“What in the Sam Hell—?” Tucker leaned back and braced himself.
“No, Pokey. Down. Come here.”
“They let horses in the house in the South?” Tucker asked, as Chelsea allowed the huge dog to rest her big black paws on her shoulders and lick her face.
“No, Cheesebrain. This is Pokey. She’s Dakota’s puppy.”
“That’s no puppy. That thing weighs at least one hundred pounds.”
“Shh … you’ll hurt her feelings. She thinks she’s a lapdog.”
“Just as long as it’s not my lap she wants to sit on.”
Pokey looked over at Tucker, dismissed him as no threat, and plopped down on the hardwood floor beside Chelsea’s chair.
“Now, about your idea …” Chelsea said, returning to their interrupted conversation.
DAKOTA WAS DEEP IN thought as he flew home from Branson, Missouri. He’d spent the afternoon getting a feel for what was happening in the booming town that was becoming known as the new Nashville. Dozens of country-music stars were building their own theaters in Branson and the fans were flocking to their shows by the thousands.
It was a great setup for those stars who were weary of touring. And for the star who wanted to spend more time at home, start a family …
A family.
Since his own had shunned him, he’d tried not to think about the concept. It was too painful.
Not that there weren’t any good memories; there were.
There just weren’t any warm ones.
Affection might have been felt, but it had never been shown. In his family, the emphasis had been on appearances. In banking it was important that your standing in the community be maintained. There could never be the slightest hint of scandal. Any impropriety in your personal life could be construed as a weakness that might bleed over into your professional life.
That was bad enough, but perhaps even worse was his mother’s drive to be at the top of society in their community—a closed society that dictated manners and opinions, and measured personal worth according to family background and professional status.
His mother hadn’t objected to the fact that he’d wanted a career in music; only that it wasn’t in the opera or with a symphony.
Was it getting older that made him long for what he didn’t have? And premature senility that had him thinking about marriage to Chelsea Stone—a completely unsuitable woman, who was involved with another man.
It was madness.
She was all wrong for him.
Unfortunately, he was afraid he was falling in love with her.
After stopping by his record company’s offices on Music Circle to reassure them he was working on the album, and to check on the schedule for making the music video for launching the first single from the album, he headed home.
He felt a little like he suspected a new husband might when the old husband turned out not to be dead after all. At least his dog loved him. Pokey met him at the door, her tail thumping with eager delight.
“You been guarding the silverware, girl?” Dakota grumbled. He scratched the playful dog behind the ears, then bent to rub her belly while she squirmed with absolute bliss.
“Where is everyone?” he wondered aloud when he got to his feet and loosened his tie. Pokey followed him down the hall to the library, but they found it deserted.
Chelsea and Tucker were probably out in the kitchen as it was the cook’s day off. Chelsea was no doubt hovering over him, feeding him broth and crackers.
But they weren’t in the kitchen, either. They couldn’t have gone far, he surmised. Tucker needed to stay off his leg for a few days, anyway.
Back out in the hall, he heard laughter floating down the stairs.
He followed the sound to Chelsea’s bedroom.
The door was open.
Dakota walked inside and Pokey followed, hopped up on the unmade bed and sprawled across it.
He heard the water running in the adjoining bath. Maybe he’d imagined hearing laughter. Perhaps it had been Chelsea in the shower singing that he’d heard. It wouldn’t do for her to come out of the shower and find him snooping in her bedroom.
He turned to leave, then stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oww … Tucker Gable, I swear that cast is a lethal weapon.”
“The better to protect you with, my dear. I told you you were always safe with me.” Tucker laughed, then added, “I don’t think this bathtub was meant for two. We’re going to have to be careful I don’t wind up breaking my other leg.”
Dakota didn’t wait to hear anymore.
He left the room feeling like a fool.
He’d almost talked himself into believing there wasn’t anything more between Chelsea and Tucker than a strong friendship. Anyone, but a fool like himself, could see they were lovers.
He had to work through his block.
As it stood, he couldn’t ask them to leave. What would he say? That he was falling in love with Chelsea?
Hardly.
But if he wrote her a song, she would take it and go. He’d be rid of both of them.
Yes, that was what he wanted, he told himself.
He wanted to be alone.
THE NEXT MORNING Dakota left early with the excuse of a business breakfast appointment. It was a lie, but he couldn’t face sitting and watching Chelsea and Tucker flirting outrageously, as was their habit.
He frittered away the day playing tourist, eavesdropping on the other tourists visiting the museums, souvenir shops and showcases on Demon Breu Street. All it did was make him appreciate how much country music was loved. It didn’t inspire the song he’d hoped for.
He almost went to the Opryland Theme Park, but decided he was likely to be recognized. Instead, he headed for Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and enough beer to get seriously mellow.
That didn’t work, either. Still no song idea came to him. So he took himself home. On the drive up to the house he saw a tennis ball lying in the flower bed where Pokey must have dropped it. She loved playing catch with the gardener.
And he’d loved playing tennis with Chelsea.
That was something Tucker couldn’t do with his broken leg. Dakota was in a much better mood as he went inside to hunt up Chelsea for a game of tennis.
A quick check of the downstairs yielded no sign of her. The house was quiet. The cook lived on the premises in the carriage house, and the gardener had gone home.
He stopped to listen carefully, but no strains of laughter floated down the stairs.
“Pokey, where are you, girl?” he called out.
A quiet bark seemed to come from upstairs. Dakota took the steps two at a time. He checked his own bedroom first, but no Pokey.
The door to Chelsea’s room was ajar and he was drawn to it irresistibly. He took a deep breath before he pushed it open, afraid of what he might see.
There was someone in Chelsea’s unmade bed, all right.
Pokey was sprawled there, happily chewing on one of Chelsea’s new leather cowboy boots.
“Pokey! Bad girl,” Dakota admonished, taking the boot from her, but the damage had already been done.
Dakota picked up the boot and its mate to stow them in the closet where, he thought peevishly, they should have been in the first place.
As he passed the large mirrored dresser he saw a bright scrap of lingerie nestled in the white tissue folds of an open white gift box. He set the boots down and picked up the bit of silk—a sheer red teddy with a thong back—and let it dangle from his fingertip as if it were a piece of evidence from a crime that had been committed.
Chelsea’s image—a cloud of dark curls, red lips and long legs—flashed in his mind. The teddy would cling to every curve and accentuate her long shapely legs.
An envelope in the bottom of the box caught his eye. He couldn’t resist picking it up. Feeling guilty, but not guilty enough to stop snooping, he slid the card from the envelope and silently read it.
&nbs
p; Now that you’ve had
A birthday, you’re
Old enough to wear
This.
I dare you.
Love, Me
Scowling, Dakota crammed the card back in the envelope, returned it and the red teddy to the gift box, then stalked from the room. Pokey trailed after him.
After he’d changed his clothes, Dakota went down to the tennis court and slammed balls back at the automatic feeder.
An hour later he was in the shower when Pokey, who was waiting outside the door, began to bark. The moment Dakota turned off the water he could hear the cause of Pokey’s excitement: a commotion outside in the driveway with cars honking like a procession of newlyweds just leaving the church.
Pokey only added to the din with her yelping as she ran back and forth between him and the door, begging him to come.
“Let me put my pants on, okay?” Dakota said, when Pokey came over and swatted at him with her paw to get him to hurry.
Pokey settled down, but the honking didn’t.
Finally decent, he ran his hands through his wet hair to comb it, and started downstairs. In his hurry he hadn’t bothered with shoes, which was a mistake; at the bottom of the stairs he stepped on a thorn Pokey must have carried in on her fur.
Swearing, he pulled the thorn from his foot, then hopped to the front door and opened it to see what in hell was the cause of all the racket.
It was not a parade, it was only one car. Chelsea sat in the front seat pressing the horn, looking as pleased as a blue ribbon winner.
Tucker was sprawled in the back seat with his leg propped up.
It wasn’t just any car.
The reason for the smug look plastered on Chelsea’s face was the fact that it was his car—an exact replica of the car she’d totaled.
8
FOR SEVERAL SECONDS Dakota simply stared in amazement. “I don’t believe this,” he said finally, as he began limping carefully across the driveway. “Where did you get it?”
Chelsea grinned and lovingly patted the decrepit hunk of metal. “Tucker tracked it down. He was on your phone for hours until he found one.”
“Long distance,” Tucker called from the back seat.
When Dakota looked his way, Tucker tipped his baseball cap. “Don’t know if it’s going to work for you, dude. I rode here in the back seat all the way, and I haven’t had any tunes pop into my head. Course, I mighta been a little more inspired if I’d had a woman back here to keep me company.”
“Have you ever had any tunes pop into your head, Tucker?” Chelsea demanded. She was distracted by Dakota’s half-naked body; he was like a golden cougar, all ripply sinew and sleek lines. And he looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. Had they interrupted something? She blushed, hoping Melinda Jackson wasn’t going to come sashaying out of the house at any moment.
“Nope, can’t say as I have,” Tucker answered with a wide grin. “I’m a lover, not a writer.”
“Well, what do you think?” Chelsea turned to ask Dakota, trying not to stare at where his jeans were riding low on his hips.
“I think it’s—” he ran his hand through his hair, “—it’s something, all right.”
“But do you think it will work? Do you think you’ll be able to write again now?”
Dakota smoothed his hand over the fender, feeling the dents, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’m willing to give it a try, since the two of you have gone to all this effort.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose stranger things have happened.”
“Well, then, someone had better help me haul my butt outta here.” Tucker groaned, trying to maneuver from the back seat.
Dakota went to give him a hand.
“Thanks for helping locate the car,” Dakota said when he’d pulled Tucker out.
“No thanks needed. I’d do anything at all to get Chelsea the song she wants. And even if I hadn’t wanted to help, she’d have made me. You may have noticed the woman does get her way.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You’d better get inside and off that leg,” Chelsea ordered, lifting his arm across her shoulders to help him hobble inside.
Dakota walked on ahead to get the door.
“You’re looking a little gimpy there yourself, dude,” Tucker observed.
“I stepped on a thorn.”
“Did you put something on it?” Chelsea asked, as Dakota helped her lower Tucker to the sofa in the library.
“No, it’s nothing.”
“You sit down there with Tucker, and I’ll get some antiseptic.”
“I’d sit if I were you,” Tucker said with a laugh. “That is, after you get me a cola, if you’ve got one. We didn’t stop to eat.”
“I’ll get us something to drink and see what the cook left for dinner,” Dakota offered.
Chelsea returned with a tube of ointment just as Dakota came back, carrying a tray. He put the tray on the coffee table and handed out drinks, then set out soup bowls for each of them.
“What is this?” Tucker asked, peering suspiciously into the mixture Dakota ladled into the bowl in front of him.
“Gazpacho.”
“Bless you.” Tucker dipped his spoon into it, sipped and made a terrible face. “Tastes like cold tomato soup to me. Think I’ll order a pizza instead. Anyone else want some?”
“Tucker, you’re such a provincial.”
“I don’t think that was a compliment, do you, Dakota?” Tucker reached for the phone. “I’m ordering the works, any takers?”
Chelsea and Dakota shook their heads no.
But when the pizza came, Chelsea and Dakota hijacked it, and sat across the room eating it and laughing at Tucker’s threats, which got more inventive as the pizza disappeared.
When there were only three pieces left, they took pity on Tucker and handed over the remaining pizza.
“Just for that I’m not going to let you guys sing at my concert,” Tucker said around a bite of pizza.
“What concert? I thought the tour ended in St. Louis,” Chelsea said.
“It did. I’ve decided to get together a special concert to aid the flood victims. I was lucky. All I lost was a tour bus. Thousands of people lost everything they owned in the flood. I think I owe a debt of gratitude for my life being spared.”
“What a great idea, Tucker!” Chelsea exclaimed. “I don’t know about Dakota, but I’m singing. Maybe if the car idea works, I can sing the new song Dakota’s going to write for me.”
“Count me in, too,” Dakota said, as Chelsea reached for the antiseptic. She lifted his bare foot onto her lap and began applying the ointment to the thorn wound.
“Ouch! That burns like hell,” he complained, jerking his foot away.
“Don’t be such a baby. Now it will heal properly. It wouldn’t do a thing for my image, you know, to have two men on crutches flanking me onstage.”
“We need to set a date for the concert, and it should be soon. Everyone’s needs are immediate. Think we can pull it together in two weeks?” Tucker asked, looking at the two of them.
“We?” Chelsea and Dakota chorused.
“Don’t get all excited. I’m going to be the boss, but I’ll need a couple of people to help get it together in time.”
“Okay, I’ll volunteer to take care of publicity,” Chelsea offered.
“You always do,” Tucker mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I said you’re good at getting publicity—just make sure this publicity is good.”
“And I’ll help line up the country singers,” Dakota volunteered.
“Okay, good. Then all I need to do is line up the rest of the talent. It’ll give me something to do to keep me from going nuts while I’m immobilized.”
“We need to make a list of possibilities,” Chelsea suggested.
“I’ll get pens and paper.” Dakota pulled out the desk drawers until he’d located two pens and some
paper.
He handed a pen and a couple of sheets of paper to Chelsea, but kept the rest for himself. “I’m going outside and try out the car,” he announced.
IT DIDN’T WORK.
It didn’t matter how long Dakota sat in the back seat, he was still blocked.
It didn’t even help when Chelsea joined him.
Nothing worked.
Chelsea wasn’t surprised. She suspected that the real reason for Dakota’s writer’s block had to do with the way he kept his emotions under lock and key.
Dakota had left his past behind, but he couldn’t seem to escape its effect.
Chelsea admired him for giving up his family, money and connections for what he loved to do. He’d willingly given up what she’d never had and longed for.
It was clear to her that Dakota needed to let go emotionally to be able to write.
And it was all up to her.
Which was just how she liked it. She believed in herself, and trusted no one. Her family background had left its own imprint.
She could love and nurture Tucker because she was sure of his feelings for her.
To get Dakota to open himself to how he felt, she was going to have to persuade him to let himself be vulnerable—vulnerable enough to express his emotions to another.
It wasn’t going to be an easy task, for she knew loving someone was a scary proposition. She knew how badly it hurt when you gave someone the power not to love you back.
“THIS LOOKS LIKE FUN,” Chelsea said, as she studied an ad in the newspaper the following morning.
“What?” Tucker looked up from the latest name he’d added to the growing list of performers who’d agreed to do the Flood-Aid concert.
“A psychic fair. It says there are going to be fortune-tellers, palm readers, tarot cards….Come on, why don’t we all go?” Chelsea said, looking from Tucker to Dakota.
“Palm readers?” Dakota echoed skeptically.
“Oh, come on, don’t be such a stuffed shirt. Maybe one can tell us when you’re going to get over your writer’s block. I’m not leaving till you do, you know.”
“I’d go if I were you. Otherwise you’ll be having nightmares about having us for permanent houseguests,” Tucker warned.
Love, Me Page 8
