LITMIR.BIZ

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in his eyes, she guessed he’d known she was going to be here, and was enjoying this moment considerably.

      Her temper rose. Although it took Herculean effort, she managed to force it down, turning her anger from heat to ice. “Hello, Cash.”

      The voice she heard coming out of her mouth could have belonged to her mother. Although Deidre Whitney Lowell would eat her quilted Chanel handbag before ever permitting herself to be openly rude, she could, with a brief, dismissing glance or a murmured statement, make her target all too aware of her extreme displeasure.

      Having been on the receiving end of that chilly disapproval more times than she could count, Chelsea knew it well. Well enough to have no difficulty imitating it now.

      Roxanne’s suddenly sharp gaze swung from Cash to Chelsea, then back to Cash again. “I had no idea that you two were acquainted.” She did not sound overly thrilled by the discovery.

      “Chelsea and I are old college friends,” Cash revealed. Although he was talking to Roxanne, his gaze stayed on Chelsea’s face. “From Yale.”

      “Why didn’t you say anything?” There was a challenging, almost petulant edge to the older woman’s voice. “When I first mentioned that Ms. Cassidy was my biographer?”

      “We were discussing Belle Terre at the time.” His gaze, as it moved to Roxanne, was as mild and unruffled as his tone. “I didn’t see any point in getting sidetracked with inconsequential issues.”

      So now she was an inconsequential issue? Even though she told herself that he wasn’t important enough to be able to hurt her, Chelsea’s chin came up. “I thought you were living in California.”

      “I was.” He began moving toward her, striding across the tulips blooming on the needlepoint carpet underfoot. She’d forgotten how tall he was. How strong. And how his body possessed a lethal sort of grace that had always reminded her of a panther.

      Accustomed to his former uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, she’d thought it had been his clothes that had given him the look of a rebel. But now, taking in the sight of him, clad in a casual, loosely constructed, yet obviously expensive cream linen jacket, ivory cotton shirt and oatmeal-hued slacks, she could still feel a dangerous energy radiating from him. Like the hum of the ground beneath your feet right before lightning strikes.

      Her quick glance took note of a gold Rolex watch he certainly hadn’t been able to afford when she’d known him. He’d traded his scuffed leather boots in on a soft gleaming pair of silvery lizard cowboy boots that managed to scream wealth and independence all at the same time.

      He stopped inches away from her, the tips of his boots nearly touching the toes of her hot pink high heels. When she didn’t offer the hand that was hanging stiffly at her side, he reached down, unclenched her fist, and laced their fingers together with a casual air that seemed as natural to him as breathing.

      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

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