she was doing, and that maybe there would be a dog biscuit in it for her. Observing the sexy glint in Dakota’s blue eyes, Chelsea wouldn’t be at all surprised if that was true.
“Uh—” he swallowed dryly “—I had your bags packed and brought them over from the hotel.” He nodded toward them. “Breakfast is in half an hour—no room service, sorry. So haul your lazy bones out of bed. Come on, Pokey, let’s go.”
When man and dog were gone, Chelsea let the soft quilt slip to her waist. The nipples of her breasts had hardened and had a warm, rosy blush to them. She hadn’t been as impervious to the desire in Dakota’s baby blues as she’d pretended.
She smiled as she shoved back the quilt and got out of bed, not quite sure who was going to drive who crazy during their attempt to get a song written for her.
She made short work of the unpacking, then showered and a half-hour later, descended the stairs for breakfast wearing a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves, a pair of men’s boxers worn as shorts, and round sunglasses that were tinted bright blue.
She followed the sound of voices to the airy dining room where she found two things that surprised her. The focal point of the room, a battered oak dining table, was surrounded by mismatched chairs, each wooden curiosity painted a different color.
Even more intriguing, was the fact that seated to Dakota’s left, barely visible behind the tall vase of snapdragons in the center of the table, was Melinda Jackson, Dakota’s possessive assistant.
Pokey lay near Dakota’s feet, her tail thumping on the hardwood floor. Unlike Melinda, the dog was happy to see her. Melinda had shown no surprise when Chelsea entered the dining room, but the look on her face left no doubt that she wasn’t one bit happy about Chelsea’s presence in Dakota’s home.
“Well, you finally decided to join us for breakfast,” Dakota said as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “Melinda fetched your things from the Opryland Hotel for me, and I invited her to join us for breakfast. Help yourself to the spread on the sideboard. My cook still thinks he’s cooking for my band on tour, so there’s plenty.”
“Dakota, you should have told Chelsea we dress for breakfast in the South,” Melinda chided.
“I am dressed.” Chelsea picked up the plate from the place that had been set on Dakota’s right.
“Don’t you worry what people will think about your dressing that… that way? I would never have the nerve.” Melinda’s venom was obvious despite the sugarcoating.
“It never occurs to me to worry what people will think of me,” Chelsea replied. “I’m more co
ncerned with what I think of them.”
Chelsea helped herself to the food on the sideboard. She split a flaky buttermilk biscuit, ladled it with sausage gravy seasoned with pepper, then poured herself a tall glass of tart, pulpy lemonade.
When Chelsea took her place at the table, Melinda began discussing business with Dakota, deliberately excluding Chelsea.
“I’ve had another call from a firm wanting to sponsor your next tour. What do you want me to tell them?”
Dakota took a sip of his coffee. “What company? “You know I’ve decided against cigarettes and liquor.”
“I know. But this is different. The company makes boots, and they want to design a special boot for you to wear while you’re performing. You’d get a percentage of every boot sold and they’d pick up the tab for sponsoring the tour, as well.”
“Tell them I’ll do it, if he won’t,” Chelsea chimed in, not letting Melinda cut her out of the conversation. She’d decided Melinda would be even more fun to annoy than Dakota.
“I don’t think—” Melinda began.
Dakota cut her off. “Chelsea’s right, it is an attractive offer. See if you can stall them for a while. I don’t want to go out on tour until I have a new album to promote, and as we all know, I still need to write one more song for the album.”
Melinda frowned, but made a note on the small pad beside her plate. She toyed with a melon ball, while consulting the rest of her list.
‘If you’re still having a problem coming up with a new song for the album, I don’t see why you don’t just cover someone else’s song and finish the album. Then you’d be off the hook with your record company,” Melinda suggested.
“She’s right. And if you don’t want to do a new song, you could do a golden oldie,” Chelsea added. “Or, I know, why not record one of your old songs with a new arrangement. Something like Neil Sedaka did with ‘Calendar Girl’?”
Dakota pushed his plate away and shook his head. “No, it has to be a brand-new song. It’s what my fans have come to expect and I’m not going to start disappointing them at this stage of my career.”
“But you’re already in trouble with your record company because you’ve missed two deadlines on this album. They’re going to suspect you have a serious problem, like drugs or alcohol. They aren’t going to be patient much longer.” Melinda slipped her list into her briefcase with a look of disapproval on her face.
Love, Me Page 4
