JoAnn Ross - Southern Comforts

Welcome to Raintree, Georgia—steamy capital of sin, scandal and murder

To her fans, Roxanne Scarbrough is the genteel Southern queen of good taste—she’s built an empire around the how-to’s of gracious living. To her critics—and there are many—Roxanne is Queen Bitch. And now somebody wants her dead.

Chelsea Cassidy, Roxanne’s official biographer, knows that Roxanne is determined to keep her dark secrets buried, whatever the cost. But when Chelsea begins to unearth the truth about Roxanne’s life, her search leads her back into the arms of her college love, Cash Beaudine—a man Roxanne wants for herself. And suddenly Chelsea’s investigation takes on a very personal nature—with potentially fatal consequences.

Praise for the novels of

“[Ross] masterfully weaves a tale of momentum and curves. Between the intrigue and the steamy romance, you’ll be left breathless.”

—RT Book Reviews on Confessions

“JoAnn Ross takes her audience on a thrilling roller-coaster ride that leaves them breathless.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Confessions

“A steamy, fast-paced read.”

—Publishers Weekly on No Regrets

“A moving story with marvelous characters that should not be missed.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 stars, on No Regrets

“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a pictures of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Woman’s Heart

“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”

—Affaire de Coeur

Southern

Comforts

JoAnn Ross

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Jay

Dear Reader,

Confession time—I’m one of those women who keep home decorating and craft magazines in business. In 1995, as I made plans for that year’s Christmas, I decided all our windows would have a wreath made from roses from my garden. And the big front-door wreath would be created from pinecones I’d not only gild myself, but would drive three hours to the mountains and personally gather.

A week before two parties (a dinner party Friday and a cocktail party for fifty of my husband’s business associates the next night), my roses—laid out in bins all over the floor of our garage—still hadn’t entirely dried. When my husband suggested I simply buy dried roses from a florist, I insisted they had to be homegrown.

Meanwhile, while waiting for my roses to dry, I set about creating a tabletop duplicate of the twelve-foot-tall Victorian Christmas tree I’d spent a week decorating.

Did I mention I was also writing toward a January 1 book deadline?

Somehow it all came together, but five minutes before the first guests arrived, when I was outside, hot-gluing the last of those gilded sugar pinecones onto the front-door wreath, I screamed, “All those people who encourage women to do this stuff must die!”

And that’s how Southern Comforts was born. I hope you enjoy Chelsea Cassidy and Cash Beaudine’s story, and I promise that no Diva of Domesticity was actually murdered during the writing of this book.

JoAnn

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Prologue

1989

It was a night made for romance. Outside the ballroom of the Hillcrest Country Club, sparkling stars filled the night sky like diamonds scattered over a jeweler’s black velvet cloth. Music drifted on air perfumed with the scent of lilacs, accompanying the soft sighs and whispers of lovers who’d slipped away to steal kisses in the shadows of spreading chestnut trees.

Inside the ballroom, seated at a damask-draped table, Chelsea Cassidy watched her cousin, Susan Lowell, dance with her groom.

The bride was, as brides are supposed to be, beautiful. She also looked as if she were dancing on air.

“I still don’t understand.” Chelsea’s date, Nelson Webster Waring, complained for the umpteenth time that night. He shook his head as he cut into his prime rib. “Why did you feel the need to actually have your name on that tacky story?”

For the umpteenth time that night, Chelsea tried to explain. “In the first place, I don’t consider it a tacky story—”

“A woman baring her breast in public?” Nelson arched a patrician brow that reminded Chelsea too much of the way her mother had looked at her so many times over the years.

“To feed her child, Nelson.” A champagne bottle, nestled in ice cubes in which pink rosebuds had been frozen, awaited the wedding toast. Tempted as she was to open the dark green bottle, Chelsea reached instead for her water goblet, only to have it taken away by a tuxedo-clad waiter.

“The woman unbuttoned her blouse to feed her infant daughter,” she said. “As women have, thank God, been doing since the beginning of time.”

“Hopefully not in public parks.” He took another bite, annoying her further by chewing his usual ten times, as he’d been taught by some nanny. Chelsea wondered if Nelson would actually choke to death if he swallowed the damn piece of meat after only six chews.

“Kathy Reed pays taxes.” Chelsea snatched the refilled glass from the waiter’s hand before he could return it to the table. “That makes her the public.”

She took a long drink of ice water she hoped would help calm her. It didn’t. “Which, in turn, makes it her park. And it wasn’t as if she tore off her clothes and went skinny-dipping in the fountain, Nelson. She was behaving quite discreetly. People didn’t have to look.”

“We’re getting off the point.” His own irritation beginning to show, he stabbed a piece of potato. “The issue is not whether the woman’s behavior was proper. The issue is why you insisted on having your name linked with hers.”

“Because I’m a journalist.”

“You’re merely an intern at the Register,” he re-minded her.

“I start getting paid next week. When I begin working full-time.”

“As a Sunday lifestyle reporter. Which doesn’t exactly put you on a par with Woodward and Bernstein.”

“Thank you for pointing that out to me.”

He appeared unmoved by her sarcasm. “Why can’t you cover the summer social season?”

“The job of society reporter’s already filled. Besides, covering weddings and yacht regattas would bore me to tears. I want to write important stories, Nelson.”

“Like that unsavory date-rape series?”

“That unsavory series, as you call it, received a great deal of national attention, Nelson. I’d hoped you would be proud.”

“Of course I’m proud of you.” He lifted his gilt-rimmed coffee cup, signaling for a refill. “That goes without saying.”

Exchanging the water pitcher for a sterling pot, the waiter obliged. When his mocking dark eyes met Chelsea’s, she glared at him.

“But if you’re going to insist on writing about such distasteful topics,” Nelson continued, oblivious to Chelsea’s silent exchange with the dark-haired man standing behind him, “couldn’t you at least use a pen name? Like George Eliot?”