Southern Comforts by Joann Ross Page B

present. And definitely looking forward to the future, including the restoration of Roxanne Scarbrough’s beloved Belle Terre.
    So why was it, he wondered, slanting a sideways glance at the sleeping Chelsea while paused at the town’s singlestoplight, that this redhead from his past could walk into a room and suddenly make him feel sixteen years old again? A hot, horny teenager who knew too much about sex and nothing about love.
    He studied her profile and told himself that he’d certainly seen more perfect women. Her nose was not the classical slender style favored by girls of her New York set, but slightly pug. It was also familiar.
    When Roxanne revealed that Chelsea’s father had been Dylan Cassidy, he’d realized her illustrious family tree boasted an appealing crooked branch. Although he’d only been thirteen when the reporter had been killed in a civil war in some forgotten third world country, Cash remembered the man’s death well.
    Not only had he delivered the newspapers that carried the news in a half-page obituary, all the girls in the whorehouse practically declared a day of mourning. Dylan Cassidy—looking like Indiana Jones in his khaki shirt with the epaulets, along with that hint of brogue he’d brought to America with him from his Irish homeland—had apparently provided a dash of much needed fantasy for a group of women who’d given up fantasizing.
    The light turned green. Cash stepped on the gas while doing some quick, mental arithmetic. Chelsea would have been ten when her father’s bullet-riddled body being dragged through those dusty streets had been repeated in newscast after newscast.
    Pity stirred. Cash tamped it down as he pulled up in front of the inn. As soon as he cut the engine, Chelsea woke up.
    â€œI suppose I should apologize.” She shifted in the seat and ran her hands through the long slide of hair.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor falling asleep. It wasn’t very polite.”
    â€œI don’t recall either of us being all that concerned withpoliteness.” He plucked the key from the ignition. “Not when we were spending every chance we got fucking our brains out.”
    Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he opened his door and unfolded his long length from the car. Before he could come around and open her door, she was standing on the sidewalk.
    â€œYou’re still as rude and hateful as ever, I see,” Chelsea snapped as they walked into the cozy lobby.
    â€œAnd you’re still as drop-dead gorgeous as ever. Even if you are too damn thin.”
    His hand was on her back in a possessive, masculine way that annoyed her. But not wanting him to think he held the power to affect her in any way, she did not insist he take it away.
    â€œA woman can never be too thin,” she quoted her mother’s axiom as she strode briskly across the pine plank floor.
    â€œThat’s a crock. Men like a woman to have some meat on her bones. Something to hold on to while they’re tangling the sheets.”
    â€œSome men aren’t fixated on sex.”
    â€œSome men need to learn to prioritize.” His hand slid beneath her hair. His fingers cupped the back of her neck.
    Chelsea tossed her head and inched away. “You’ve done your duty, Cash. You can leave now.”
    â€œWithout escorting you up to your room? Honey, I don’t know how your Yankee fellas do things in New York City, but no southern gentleman worth his salt would let a woman wander around all by her lonesome late at night. Even in a friendly town like Raintree.”
    â€œGood try. But we both know that you’re no gentleman. You’re just trying to talk your way into my room. And my bed.”
    A couple approached. From their surreptitious, suddenly interested glances, Chelsea realized that they’d heard her gritty accusation.
    â€œActually, now that you mention it, though I’ve admittedly spent the evening thinking