Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross
glossy magazine to the article, Cash assured himself that he was only moderately interested in seeing if Chelsea had turned into as good a writer as she was a talker.
He hadn’t bought the magazine because he was interested in her personally. Because he wasn’t.
Not even a little bit.
The hell he wasn’t.
Casa Grande, Arizona
In a Motel 6 off Interstate 10, George Waggoner lay in bed, drinking from a can of Budweiser in an attempt to take the edge off the blinding hangover he was suffering.
Since the cut-rate motel didn’t feature dirty cable movies, he’d been forced to settle for network fare. As he made his way through the six-pack, he was only vaguely aware of the early morning newscast. He’d been in this motel room for most of the six weeks since his release from prison.
The money he’d managed to stash away during seven years in the pen was almost gone, eaten up by rent, cigarettes, booze and the occasional hooker. It was time to come up with a new plan.
Which was difficult to do when his eyes felt as if they were bleeding and some shitass maniac was breaking rocks inside his head.
And then he saw her.
George blinked and rubbed his hand over his aching eyes, at first thinking she was some sort of hallucination left over from last night’s binge. Like those bats in The Lost Weekend he’d watched on late-night television.
But no. The image flickering on the snowy television picture was unmistakable. Oh, she’d changed her hair. Her clothes may not be Kmart blue light specials anymore and her accent was a helluva lot more fluid than he remembered. But having known her intimately, George wasn’t fooled. Not one damn bit.
“Roxanne Scarbrough.” He barked a tobacco-roughened laugh as he watched her pour some unpronounceable French liqueur into a white bowl. “Where the hell did she come up with a name like that?”
Tossing back the rest of the beer, he climbed out of the too soft bed, retrieved his unwashed jeans from the floor, and yanked them on over his briefs. A black
Harley-Davidson T-shirt followed. Then his boots.
Since the motel wasn’t the kind to put out fancy writing paper for its guests, he went next door to the 7-Eleven, bought a tablet, a package of envelopes, a stamp and another six-pack. Then, on impulse, having already decided that his luck had just taken a decided turn for the better, he spent ten bucks on Powerball lotto tickets.
Not that he needed them, George told himself as he walked back to his single room. Because, hot damn if he hadn’t just hit his own personal jackpot!
He opened the tablet to the first page and began to write.
“Dear Cora Mae...”
Chapter Two
New York
While Chelsea knew her Good Morning America interview had gone well, the old feeling of dissatisfaction that haunted her too often these days returned as she arrived home.
“You were terrific,” Nelson assured her. “You were clever, intelligent and beautiful.” He touched a fingertip to the pearl gleaming at her earlobe. “In fact, you radiated a cool sex that reminded me a lot of Diane Sawyer.”
Chelsea viewed the gleam in his eyes and guessed what was coming.
“You know,” he suggested, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I just had an idea.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I do not want to become a television personality.”
“Why not? The money would be more than you’ll ever make at the magazine.”
“In the first place, I’m a print journalist—”
“At a time when papers and magazines are folding all over the country.”
She may be willing to let him choose her wardrobe. But her career was an entirely different matter. “I love writing, Nelson. And I’m good at it.”
“I’ll bet Diane Sawyer writes her own copy.”
Chelsea shrugged and tried to ignore the headache that was threatening behind her eyes. “It’s a moot point. Since I have no intention of even trying to break into an already overcrowded television market.”
“If it’s good enough for Barbara Walters—”
“When you go on television, suddenly how you look becomes every bit as important, sometimes even more so, than what you’re saying. And while we’re talking about Diane Sawyer, I read she received more viewer mail about cutting her hair than any story she’d ever done. You know I’m no good at things like clothes and jewelry and the latest hairstyle, Nelson.”
“Granted, you weren’t gifted with a plethora of style sense.” His blue gaze swept over her, approving of what he saw. “But that’s what you have me for, darling. Together, we’d make one terrific team.”
Looking at him looking at her gave Chelsea a very good idea of how Eliza Doolittle must have felt while undergoing Henry Higgins’s intense scrutiny.
“I never thought I’d find myself wishing for the old days.”
He arched a brow. “Old days?”
“Back when we were in college, and used to fight over the idea of my having a career.”
Like everyone else in his family, Nelson Webster Waring didn’t work. No Waring had worked for wages since great-great-grandfather Warren Waring, an old-fashioned robber baron, had made a fortune in railroads and western mining claims.
“Warings never fight. We have discussions.” He smiled. “And in defense of my behavior, most young men are horribly chauvinistic. Some of us are fortunate enough to have a clever woman who insists on dragging us from our caves into the modern world.”
Chelsea sighed and cast a quick, surreptitious glance at her watch. She was running late. As always, these days. “Could we discuss this later?” she suggested, even as she knew that on this issue, she would never budge. “I have a meeting at the office in thirty minutes.”
“How about over lunch at the Pool Room?” he suggested, knowing the Four Seasons restaurant to be one of her favorites.
“I’m flying to Toronto to interview Sandra Bullock this afternoon,” she reminded him. There were rumors of a romance with a recent costar she wanted to check out. More than that, she was interested in how the actress appeared to remain so centered as she rode the comet her acting career had become.
There had been a time when Chelsea would have braced herself for his complaint that she was working too hard. Strangely, since they’d gotten back together after an eighteen-month separation—during which time she’d concentrated on establishing her career while he’d seemed determined to date every deb in the city—she’d heard not a negative word about the hours she spent away from home.
“I’ll bet Diane Sawyer flies first-class,” he pointed out.
Giving him points for tenacity, Chelsea laughed. “Good try. But the flight’s not that long. And, since I’ll be writing the entire time, I wouldn’t notice the difference anyway.”
She scooped up the duffel bag she used as a purse. And, more important, with her hectic schedule, as an office in a bag. She kept it filled with pencils, notepads, a mini tape recorder for interviews, a toothbrush, makeup, tampons, and an extra pair of panty hose. So long as she kept the bag with her, she could be on a plane to anywhere within minutes. Chelsea would have felt naked without it.
She gave him a quick kiss. “Wish me luck.”
“You know I do.”
Although his tone was pleasant and matched his winning