Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross

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      Cash Beaudine had always been an intensely physical man. And not just in bed. Whenever he spoke, he’d gesture, using those strong dark hands so capable of causing havoc to every nerve ending in her body, to emphasize his words. During their few conversations, she could recall, all too well, how he constantly ran his fingers across her shoulders, down her arms, played with the ends of her hair, stroked the back of his hand up her face.

      “I’ve spent the years since graduation in San Francisco.” His thumb stroked intimate circles of heat against the sensitive flesh of her palm. “Now I’ve come back home.”

      Chelsea’s stomach clenched at the unwelcome news. They’d be having snowball fights in Raintree’s town square before she’d take on a project that would have her staying in the same town with this man.

      “I hadn’t realized this was your home.”

      “I thought you were old friends.” Roxanne was watching them carefully, as if aware of the undercurrents humming between them.

      “We were acquaintances,” Chelsea retorted, retrieving her hand with a jerk. She didn’t know which of them she was more furious with: Cash for toying with her emotions, or herself for letting him get under her skin.

      He flashed the sexy, wicked smile she remembered all too well. “Friendly acquaintances.”

      His voice deepened on the correction, causing another significant pause to settle over the room.

      Just when she thought she was going to explode from the tension building up inside her, a petite young woman came dashing into the parlor on a whirl of filmy black-and-brown gauze skirts.

      “I’m sorry I’m late! I’ve been on the phone with my money people, Roxanne. They love the stuff we’ve shot so far....” Her voice drifted off as she viewed Chelsea.

      “Oh, hi. You must be Chelsea Cassidy.” Her light brown eyes, barely visible beneath bangs longer than the rest of her short-cropped sable hair were sparked with intelligence. Her smile was friendly and open. “I’m a fan. I love your writing. It’s so energetic. And fresh.”

      She held out her hand. Her nails, Chelsea noticed irrelevantly, had been chewed to the quick. “Jo McGovern. I’m filming a documentary on Roxanne’s restoration of Belle Terre.”

      “I’ve heard about it. It’s nice to meet you.” Chelsea managed a sincere smile. “And thanks for the kind words about my work.”

      “I meant them. Roxanne says you’re going to be writing her autobiography, so I guess that means we’ll be working together. Sort of.”

      Before Chelsea could answer that she hadn’t yet come to any decision, Roxanne deftly broke into the conversation.

      “Would you care for a drink, Chelsea?”

      “No, thank you,” Chelsea said quickly. Cash had already upset her equilibrium. The one thing she didn’t need was any alcohol.

      “Well then, since we’ve all been introduced to one another, and been brought up to date on where we’re living, I suppose it’s time we go in to dinner.” Roxanne placed her hand on Cash’s arm, obviously expecting him to escort her into the dining room.

      With a slow smile, he accepted. Dorothy followed behind the pair.

      “Isn’t Cash Beaudine the most magnificent man you’ve ever seen?” Jo murmured to Chelsea as they brought up the rear of the little parade. “If I’d known Roxanne was going to hire him to restore her home, I would’ve paid her for the chance to do this documentary.”

      “I suppose he’s good-looking.” Chelsea shrugged. “In a rather rough-hewn sort of way.”

      “Just the way I like my men,” Jo said with a quick bold grin that, with her short, perky hairstyle, made her resemble a pixie. “I already spend too much of my time working with the artsy-fartsy Village types. When it’s time to let loose, I want my men rough and tough and basic. A good ole boy with an edge. Like this one.”

      Not knowing exactly what to say to that, Chelsea merely murmured a vague response. It did cross her mind, however, as she observed Roxanne’s red nails glistening like fresh blood on the sleeve of Cash’s cream linen jacket, that Roxanne Scarbrough and Jo McGovern shared the same taste in dark, dangerous men.

      As she once had.

      But those days were nothing more than a youthful, rebellious fling. If there was one thing the loss of her beloved, larger-than-life father had taught Chelsea, it was to invest no more in a relationship than she could afford to lose. Cash Beaudine didn’t mean anything to her now, because he hadn’t meant anything to her then. The only thing they’d had in common was sex. Pure and simple. But it was over.

      They’d made a clean break. And never looked back.

      It had been better that way, Chelsea assured herself as she found her name on the dining room table, written in a flowing calligraphy on an ivory card held between the petals of a red porcelain rose.

      As she sat down in the needlepoint chair seated across from the object of all her internal distress, Chelsea found him watching her, with that mocking, knowing way he’d always had, and couldn’t help remembering that night, standing in the window, watching him ride out of her life.

      At the time, she’d thought it would be forever.

      Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.

      The dining room was decorated in the same floral style as the rest of the house. Somehow, it managed to be both rich and light at the same time. Like lemon meringue pie. Or an airy puff pastry filled with rich, sweetened cream.

      The curved legs of the Queen Anne table and spiderweb-backed chairs were distinctly feminine and vaguely sensual. The carpet was a monumental achievement of Persian woven art portraying a graceful pattern of curling vinery resting on a butter-toned field. Scattered across the luminous, thick-piled rug were colorful, fanciful birds and prancing dogs. Water lilies, reminiscent of those hanging in the Metropolitan Museum, floated serenely on the mural painted on the far wall. Lighted glass cabinets lined the other walls, filled with floral-patterned china.

      “I’m a hopeless flower addict,” Roxanne said over the soft, melodious strains of Chopin piped into the room through concealed speakers as she noticed Chelsea’s study of her collection. “Like Monet, or Renoir, I must be surrounded by flowers.”

      “I would imagine that makes you very popular with the local florists.” Chelsea’s gaze was drawn to a lush display of two dozen full-blown pink roses that had been casually, yet artfully arranged in a sterling champagne cooler atop an antique green marble-topped hunt board.

      Roxanne laughed, seemingly delighted at the suggestion. “All the best florists in the state know my name.”

      “Which isn’t surprising,” Jo said with a burst of youthful admiring enthusiasm. “Since I doubt if there’s anyone in America who isn’t familiar with the name Roxanne Scarbrough.”

      “Aren’t you sweet? But I fear that’s an exaggeration, dear.” As a silent servant arrived with their salad plates, Roxanne rewarded the filmmaker with a smile that was a twin of the one she’d flashed so easily at Joan Lundon. “Hopefully, by the time we finish restoring Belle Terre, that СКАЧАТЬ