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something like an autobiography is, quite honestly, beyond her talents.”

      “You know I don’t want to ghostwrite.” And even if she did, Roxanne Scarbrough would not be on the top of her list of potential subjects.

      “Roxanne has already agreed to give you coauthor credit.”

      “Which still means she’d get fifty percent of a book I wrote.” Fifty percent less Mary Lou’s agency percentage of both their earnings, Chelsea amended, growing more and more uncomfortable with this entire situation.

      “Actually, Roxanne suggested an eighty-twenty split. With you getting the larger share.”

      “I don’t get it.” Chelsea blinked. Her fingernails drummed a rapid staccato on the wooden arms of the cream suede chair as she tried to figure out Roxanne Scarbrough’s angle. From what she’d witnessed in the greenroom, generosity was not the woman’s strong point. “What’s the catch?”

      Mary Lou frowned. “You and I have a seven-year relationship.” There was an unfamiliar edge to her usually smoothly modulated drawl. “Surely you aren’t implying I’d suggest anything that wouldn’t prove beneficial to your career?”

      Chelsea winced inwardly. Terrific career move, insulting your agent. “I’m sorry. Of course I’d never imply any such thing.”

      Her recent restlessness made it impossible for her to think while sitting still. She stood up and began to pace, her short pleated skirt swirling around her thighs.

      “It’s just that I can’t figure out why Roxanne would want me to work with her on her autobiography.”

      “That’s simple. Thanks to the Melanie Tyler interview, you’re currently the hottest young writer in town. She also read your Vanity Fair article and decided that you’re very good at what you do.”

      “I suppose I should be flattered,” Chelsea said reluctantly, pausing in front of the Ming vase. It really was lovely.

      “This isn’t about flattery. It’s about money. As I told Roxanne, you’re got a helluva career ahead of you. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her to hitch her already successful wagon to your rising star.”

      “Even if I were a reincarnation of Truman Capote, why would she be willing to give up such a large portion of potential earnings?”

      “That’s simple.” Mary Lou folded her hands on the top of her glossy desk. Her smile reminded Chelsea of a Cheshire cat. “She has this idea—and by the way, I agree—that the book, like her consultant agreement with the Mega-Mart stores, will serve as a marketing tool for all her other projects.”

      Eventually making her far more profit than royalties from her autobiography would ever earn, Chelsea considered.

      “That makes sense.”

      “Although she’s extremely talented, Roxanne’s true genius has always been marketing,” Mary Lou agreed.

      In spite of herself, Chelsea was tempted. It certainly would gain her a great deal of international exposure, since Roxanne Scarbrough was a household name all over the world. But still, the idea of working with the unpleasant woman was less than appealing.

      On the other hand, eighty percent of a guaranteed bestseller was nothing to sneeze at.

      “Her last three books stayed at the top of the Times list for six months,” Mary Lou said.

      “The offer is tempting,” Chelsea admitted reluctantly.

      “It could catapult you into superstar ranks. Then, of course, there would be the additional audience you’d pick up. An audience that would provide a built-in market for your novel. When you get it finished.”

      “Hopefully in this lifetime,” Chelsea muttered. Heaven help her, she could feel herself being drawn to the bait. Which wasn’t all that surprising, since she could probably name five writers off the top of her head who’d push a rival beneath a crosstown bus for the opportunity she was being offered. But still...working with Roxanne Scarbrough?

      As much as she liked and respected Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself that the agent could be devious. Especially when working to clinch a deal. Refusing to be steamrollered into anything, she lifted her chin in a stubborn angle.

      “I’ll have to think about it.”

      “Of course.” Mary Lou sat back in her chair and gave Chelsea a pleased, satisfied smile. “And while you’re thinking, why don’t you get out of this terrible weather?”

      “Good idea. Why don’t you call my editor and have her assign me an article about snorkeling in the Bahamas.”

      “Actually, I had somewhere closer in mind. Roxanne thought you might want an opportunity to speak with her personally, at her home in Georgia, before coming to a decision. I agreed it was a good idea. She would, of course, pay all your travel expenses.”

      Promising to give Mary Lou an answer by the end of the week, Chelsea left the office. As she dashed through the cold rain toward the battered yellow cab the doorman had hailed for her, Chelsea couldn’t deny that the idea of a few days spent lying poolside in a warm southern sun sounded more than a little appealing.

      It would also allow her a breather from her recent nonstop schedule. It would force a time-out in her ongoing argument with Nelson. Just the memory of how she’d spent the weekend had her digging in her bag for her roll of antacids.

      Despite the French toast—which unsurprisingly, hadn’t turned out nearly as well as when Roxanne had prepared it for Joan Lundon—despite the fact that she’d told him time and time again that she was a print journalist, he’d spent the entire two days pushing the idea of her “branching out” into television.

      As she chewed the chalky tablets she seemed to be living on these days, it crossed Chelsea’s mind that the concentration required by ghostwriting Roxanne Scarbrough’s biography could take her mind off her problems.

      While giving her a whole set of new ones, Chelsea considered as Roxanne’s furious eyes and pursed lips came to mind.

      Raintree

      It was the house that cotton built. Constructed in 1837, prior to the Civil War, it was the same Greek Revival style made familiar the world over by the most famous movie ever made about the South. Twenty-two Doric columns—three feet in circumference and forty feet high, Cash estimated—surrounded the two-story house, eight in front, and seven on either side.

      “The walls are eighteen inches thick.” Roxanne ran her hand over the exterior facing. “And the bricks were made right here on the property.”

      “By slave labor.”

      She shot him a surprised, faintly censorious look. “That wasn’t unusual for the time.”

      “Unfortunately, you’re right.” Deciding that if he was going to allow political correctness to enter into his business decisions—especially in this part of the country—he’d be broke before the end of the year, Cash put aside his discomfort with how the house had been constructed.

      “Your porch is crumbling.” He put a booted foot on one of the boards, crushing it like an eggshell. “It’s about to cave in.”

      “So we’ll replace it. Surely that shouldn’t be so difficult.”

      “No. But it’s the first thing that will have to be done, or workers won’t be able to get into the place safely.”

      “I hadn’t thought of that.” She rewarded him with an admiring look. “How clever of you.”

      “Not clever. I’m just not wild about the idea of having some plasterer break his neck.”

      Before risking the porch, he spent a long time examining the foundation. It appeared to be solid. And the cracks could be easily fixed.

      “I realize you’ve already had an engineering report,” he said, looking up at

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