JoAnn Ross - Southern Comforts

“Pseudonyms are for fiction writers.”

“Honestly, Chelsea, I don’t understand why you can’t be like other women. Like your mother. Or mine.”

Nelson’s mother was, if possible, even more rigid than hers. Margaret Waring clung to the old WASP belief that there were only three times a woman should have her name in the paper: when she was born, married and died.

Chelsea sighed. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“That you don’t understand.” She stood up and placed her napkin on the table. “Excuse me. I need to freshen up.”

The women’s lounge was deserted, allowing Chelsea the chance to try to regain her composure. During the past four years, while working hard at her studies, along with writing for the Yale Review, she’d managed to build a lucrative freelance career working as a stringer for a syndicate providing news copy and interviews for a group of small weekly papers along the eastern seaboard. If all that wasn’t enough to keep her busy, she’d also talked her way into an intern job on the local New Haven Register.

And then a close friend had made the mistake of getting drunk at a party after the annual Harvard-Yale football game.

The series of date-rape articles Nelson found so objectionable had not been easy to write. Many of the victims had suffered feelings of shame and guilt and it had taken Chelsea time to convince them that only by bringing the issue to the bright light of day could the stigma be burned away.

Although the intensely personal interviews had definitely not been popular with her mother or Nelson, they had been met with ego-boosting approval on campus and won her the offer for a full-time position at the Register after graduation. They’d also been picked up by a few weekly papers around the country, technically establishing her as a national journalist.

Which was, Chelsea thought as she dried her hands and began energetically brushing her hair, a pretty good start for someone who’d just graduated from college. Her famous father, Dylan Cassidy, had been a year older—twenty-two—before he’d gotten his first national byline.

She left the lounge and was walking down the hall on her way back to the ballroom, when, without warning, a hand reached out of a doorway, snagged her wrist and pulled her into a narrow dark room.

Before she could utter a word of protest, her mouth was covered by another in a deep, punishing kiss that literally took her breath away.

There was no light in the room, which, from the scent of disinfectant, she realized was a janitor’s closet. Since her eyes had not adjusted to the dark, she could not see the man whose lips were grinding against hers.

But Chelsea didn’t need to see. Because she had everything about him imprinted on every inch of her mind and body. It was as if she’d been bewitched by some black magic, she thought wildly, as she dragged her hands through his dark hair and pressed her body even tighter against his. From the first day Cash Beaudine had shown up in her dining hall, hired to bus tables at mealtimes, she’d fallen under his spell.

Unlike any of the boys she’d grown up with—boys groomed from infancy to take their places in boardrooms all over America—Cash was a rebel. He was Heathcliffe, James Dean, Billy the Kid and Butch Cassidy all rolled into one dark, dangerous, smoldering package.

Other than the fact that he was from the South and was attending the college of architecture on a work-study scholarship, Chelsea didn’t know very much about him. She had no idea about his family background, what religion, if any, he practiced, or his political affiliation. Their relationship was not based on any high level of communication.

It was lust, pure and simple.

And it was wonderful.

“Why the hell do you put up with that guy?” Cash growled as he thrust his hands beneath the full-skirted bridesmaid dress.

“I’ve known Nelson for years.” Although talking was never at the top of their list of things to do when they were together, this was not the first time Cash had asked that question. Her answer was always the same. “I’m going to marry him. When I turn thirty.”

If she married earlier, she’d lose the inheritance bequeathed to her by her great-grandmother Whitney. But marriage and money were the last things on Chelsea’s mind right now. She gasped with a combination of pleasure and anticipation as Cash pressed his palm against the already damp crotch of her seashell pink panty hose.

“You might be able to fool Nelson. You might even be able to fool yourself, sweetheart.” His mouth scorched a trail of flame down her neck. Chelsea tilted her head back, giving him access to her throat. “But you sure as hell can’t fool me.”

There was barely room for one person in the close confines of the closet, let alone two. Chelsea was firmly wedged between a wall of wooden shelves and Cash’s rock-hard body.

“You’ll never marry that cold-blooded, self-righteous yuppie creep.” As if staking his claim, he yanked the waistband of her panty hose down. His long dark finger combed through copper curls before probing moist feminine folds. “Not after being with me.”

“Is that a proposal?” If he were the last male on earth, Chelsea couldn’t imagine marrying a man like Cash. Of course, she considered as his intimate caress made her head spin, the thought of bringing Cash home to her mother, then sitting back and watching the fireworks, was definitely appealing.

“Hell, no.” As forceful a lover as he was, Cash was not without finesse. Two fingers had replaced the one and his thumb was doing incredible things to her tingling flesh.

“I’ve already told you, baby, I’ve got too many things I want to do before I tie myself down with a ball and chain. And even if I ever do decide to get married, it damn sure won’t be to any uptown Yankee girl.”

Despite her disinterest in marrying Cash, the Yankee reference stung. Refusing to give him any more power than he already held over her, Chelsea chose to concentrate on his unflattering description of matrimony.

“A ball and chain. What a lovely original metaphor.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. Wanting to make him as desperate, as hungry as he was making her, she managed to snake her hand between their bodies and unzip his black waiter’s slacks. “I must remember to write it down.”

“You do that.” He was hard as marble in her hand. But much, much hotter. “When you can think again.” One last flick of that wicked thumb sent her over the edge. Even as she felt the first orgasm ricocheting through her, Chelsea knew there would be more.

Chelsea had never thought of herself as a particularly sexual person. Oh, she’d slept with Nelson, of course. After all, she’d known him all her life.

But this crazy time with Cash Beaudine had changed something elemental inside her. Since their first stolen time together, she couldn’t stop thinking of Cash.

Wanting him.

And heaven help her, needing him.

He’d filled her mind as completely as he’d filled her body. The more of Cash she had, the more she wanted.

Before the last of the ripples had faded, he’d set her away from him and was zipping up his slacks. “Let’s go somewhere there’s room to do this right.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, she could see his devilish grin. It was arrogant, mocking and sexy as hell. “An uptown girl like you deserves more than a quick stand-up fantasy fuck in a broom closet.”

“Once again your mastery of the English language overwhelms me.” Chelsea was not by nature a sarcastic person. She had, however, recently resorted to snapping back at him in order to maintain some small sense of balance in this relationship.

Not, she reminded herself firmly, that two people having sex at every opportunity could be considered a real relationship.