Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ a great deal to be said for renovation.”

      Her eyes, which revealed intelligence and resolve along with the first sign of concern Cash had witnessed, met his. “I don’t suppose we could combine the two?” she asked hopefully.

      “That’s usually the way it’s done.”

      Her relief was palpable. “Then that’s what we’ll do. This project is incredibly important to me, Mr. Beaudine. I have a film crew on hand to document the reconstruction. I’m also in the process of negotiating with a writer, Chelsea Cassidy, to collaborate on my autobiography, which will, of course, include the restoration of Belle Terre.”

      “Chelsea Cassidy is your biographer?” Having grown up having to fight for everything he’d accomplished, Cash had never been a big believer in fate. The idea of Chelsea coming to Raintree to ghostwrite Roxanne Scarbrough’s life story had him reconsidering.

      “You know Ms. Cassidy?”

      “I read her article in this month’s Vanity Fair.”

      It had managed to be interesting, amusing and insightful. All at the same time. Which had been a surprise. He’d known that Chelsea was intelligent. And ambitious. But since their relationship hadn’t included much conversation, he’d failed to realize she was extremely talented outside the bedroom.

      “Considering her lightweight subject matter, the article was quite entertaining,” Roxanne sniffed. “She does, however, happen to be the most sought after writer in her field. It’s quite a coup that she’s agreed to write my life story.”

      Roxanne failed to even consider the possibility that Chelsea might refuse the assignment.

      “Won’t it be difficult to collaborate?” Cash asked. “With her living in New York and you here in Raintree?”

      One thing he didn’t want to do was to agree to take on such a Herculean restoration project only to discover that the owner of the house was spending most of her time in the Big Apple instead of where she belonged—on the job site making decisions.

      “I’m sure it would be, if that’s the way we were working,” Roxanne agreed. “However, I intend for Ms. Cassidy to move into my house with me. That way, I can continue to oversee the restoration of Belle Terre and she can get a true feel for who I am. And how I work.”

      It was the truth, so far as it went. The one part of her answer that was an out-and-out lie was the idea that anyone would learn the truth about who she really was.

      That idea brought back George Waggoner’s letter. And caused another bubble of icy panic.

      “We should discuss my fees,” Cash said. “I’m not inexpensive.”

      “I didn’t expect you to be. I demand the best, Mr. Beaudine. And am willing to pay for it. I was also told by your other clients that you usually work on an hourly basis, rather than a flat fee.”

      So she’d checked him out. That wasn’t so surprising, Cash decided. It also revealed that she had a sensible head on those silk-clad shoulders. Since his return to Georgia, he’d had more than one prospective customer want to hire him simply because of his illustrious reputation.

      And then there were always those lonely wives who were more than willing to have their husbands pay to knock down walls and change rooflines while they received a little personal fix up in the bedroom.

      Those jobs Cash had steadfastly refused.

      “Flat fees are easier to calculate with new construction because there aren’t so many surprises. With renovations, hourly fees seem to work best. Another way we can do it, since we’re probably going to exceed whatever schedule we come up with by several weeks in a project this big, is for me to bill you twenty percent of the total construction costs.”

      “I believe I prefer that last option,” she mused. “However, we’d have to negotiate the payment schedule.”

      “Of course.”

      “And what extras you intend to bill for. Such as which of us pays for inspections, blueprints, telephone calls, fax charges and such.”

      “You’ve done your homework.”

      “Of course. I didn’t reach the heights I’ve reached by being foolish about money, Mr. Beaudine.”

      Cash nodded. “I’m beginning to understand that, Miz Scarbrough.”

      “Then do we have an agreement?”

      He glanced around the house, thought about the challenge it represented and knew that it could be a pile of crumbling bricks covered with Spanish moss and kudzu vines and he’d have no choice but to take it on, now that Chelsea was part of the picture.

      “If we can work out the details,” he said, not wanting to let Roxanne think she could win the upper hand that easily.

      She waved off his qualification. The diamonds adorning her fingers and wrists glistened like ice in the late afternoon sun streaming through windows in need of reglazing. “I’m sure there’ll be no problem.” She held out her hand. “Shall we shake on agreeing to come to an agreement, at least?”

      Cash took her outstretched hand. “Looks like you’ve just hired yourself an architect.”

      Arizona

      George Waggoner sat in the seat of the Greyhound bus speeding across the Sonoran Desert, stared blearily out the window and decided that this had to be the shit ugliest country he’d ever seen. It was all dirt. And rocks. Hell, it reminded him of somethin’ a tomcat would crap in.

      “And on the eighth day, God looked down, slapped his forehead and said, hot damn, I finally found the place to put the world’s litter box.”

      Enjoying his little joke, he chuckled, which in turn drew a nervous smile from the young woman sitting across the aisle from him. George glared back.

      Another goddamn slant-eye. Just like the one behind him. And the wrinkled up, yellow-skinned old bitch in front of him. Christ, the entire country was being overrun with the chinks, wetbacks and rag heads. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be any room left for the real Americans. He took a slug from the bottle of rotgut whiskey he had wrapped in a paper bag and waited for the kick.

      They weren’t like the niggers back home, either. Back in Georgia, blacks with any brains at all could take one look at him and know that it was better just to stay the hell out of his way.

      But these assholes were different. They were pushy. All the time crowding in where they didn’t belong, talkin’ their gibberish about Christ knew what.

      Hell. It was bad enough that the government didn’t do anything about keeping them out. Personally, if he was the president, he’d go on television and declare a national hunting day on immigrants. Make a bundle off sellin’ the hunting tags that would pay off the national debt, and let good old boys like George Waggoner take care of the problem.

      And not just a day, he decided. Hell, just pass a constitutional amendment making it open season on everyone who wasn’t a red-blooded American. That’d be a guaran-goddam-teed way to solve the problem.

      He took another СКАЧАТЬ