Love, Me (2 page)

“Now that you mention it, I'm probably the only singer good-looking enough to have groupies,” Tucker replied, waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer.

She hit him.

“Will you quit that, woman?” he said, slapping her hand away.

Chelsea laughed. Her punches were the equivalent of a house cat nipping a cougar. “Sorry, I can't oblige you.”

“What do you mean? Have you gone daft?” He dodged her fingers poking at his ribs.

“It's part of my job. In case you have a change of heart and decide to do country with me, your head will have to fit into one of those Stetsons. I'm in charge of cutting your ego down to size.”

“Yeah, right, babe. And I suppose ole Dakota up there doesn't have a big head.”

“You know, I don't think he does. He's more—I don't know—moody. What do you think Tucker? Are all songwriters like that?”

Tucker shrugged, then rested his arm across her narrow shoulders as they watched the crowd respond to Dakota Law.
Respond
wasn't quite the right word—
go bonkers
was more like it.

Their cheers drowned out the lyrics at first.

Dakota wrote his own lyrics and music, and he sang only the songs he wrote. After the first song, the crowd quieted enough to hear him sing the wrenching lyrics of his new hit.

He didn't wear sequins; the Stetson, boots and jeans were the only thing traditionally country about him. His jackets were more Armani than Opry, and the T-shirts he wore beneath them were pure silk.

As she stood in the circle of Tucker's arm, Chelsea wondered what kind of song Dakota would write for her. And he
would
write one for her—of that she was absolutely sure. And not one of the romantic ballads he wrote for other female singers. Those wouldn't do. They were too innocent, too sweet… too submissive.

He needed to spend some time with her to be able to write what she wanted.

“You want me to get lost?” Tucker asked, breaking into her thoughts as Dakota took his bows.

“What?” Chelsea looked at him in puzzlement.

“Remember, you're going to ask him to write a song for you when he comes offstage,” he explained, nodding to Dakota, who was leaving the stage.

“Oh…” she said, her confidence ebbing now that the moment was upon her.

Tucker leaned down to brush a kiss on her nose. “Just don't tell him to eat dirt and die the first time he says no, like you did to me, babe.” With a wink, he disappeared into the crowd as Dakota approached.

Chelsea took a deep breath. She wasn't nearly as strong as she pretended. Please, God, let him agree to write a song for her. She had to get her career back on track.

If she wasn't “Chelsea Stone,” who was she?

D
AKOTA'S EXIT FROM THE
stage was stopped by a fluttery female celebrity, breaking unofficial protocol by asking for his autograph.

Chelsea watched his polite smile as he took the woman's pen and honored her request. So, she grumbled to herself, it appeared the cowboy did have a polite bone in his body—just not when it came to her. The woman engaged Dakota in conversation and Chelsea took the brief respite to work on pumping up her nerve. She was insecure, despite her public image of being a tough customer.

It was something only Tucker knew. She'd adopted the commercial slogan Never Let Them See you Sweat as her own professional motto. If the press didn't know where you were vulnerable, they couldn't hurt you.

Not that they didn't try.

There were probably more rumors and bogus tabloid stories about her than any female performer around. She pretended indifference.

What, she wondered, would a shift from rock to country bring? Would she be able to keep it together, to reinvent herself, or were the seams going to show? What would become of her if she failed?

She took a deep breath to quiet her fears.

Dakota had disentangled himself from the persistent fan. He was heading in her direction, then, spotting her, quickly averted his glance and turned at a forty-five-degree angle to avoid crossing her path.

Not only was he rude, he was a coward, as well.

Could he still be carrying a grudge after all these months? It wasn't as if his old car had been some sort of irreplaceable classic; it had been a wreck even before she'd hit it.

Maybe he simply didn't like her. And that didn't bode well for her plans. Not well at all.

How could he not like her? she wondered, both wounded and angered by the possibility. She was a good person. Hell, she was a wonderful person. Well… most of the time, anyway.

He could ask Tucker. But somehow she didn't think Dakota would take Tucker's word on much—he'd never get past the fact that Tucker had a tattoo, and worse, that it had her name on it.

Dakota Law was a snob.

He was also a talented songwriter and she desperately needed a hit, so she'll just have to deal with his condescending attitude.

Letting out the breath she'd unconsciously been holding, she called out his name.

Everyone seemed to hear it but him. Everyone turned to look at her but him. Undaunted, she headed after him.

She called his name again, louder this time. More insistently.

Now people were staring at the two of them.

Dakota turned and began working his way toward her before she called any more attention to them.

“You were really good up there,” she said when he reached her side. They were still being stared at by the curious performers and assorted backstage personnel.

He touched his hat in a gentlemanly gesture, though his dark blue eyes held a look that was anything but. “Thank you, Ms. Stone, so were you,” he managed through clenched teeth. That said, he made a move to end their meeting.

Chelsea put a hand on his arm and moved closer to speak, just as Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings took the stage. The crowd's enthusiastic cheers drowned out any possibility of conversation.

When the noisy crowd settled down as the two launched into their duet, it was Dakota who spoke. “The answer is no.”

“But you haven't… you don't even… how do you know… I haven't even said what I wanted,” Chelsea fumed. She wasn't sure if she was hot from the combination of the summer sun and the huge crowd, or from Dakota's impervious manner.

“I'll tell you what, I'll agree to talk to you on one condition—you agree that after I listen to what you have to say, and then tell you no, you'll go.”

“How do you know you'll say no?”

“Easy,” he drawled in response to her angry retort. “Only a fool would say yes to a woman like you. And I'm no fool, Ms. Stone.”

She held her tongue, but just barely.

“Are we agreed?” he prompted, his tone condescending.

She lost it then, and told him what he could do with his “condition.”

“I take it ‘Eat dirt and die' is your quaint way of saying you don't wish to continue.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips.

Chelsea glared at his broad back as he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“I
CAN'T BELIEVE YOU
told him that, after I warned you not to,” Tucker said when she relayed the outcome of her confrontation with Dakota to him on their flight back to Los Angeles.

Chelsea bit her bottom lip, knowing he was right, but she wasn't in any mood to be reasonable. “He didn't even wait to hear what I had to say. Clearly I don't meet his high standards of womanhood.” She snatched up a bag of sugary peanuts from the tray in front of Tucker. The stewardess serving drinks and peanuts had taken one look at Tucker and passed him a couple of extra bags.

Chelsea paled as the Fasten Seat Belts sign came on.

“Just a little turbulence, babe,” Tucker assured her, taking her hand.

“I've got to figure out a way to make Dakota listen to me and realize I'm offering him a sweetheart deal,” she said.

“I think I know the problem with the sweetheart deal,” Tucker said dryly.

“What?”

“You're the ‘sweetheart' involved.”

Chelsea hit his arm. “I thought you were on my side, Tucker Gable.”

“Will you quit that? I am on your side. I love you, but I also know you.”

“What sort of crack is that?” she demanded.

“It means you're a high-maintenance woman, is all.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said.”

“It is not. Is it or is it not true that—”

“Tucker!”

He pulled her close and held her in his arms as the plane rose and fell through a patch of nasty turbulence.

Chelsea hated being a white-knuckle flyer. On the whole she was a pretty brave sort, but not being in control frightened her. It was a holdover from the terror she'd felt as a child at the mercy of abusive parents. She refused to be a victim anymore.

She didn't expect anyone to be good to her. That was why Tucker was so dear. He was silly, sweet and considerate, despite his wild-rocker public image.

He stroked her hair, whispering comforting words to soothe her case of nerves. “It's okay now, babe. You can open your eyes,” he said finally when the Fasten Seat Belts sign went off.

He considered her as she moved from the safety of his arms. “I can read you like a book. You're not giving up on Dakota, are you? You're going to pester the hell out of the poor jerk to get your way, aren't you?”

“I'm merely going to educate him in the error of his ways,” she sniffed.

“Uh-huh, like you did me.”

Chelsea groaned. “I can only hope he's a better student.”

“Why? What's wrong with me?” Tucker tried to look wounded but looked comical instead.

“You? You eat enough junk food to make it into the junk-food hall of shame. I don't have a clue how you manage to stay so fit.”

“Vitamins. And nervous energy.”

Chelsea laughed. “You don't have a nervous bone in your body.” It was true. No one was more laid-back than Tucker. He could sleep on a tour bus. He could sleep through a tornado. Or a plane crash, she thought as the plane gave a sudden lurch.

“It's okay, just an air pocket,” Tucker reassured her as the plane settled back into its smooth flight. “Besides, if I didn't like doughnuts so much, we'd never have met.”

That was true enough. She'd worked in a coffee shop after she'd moved to L.A., and Tucker had always conned her into giving him free doughnuts with his coffee. The free doughnuts had led to Tucker getting her an audition with the local bar band he was playing with at the time.

The rest was rock-and-roll history.

They'd gone from being a bar band to recording a hit album. Then on to a road tour to support the album—and they'd never looked back.

And now Tucker had launched a successful solo career, while Chelsea's seemed to be stalled. She hadn't had a hit since she'd recovered from the throat surgery.

She was going to miss touring with Tucker.

But fate had sent her down a different path. A path that Dakota Law was blocking instead of giving her the breakthrough she needed.

His legions of female fans saw a sensitivity in him she couldn't find. Every time he sang a love song, they melted.

And his taste in women didn't run to women who dressed the way they wanted instead of the way they were expected to. Chelsea knew her look intimidated men because it not only said “in style,” it also said “in charge.” And it got her the attention she craved.

She thought about what she knew about Dakota, the singer/songwriter. His influences were Hank Williams and Kris Kristofferson—the plaintive delivery of Williams and the soulful lyrics of Kristofferson. He was in his own way a honky-tonk rebel, eschewing the traditional twang for a smooth-as-whiskey delivery that was understated, yet commanding.

So why, when it came to her, did he behave like an obnoxious, self-absorbed jerk?

Was he threatened by her in some way?

Maybe their collaboration would be good for him. Maybe she could persuade the silky-voiced Texan to loosen up. Maybe she could pull him over to the cutting edge and together they could blur the boundaries of pop music.

They could be good for each other's careers—not that his needed the help hers did. Still, country music had a host of young contenders and it was going to take more than talent for Dakota to stay on the top of the heap. It was going to take something unique to retain his stature.

Country music in the nineties was changing and the heroes of the new country songs had to change along with it. That was one thing she could do for Dakota—she could help him understand a nineties woman.

D
AKOTA KICKED THE SOFA
in his dressing room. Than he slammed a fist into the wall. Damn Chelsea Stone. It was all her fault.

His anger and frustration had been building for months, ever since the day Chelsea had wrecked his car. like a black cat crossing his path, she'd brought him nothing but bad luck.

He wasn't just angry and frustrated—he was scared. He could almost hear the flap of buzzards' wings overhead as they circled, waiting to feast on the carcass of his once-brilliant career.

Oh, sure, he was still on top for now. But that wouldn't last much longer. He couldn't go on fooling everyone. The lyrics just weren't coming for his new album.

Not only was he unable to write, he was restless and out of sorts. Since the day he'd looked up from the boots he was trying on to see Chelsea standing before him with her jet-black hair, bold red lips and eyes that challenged the world, nothing had been the same.

It was as if Chelsea Stone had pointed one of her blood-red nails at him and cast an evil spell. Then she'd returned to L.A. and her lead guitarist, no doubt leaving all sorts of wreckage in her wake.

He wondered what sort of vehicle Tucker Gable drove. Probably something foreign and fast. Chelsea looked like the kind of woman who would appreciate the speed and precision of a good sports car. She would probably be surprised to learn that so did he. He'd had his share of expensive cars growing up. But his very proper, wealthy Southern family hadn't approved of his ambition to be a country singer. They thought it a waste of a Rhodes scholar. He'd ignored their wishes and had gone off to Nashville anyway.

Broke, he'd worked at a series of odd jobs and lived in that old clunker. It had been his good-luck charm. He had written all his hit records in the back seat before she'd destroyed the car.

Chelsea Stone. He smiled, imagining what his uptight family would think if he brought her home to meet them.

And then he remembered he couldn't go home again.

He'd already done something much worse than date an artist; he'd become one. In a family tree laden with bankers, that was tantamount to burning your birth certificate. They'd disowned him.

His family had never understood his need to explore and express feelings. They'd repressed theirs for generations.

And now he didn't know what he was feeling.

Chelsea Stone had jinxed him. That was all there was to it.

She'd whipped out her checkbook like it was some damn magic wand that would take care of any problem that confronted her. It was an attitude he was familiar with, one he'd been exposed to early on in a family of bankers for whom money was the only thing that mattered.

He'd loved his car.

And no amount of money could compensate him for the damage she'd done.

Sassy as hell, she hadn't hesitated for a second to declare her opinion of him and his precious car, making it very clear she thought they were both overvalued.

Hell, maybe she was right.

All he knew was that he wanted his old junker back, which was an impossibility. By now, it was a cube of compressed iron in some junkyard. The dark-haired vixen had consigned it there with one careless twist of her steering wheel.

Fell asleep at the wheel—his foot. And while listening to one of his songs, she'd said. At least he could sing. Not like her—she didn't sing; she made noise.

He was fairly sure he knew what she'd wanted to talk to him about at the Farm Aid benefit. Fairly sure it had occurred to her that he could write her a hit. Imagine her wanting him to write a song for her. At least she hadn't insulted him by pulling out her checkbook and offering him a check for fifty dollars again.

Thanks to her, he couldn't write her one even if he were crazy enough to want to.

Oh, he'd tried, but every attempt in the past months had been a dead end. He'd tried making excuses to himself, but deep inside he knew the magic was gone. He couldn't write.

Not a note, not a word.

For the first time since he'd started his career, he had writer's block. And since he sang only the songs he wrote, that meant no career.

There was a knock on the door of his dressing room and he called out that it was open.

His assistant, Melinda Jackson, came in with the cold mineral water he'd requested. Drinking some before every performance had become a ritual.

“How's the house tonight?” he asked, taking a long swallow from the green plastic bottle of water.

‘It's a packed house like it is every time you perform,” Melinda replied, her voice soft and wispy, unlike Chelsea Stone's.

He set the bottle aside and picked up his long, expensively tailored jacket. It was elegant in its simplicity. Dakota's trademark was a quiet, seductive kind of onstage presence.

Sequins like the custom-made Manuel jackets some country stars preferred would have been overkill.

His tight jeans almost were.

“How much longer?” he asked, buttoning his jacket. He wondered how the inexperienced opening act was faring onstage.

Since they were playing the Opry, he'd advised than to go for broke. You never knew who might be in the crowd at the legendary country-music hall. He could still recall what it was like to be an opening act.

Hell, it might not be long before he was an opening act again.

“I'd say their act will wrap in about fifteen minutes,” Melinda answered, picking a piece of invisible lint off the shoulder of his jacket.

He'd hired Melinda Jackson because she was the kind of ladylike woman he was used to. Too late, he'd realized she was as socially ambitious as his mother. Her possessiveness drove him crazy at times, but he kept her on because she was good at her job, even though he was sure the secretarial college she'd attended had been more like a girls' finishing school.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know Chelsea Stone hadn't gone to finishing school, he reflected. Or if she had, she hadn't graduated. Chelsea was the sort to get expelled for being a bad influence on the other girls.

It was hardly fair of him, he decided, to judge her when he was guilty of breaking rules himself; disregarding his family's social code was the reason he wouldn't inherit the Law banking fortune. Yeah, but while he might break rules, he told himself, he didn't flaunt the fact.

Melinda looked up at him with doelike eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked hopefully.

“No, I guess I'd better get backstage,” he said, dismissing her.

She seemed about to say something else when a knock sounded on the dressing-room door. The door opened and Dakota's drummer, Burt, took a step into the room, then stopped, blocking the entrance. “There's a lady out here to see you, Dakota.”

“Who is it?” Dakota asked, expecting a fan.

“The lady says her name is Chelsea Stone,” Burt replied then winked. “And if you ask me, I believe her. She's got some legs.”

“That's no lady,” Dakota grumbled, his stomach sinking. Now what?

“What does
she
want?” Melinda asked, not bothering to keep the proprietary tone from her voice.

“Tell her I'm not here,” Dakota instructed.

“Tell her yourself,” Chelsea said, as she quickly ducked under Burt's arm and forced her way into the dressing room.

“What do you want?” Dakota demanded.

His uncharacteristic rudeness got Melinda's attention, and she turned to study Chelsea more closely.

“It's nice to see you, too,” Chelsea said, sweetly sarcastic and bold as hell.

“I'm getting ready to go onstage,” Dakota said, losing control. He jammed his white Stetson on his head and glared at her from beneath its brim.

“This won't take long,” Chelsea assured him.

“I'm waiting,” he said, tapping his boot.

“I want to talk to you in private,” she said.

“We've been over this before. We have nothing to say to one another, remember?”

“I'm not leaving until we talk,” Chelsea declared, walking past him and sitting down on the love seat beside his dressing table.

She glanced at a very interested Burt lounging at the door, and then pointedly at Melinda, who stood practically at Dakota's side. “In private.”

Dakota clenched his teeth, stared at the ceiling for a long minute, then sighed. With a shrug, he nodded for Burt and Melinda to leave them alone.

“You want me to call Security?” Melinda whispered, turning her back to Chelsea.

“He's a big boy. I bet he can take care of himself,” Chelsea retorted.

Dakota nodded and Melinda followed Burt out the door, closing it behind her reluctantly.

“You must be crazy, lady,” Dakota said, taking off his hat and tossing it on the chair.

She might be crazy, but she sure looked good, he thought. Sitting there on the love seat, she looked as if she didn't have a care in the world.

Her pose was unladylike, of course.

She had on a very short, silky, print dress. Her knees were spread wide apart and the dress pooled between thighs sheathed in black tights. She did indeed have “some legs,” as Burt had pointed out.

Her feet were encased in red-and-black cowboy boots. He was certain they were the ones she'd bought the day she'd smashed his car. It would be just like Chelsea Stone to wear them simply to annoy him.

His eyes traveled back up her legs past the red-and-white dress to the pièce de résistance—a black leather motorcycle jacket. It had enough zippers to make James Dean hard.

“You're not very good at taking a hint, are you?” he said.

She got up and stood toe to toe with him. Sticking her hands in the pockets of her jacket, she said, “I'd be willing to pay… a lot… for you to write a song for me.”

He wanted to hurt her for the attraction he felt.

Lowering his lips to hers, he gave her a punishing kiss. It was insultingly thorough, blatantly sexual, and deliberately cruel. “What'd you have in mind?”

He expected her to slap him, and was surprised by the sudden tears that gave her eyes a glassy sheen. Just as quickly, they were banished and her tough facade was back in place.

He felt like a jerk.

“Now that you've established you're a bastard, despite your Southern-gentleman image, let's talk currency—because that's the only way I do business.” Her words were clipped, her voice icy.

A knock interrupted the heated silence as they took each other's measure. Burt called through the door, “You're on in three.”

“What's your answer—will you write a song for me?” Chelsea persisted.

“I'll think about it.”

It was an obvious brush-off. A flash of fire flickered in Chelsea's eyes. “You do that,” she said, then, standing on tiptoe, proceeded to kiss him senseless, repaying him in kind with a kiss that was insultingly sensual, boldly provocative and unmistakable in message.

It said,
I don't give an inch.

And I'm not impressed.

C
HELSEA WATCHED FROM
backstage as Dakota began his opening song after the thunderous applause from the packed audience died down.

It was a torch song, the lyrics all achy and filled with longing. Dakota looked as uncomfortable as hell.

A satisfied smile played on Chelsea's lips when halfway through his song, Dakota did something he'd never done before.

He forgot his own lyrics.