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“You really are a wonder,” she said with honest appreciation. “If things go well, I may actually manage to get another chapter done on my novel.” She’d been slogging away at the suspense story centered around the murder of a thoroughly unlikable movie star for the past two years; trying to squeeze time in between her hectic work schedule and her on-again, off-again, and now on again relationship with Nelson.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Heather said with another of those smiles that was as smooth as her sleek blond hair.
Although the job of editorial assistant paid starvation wages, Heather always managed to look as if she’d stepped right out of the pages of Town and Country magazine. Once, after Liz Smith had shown up at the office for a lunch date with Chelsea, the gossip columnist had declared that the new editorial assistant was Vanity Fair’s answer to Princess Di.
The difference, Chelsea had considered at the time, was that Heather Van Pelt possessed far more self-confidence than the most celebrated member of Britain’s royal family. She was also more ambitious. Chelsea knew Heather wanted her job. Since she didn’t have any intention of giving it up anytime soon, such single-minded zeal didn’t disturb her. Especially when it resulted in upgraded plane tickets and hotel reservations.
Raintree
Amidst the Camelot environs of her lushly wooded landscape, Roxanne Scarbrough sat in the library of her Tudor-style home leafing through the mail her assistant Dorothy Landis had left on her Louis Quatorze desk. On the corner of the desk, an electric fan was ineffectually attempting to stir the moisture-laden air.
Roxanne was not happy. Trust the air conditioner to choose today of all days to give out! The temperature outside was unseasonably warm for April. Although it was not yet noon, a thick, wet heat had seeped into the house through the window screens, permeating everything, making her sweat.
No. Ladies never sweat, she reminded herself with a brisk mental shake. As moisture beaded on her forehead and between the cleft of her breasts, she remembered telling Oprah about her southern grandmother’s stern edict that horses sweat, men perspired and ladies glistened.
Of course, beloved old Maw Maw, with her infinite wealth of southern aphorisms, was, like so much of Roxanne’s outwardly perfect life, a fictional invention. Still, the stories she’d spun during that afternoon taping had added a charming southern warmth to the interview.
The bundled-up Yankee audience, still shivering from the Chicago blizzard raging outside Harpo Studios, had, as always, eaten it up, and her clipping service subsequently reported that the “glisten” quote had appeared in sixty-five papers around the country over the next week.
It wasn’t always easy being Roxanne Scarbrough. But, she considered with a self-satisfied smile, no one did it better.
The breeze from the fan stirred the fragrance of potpourri she’d created from pink freesia and Lady Banks roses growing in the formal gardens.
When she’d first planted the garden, several members of the Raintree garden club had warned her against including the old-fashioned rosebushes. Local legend prevailed that when a Lady Banks got old enough to shade your grave, you’d die. Not the least bit superstitious, Roxanne had ignored the caution. But knowing a good story when she heard one, she’d included the myth in her latest lifestyle book, Strolling Through Grandmother’s Southern Garden.
She skimmed a fax she’d received this morning from her agent regarding Chelsea Cassidy. Although at first glance, she’d considered the writer to be a definite lightweight, the deft way she’d handled her interview and the Vanity Fair article Roxanne had read on the flight back from New York proved that appearances were definitely deceiving.
Roxanne had no concerns about the writer rejecting the proposal her agent was going to make. People did not say no to Roxanne Scarbrough.
Especially men, she considered with a slow smile ripe with feminine intent as she glanced over at the mantel clock. She should have left a half hour ago for her luncheon engagement. Not that she was in any particular hurry. It was, after all, a lady’s prerogative to keep a gentleman waiting.
However, in this case, it would be a blessed relief to leave the house. The stifling humidity clogged Roxanne’s lungs, making her feel as if she were trying to breathe underwater. Her dress—a silk wash of watercolor flowers with a dangerously plunging neckline, selected specifically for today’s lunch with Cash Beaudine—already seemed too hot and heavy against her heated skin.
Deciding to open one more piece of mail, she picked up a sterling silver letter opener in the Francis I pattern she claimed she’d inherited from her unfortunately deceased mother, and slit open a cheap dimestore envelope marked Personal that had been forwarded from the staff of Good Morning America. Obviously another piece of fan mail. Considering the inferior stationery, this was a person in dire need of lifestyle training.
The paper was badly ink stained, as if the letter had been written with one of those horrid plastic ballpoint pens one saw everywhere these days. As her eyes skimmed down the wrinkled page, Roxanne’s heart clenched. The scrawled handwriting was all too familiar.
“Dear Cora Mae...”
She pressed a beringed hand against the front of her silk dress and wondered if she could be having a heart attack. Black spots danced like whirling demons in front of her eyes.
Belying the fictitious Maw Maw’s now famous axiom, it was, indeed, sweat that puddled beneath Roxanne’s armpits and slithered wetly down her sides.
* * *
Cash was suffocating. The restaurant Roxanne Scarbrough had chosen for their luncheon meeting was one of those precious southern tearooms that had sprung up in plantation mansions all over the state, catering to a female clientele who preferred to pretend that William Tecumseh Sherman—or, as he was known around these parts, “that low-down Yankee pyromaniac”—had never set a booted foot in Confederate Georgia. Decorated in shades of peach and mint green, it boasted translucent china, sterling cutlery, glittering crystal, hanging plants and lace-covered windows. He’d been at the tearoom for nearly an hour. During which time Roxanne had pulled out all the stops in her attempt to convince him that he was the only man in Georgia, indeed, on the planet, capable of restoring her antebellum plantation house.
Located just outside Raintree, on the road to Savannah, if the woman could be believed, the mansion was a combination of Twelve Oaks and Tara, with a little Xanadu’s pleasure palace thrown in for good measure. To demonstrate she’d done her homework, she’d also brought along an attaché case of engineering reports, proclaiming the home to be structurally sound.
Roxanne tried tempting him with fame, assuring him that the project would end up featured in yet another of her bestselling books.
“You’ve no idea how many people buy these books,” she stressed over salads of spinach, bay shrimp, watercress and artichoke hearts. There was not a single offering of red meat on the menu. “People with quality who need my guidance when it comes to creating a stylish ambiance.”
She shared a conspiratorial smile. “And just think, when they read that you’re the man I’ve selected to create my dream home, why, your phone will be ringing off the hook.”
There’d been a time, not so long ago, when Cash might have found the idea enticing. But no longer. Not after his years in San Francisco.
“As attractive an idea as that might be,” he said mildly, “I currently have about as much work as I can handle.” His own smile did not reach his eyes. “Some people, it appears, have heard of me without the media hype.”
“Well, of course they have,” Roxanne said quickly. Switching gears with an alacrity that Cash found impressive, she appealed again to his ego. “But if you were to work for me—”
“With,” he interjected.
She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“If I were to agree to do the job, which I’m not saying I am,” he drawled, “I’d be working with you, not for you. It would be a joint project, based on your vision, but I’d insist on input on all decisions.”
“Oh.” Cash was not all that surprised by the way she managed to frown without causing a single line in her forehead or her lips. Southern women had such frowns down to a science. “I’m not accustomed to collaborating.”
“I can understand that.” He braced both elbows on the table and eyed her over his linked fingers. “However, remodeling a house is not exactly the same as baking petit fours or creating gilded mistletoe Christmas wreaths. It’s a major construction project, often more difficult than the original work. It also requires the art of compromise between architect and home owner.”
“Compromise.” Her sigh caused her breasts to rise and fall beneath the flowered silk dress. Cash watched her mulling the idea over and decided it was not something she was accustomed to doing. “I could live with that,” she decided after a long pause. “So long as I had the last word.”
“Unless it involved structural integrity.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realized she’d obviously take them as encouragement. “Then the decision would be mine.”
“Agreed.” She sat back in the velvet chair and crossed her legs with a satisfied swish of silk on silk. “So, when would you like to look at the house?”
“I haven’t said I’d take the job,” Cash reminded her.
“If you’d just look at Belle Terre, you might be more amenable. It’s horribly run down at the moment. I swear, it looks as if Sherman’s entire army had just finished sacking it. But I’m sure an artistic man such as yourself—” her voice lowered, thickening to molasses
“—will be able to see its true potential.”
She was definitely not a lady accustomed to hearing the word no. Cash had known women a lot like Roxanne Scarbrough in San Francisco, but most of them had been society wives, married to wealthy, usually much older men. Men more interested in making money than paying attention to their blond and bored trophy wives.
Which was where he’d come in. The same women who’d married for money and ended up being corporate widows, were often desperate for male companionship. Being male and available, Cash had done his best to oblige them.
Until one night when he’d been forced to climb out the bedroom window of a Pacific Heights mansion because his current lover’s stockbroker husband had arrived home early.
Shortly after that, realizing he was in danger of becoming a cliché, he’d resigned his partnership at the Montgomery Street firm and returned home to that very same place he’d worked like hell to escape.
Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, he’d found Raintree creatively and personally stifling. Every conversation began with the opening line, “Who are your people?”
The answer to that had routinely kept him barred from country club dances and fraternity mixers. In a part of the country where family roots tended to predate the Revolution, having a sharecropper for a daddy and a mama who’d come from a Blue Ridge family known primarily for the high quality of their bootleg whiskey, kept him out of the social register.
His daddy had died when Cash was thirteen. Although his mother had done her best to look after them, money had become even harder to come by, which is how he’d ended up doing odd jobs at Fancy’s whorehouse on the outskirts of town.
It was there Cash had received a first-class education on how to sexually please a woman. Such insight had allowed him to coax more than his share of fascinated, daring debs into the backseat of his black Trans Am. The same belles whose fathers would have bolted the door and gotten out the shotgun if they knew a renegade like him was sniffing around their precious baby daughters.
Chelsea Cassidy had been one of those girls. He’d been thinking a lot about her since seeing her on that television program. Oh, Chelsea’s roots were deep in the rocky soil of New England, instead of the rich loam of the South, but she’d grown up pampered and privileged, and sexually repressed. It had, of course, taken no time at all to break down her sexual barriers. But the social parapets had proven a different story. Their entire relationship, if it could have even been called a relationship, had been a clandestine one, consisting of quick, frantic couplings like the one in the broom closet of the country club, or more leisurely lovemaking in his cramped rented room.
But she’d never—not once—allowed herself to be seen in public with her secret lover. And when the time came to choose a lifelong partner, it sounded as if she’d actually ended up with that self-centered prig she’d been unofficially engaged to since childhood.
“Mr. Beaudine?”
Roxanne’s annoyed tone brought Cash back to the subject at hand.
“I’m sorry.” He managed a smile much friendlier than his mood. “I was just thinking about your offer.”
Her eyes swept over his face. “I do hope your expression isn’t a true indication of your thoughts.”
“Not exactly.”
Forcing his mind back to business, Cash reminded himself that he’d always been fascinated by old houses. He loved their architectural individuality—so different from the cookie-cutter homes found in even new multimillion dollar neighborhoods. He was intrigued by their history and believed that, like dowager queens, even the oldest, most lived-in home enjoyed a certain inimitable dignity.
A man easily bored, he also enjoyed challenges. And from the way Roxanne had described the condition of her dream house, he suspected that the proposed remodeling project could provide the challenge of a lifetime.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look at the house.”
“You’ll love it,” she promised.
Her eyes glittered with a satisfaction she didn’t bother to conceal. And something else. Something Cash recognized as a feminine interest he had no intention of encouraging. She leaned forward, giving him an enticing glimpse of cleavage and placed a hand on his arm in a way that confirmed his instincts.
“So, when would you like me to give you the grand tour?”
“No time like the present, I suppose,” he decided. “As it happens, I’ve got the rest of the afternoon free.”
Her lips, painted a bright pink that had left a smudge around her teacup, turned upward in a satisfied smile that suggested she’d never expected any other outcome. “How perfect. I can’t wait to show you all my ideas.”
“It’s a little early for that. First I have to determine whether or not I think the house is salvageable. And whether I find it enough of an artistic challenge.”
“I don’t believe the second of your concerns is going to be a problem.”
“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?”
There was a tug-of-war going on. As surely as if they’d suddenly begun pulling at opposite ends of the cream-hued damask tablecloth. As she viewed the steely determination in his dark eyes, Roxanne considered yet again that this man could prove a challenge.
At a time when she definitely didn’t need any more problems.
Still, she’d noticed how the young restaurant hostess kept looking at Cash and asking him if everything was all right. And after the past hour in close proximity to his dangerous masculinity that was proving overwhelming in such feminine surroundings, she found herself looking forward to the sexual perks of working intimately with this man.
“You’re going to love Belle Terre,” she assured him again, rising with a lithe grace that was the product of years of practice. “It’s marvelous. Even without the ghost.”
Cash was not surprised the house came with a resident ghost. It was de rigueur for homes of its era in this part of the country to boast of at least one.
Yet as he left the restaurant with Roxanne Scarbrough, passing the table occupied by a young woman whose flaming hair reminded him of Chelsea, it crossed Cash’s mind that he already had one too many ghosts in his life.
Chapter Three
New York
“So, how was Toronto?” Mary Lou Wilson asked.
“I’m sure it was delightful.” Chelsea’s irritated expression said otherwise. “All I saw of it was the airport and the hotel. I was hoping to interview Sandra on location, but a stupid rainstorm shut down shooting.”
The same rainstorm, it seemed, had followed her home. She scowled out the floor-to-ceiling windows of her agent’s Madison Avenue office and pretended interest in the Manhattan skyline. An icy spring rain streaked down the tinted glass.
While working with the actress’s publicity people to move the interview to Chelsea’s suite, it had crossed her mind that she should have asked the overly efficient Heather to arrange for the sun to shine.
“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out well.”
Chelsea shrugged. “It was a good interview. I just wanted more. But cutting things short did allow me more time to work on my book.”
Mary Lou smiled at her client. “Now that is good news. And speaking of good news,” she segued smoothly into the reason for having called Chelsea to her office, “it appears that interview with Charlie Gibson may just change your life.”
Chelsea opened her mouth to point out that her life was just dandy, thank you. But of course, that wasn’t exactly the truth. She wasn’t happy, dammit. And, despite her growing success—success that Heather would undoubtedly be willing to sell dear old Grandmother Van Pelt to achieve—she hadn’t been for a long time. Once again she felt as if she were spending her life on a treadmill.
No, Chelsea considered, she felt more like Lucille Ball in that old chocolate factory episode. The more she achieved, the faster and faster she needed to work to stay ahead.
“All right,” she said when her agent paused for an unnecessarily lengthy time, “I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”
“I had an interesting offer for you after the interview aired.”
Chelsea thought about Nelson’s ongoing argument that she belonged on television. “If it’s from the network, suggesting I replace Joan Lundon, tell them the answer’s no.”
“Actually, the call was from Roxanne Scarbrough.”
That was a surprise. “What in the world could America’s Diva of Domesticity want with me?”
“She’s looking for a biographer.”
“No way.” Chelsea folded her arms across the front of her silk jacket. In defiance of the weather, her suit was a splash of bright sunshine yellow. “I’d rather swim naked in the East River with a bunch of killer sharks than work with that woman.”
Mary Lou’s eyes narrowed, revealing surprise at Chelsea’s adamant refusal. “Am I missing something here?”
“Let’s just say that Roxanne Scarbrough and I had a slight personality clash and leave it at that.” Actually, it had been dislike at first sight—as clear and strong as one-hundred-proof grain alcohol.
“Roxanne thinks the world of you.”
Chelsea seriously doubted that Roxanne thought of anyone but herself. It also did not escape her notice that her agent and Roxanne Scarbrough seemed to be on a first-name basis.
“Tell me you’re not that Steel Magnolia from hell’s agent.”
It was no secret that Mary Lou Wilson had migrated to Manhattan from somewhere in the deep South. Indeed, the agent, while outwardly appearing the epitome of New York chic, went out of her way to cultivate her image as a publishing outsider. Chelsea had noticed, on more than one occasion, that the more prolonged the contract negotiations, the more Mary Lou’s voice took on a sultry slow cadence of the South, causing more than one misguided editor to let down her guard. Which with Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself now, was always a mistake.
“As it happens, Roxanne is one of my oldest clients,” Mary Lou confirmed.
“And one of the most profitable, too, I’ll bet,” Chelsea muttered.
