Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ ladder. Although she’d initially planned to follow in her father’s footsteps as a serious journalist, she’d come to realize she possessed a talent for making people comfortable enough to open up and share life experiences and insights.

      She also possessed a natural curiosity that had been encouraged by her journalist father.

      “Curiosity steams the engine of progress, Chelsea,” he’d told her time and time again whenever he’d return home from an assignment in some far-off locale. “Why do you think Columbus set out for the New World?”

      “Curiosity,” she had answered from her favorite perch on his jean-clad knee.

      “That’s right.” His voice, deep and rich and booming, was a welcome change from the usual hushed quiet of their Park Avenue apartment. “And what made doctors think common old mold could lead to the miracle of penicillin?”

      “Curiosity!” It had been, hands down, her favorite game. “And what made man set out to discover that the moon wasn’t really made of green cheese?” she’d ask him in return.

      “Curiosity!” they’d both shout, then laugh at the shared joke.

      At the time, she’d had no way of knowing that the beloved game would lead her to a career writing celebrity profiles for Vanity Fair.

      With a self-honesty that had always served her well, Chelsea realized her illustrious family name opened more than a few doors. But once they were opened, she had to work even harder to prove herself to those skeptics who believed her to be little more than just another connected society girl, playing at being a writer in between planning charity balls.

      Having worked hard to get where she was, Chelsea should have been pleased with how far she’d come. After all, how many people had an opportunity to sit in the copilot’s seat while John Travolta flew his jet one day to Aspen, then discuss love and life with Brad Pitt over pizza at Spago the next? Although she knew writers who’d kill to be in her position, lately she’d been feeling as if she were in a rut. Or more accurately, a treadmill.

      Deciding to straighten out her life later, when she had a moment to think, Chelsea focused her attention on the monitor. As she compared Roxanne’s bright spring suit to her own subdued outfit, she wished she’d stuck to her guns this morning when she’d come out of the bathroom and found Nelson laying out her clothes.

      “I thought your taupe linen slacks and cream silk blouse would provide the perfect look,” he’d informed her with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way. “Casual enough for morning television, while being classically elegant at the same time.”

      “I was planning to wear my new suit.” She’d found it last week at Saks, and although it was ridiculously expensive, she’d fallen in love with it at first glance.

      “The peplum is too fussy for this time of the morning. Besides, the color clashes with your hair.”

      “Red gives me confidence.”

      “That may be. But this outfit will make you look confident.”

      Swallowing her frustration, Chelsea had taken the blouse he held out to her. Lord knows, as her mother was always telling her, when God had been passing out style, she’d been at the back of the line, reporting on the event.

      The fact that she could never live up to Deidre Lowell’s fashion-plate standard had never bothered Chelsea. Just as she usually didn’t mind allowing Nelson—whose intrinsic fashion sense rivaled her mother’s—to select her outfits for important occasions.

      She might look elegant, Chelsea thought now. The problem was, she didn’t feel elegant. What she felt was irritated. And drab. Dammit, she considered with a burst of frustration, she knew she should have worn the red.

      Raintree, Georgia

      There was nothing finer than sex first thing in the morning, Cash considered as he engaged in some slow, postcoital caresses with the lushly endowed blonde lying beside him.

      The bedroom was dark, lit only with the pale, silvery pink light of a new dawn. The sweet fragrance of Confederate jasmine wafted in through the open window, mingling with the woman’s perfume and the redolent scent of lovemaking.

      “Nice,” he murmured as he nibbled luxuriously at her throat.

      “Much, much better than nice.” Melanie Tyler linked her hands around his neck and treated Cash to a long, wet kiss. “If I’d only known southern men were so good in the sack, I’d have joined the Confederacy a long time ago.”

      He chuckled warmly. “It takes two.”

      Cash liked Melanie Tyler. A lot. And for more than great sex, although, he admitted readily, compatibility in bed was always a plus. He’d met her at the Magnolia House, an inn where her movie company was staying while filming a sprawling Civil War epic. Within fifteen minutes of meeting the actress in the lobby bar, they’d been tangling the sheets in her room. The affair had been going on for a month now and both accepted that her time in Georgia was at an end.

      Melanie treated sex as a man did. She enjoyed it for what it was, took what she wanted, gave what she could, and when it came time to move on, she did. With no regrets.

      “Oh, hell.” She leaped from the bed as if burned.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “I almost forgot. Marty called yesterday.” Marty, Cash knew, was her agent. “That writer who interviewed me for Vanity Fair is going to be on Good Morning America today.”

      Cash leaned back against the headboard and enjoyed the view of Melanie fiddling with the television dial. The remote had disappeared early last night amidst the sheets. As much as he genuinely liked her, Cash could not imagine this free-spirited sex goddess living in the White House.

      “You’re not really going to marry that stuffed-shirt senator, are you?”

      “That’s for me to know and you to guess, sweetheart.” She returned to the bed and snuggled up beside him as they waited through the segment where Roxanne Scarbrough was demonstrating how to prepare a proper southern Easter brunch.

      The lifestyle demonstration ended. A commercial for a new, improved detergent was followed by another pushing the wonders of quilted toilet paper.

      “How would you like to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Melanie asked.

      “I suppose it depends. Would I be sleeping there alone?”

      She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

      Across the room, on the nineteen-inch television screen hidden away in an antique armoire, the commercials faded away.

      When the camera focused in on a close-up of Charlie Gibson introducing the magazine writer, Cash knew he’d lost Melanie. Her sudden alertness reminded him of the way Blue, his old German shorthaired pointer, had reacted upon sniffing out a covey of quail. Looping his arm around her smooth, nude shoulders, he settled down to watch the interview.

      From what Melanie had told him about the importance of this interview, Cash realized he’d formed a mental image of some hardened, thin-lipped, cynical Yankee journalist who’d seen it all and didn’t like much of what she’d seen.

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