Love, Me (3 page)

C
HELSEA STOOD LOOKING
out the window of her suite at the Opryland Hotel. The view of the two-acre conservatory was enchanting. Last week's appearance at the Farm Aid benefit, her first live performance since her throat surgery, had netted her an interview with “E Entertainment” and she was in an upbeat mood.

Thankfully the interviewer had kept the tone of the interview light. When the woman asked her why she was in Nashville, Chelsea had hinted at her plans to take her career in a new direction.

She hoped her fans would follow her, but it wasn't something she could count on. Public interest could be very fickle. But if she could bring her old fans and win some new ones—she knew it was a big if—she could be back on top again.

The phone rang.

It was Tucker.

“The interview with ‘E' went great,” she informed him. “How did your gig go last night?”

“The sound system wasn't the best, but the crowd didn't seem to notice,” he answered. “When's the piece going to run?”

“I'm not sure. The interviewer said it would probably air in about two weeks. So, where are you headed next?”

“Somewhere in Iowa, I think.”

“Good,” she told him. “You'll have time to write letters. Do you have the address here?”

“I always know where you are, babe. How about Dakota? Does the poor bastard know you're in Nashville?”

“He knows.”

“And?”

“And he said he'd think about it, just to get rid of me.”

“But you're going to try again, right?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, good luck, babe. I've got to run. The band's waiting to go out to breakfast.”

“It's two in the afternoon.”

“You've been off the road too long—that
is
breakfast time.”

“Oh, right, I forgot.”

She hung up on his “See you, babe,” and stood by the phone for a moment, remembering the camaraderie that was part of being on the road. But she had no time to be blue, she reminded herself. There were suitcases to be unpacked.

And a mind to be changed.

Dakota Law
would
write her a signature song.

When she began unpacking her last suitcase, she came across her mail. She'd scooped it up in her hurry to catch her flight to Nashville. She sorted through it quickly and set aside a small package and a greeting-card envelope.

She opened the small package first and laughed at the ceramic oddities inside. Tucker had picked up the habit of sending her dumb salt-and-pepper shakers from wherever his band played. Putting the package aside, she opened the card. It had a teddy bear on the front.

She smiled. She loved teddy bears. When she'd run away from home her old brown bear had been the only thing she'd taken with her.

She opened the card and read it.

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
Chelsea made the next move in her campaign to convince Dakota to write a song for her.

He was performing at his club, Dakota Country on Music Row. Chelsea arrived just before he began his last set and prayed that he wouldn't spot her in the audience. She was determined to see him after the performance, sure that if she could get him alone long enough to plead her case, he'd be convinced that writing a song for her was
his
idea.

Chelsea sat at a table as far away from the stage as possible and lowered her head as Dakota strode onstage. When the lights dimmed and Dakota began to sing, Chelsea forgot about being as inconspicuous as possible. She listened breathlessly, and ached and cheered along with the rest of the audience. When the set ended, it took her a moment to remember her reason for being there.

She paid her tab and made her way toward the hallway that led to Dakota's private domain. When she'd entered the club she'd been surprised that the walls were not covered with ego-enhancing mementos of Dakota's stunning career. There was only one picture of Dakota in the foyer; the rest of the wall space was given over to posters of other performers. Autographed posters of Dwight Yoakam, Tanya Tucker and Billy Ray Cyrus were hung outside Dakota's dressing room.

Chelsea hesitated outside the door and listened.

“Can I help you?”

Chelsea froze, then took a deep breath and turned.

“It's you again!” Dakota accused, recognizing her.

“I wanted to talk to you…” she began.

“Look,” he said, his gaze traveling over her, “I don't care how short that red spandex mini is, the answer is still no.”

“But-”

“Stay away from me,” he warned, pulling his white Stetson down over his cold blue eyes as he went into his dressing room. The door slammed behind him.

So much for his telling her he'd think about it, Chelsea realized, but she remained standing in the hallway. Her plan of attack hadn't allowed for a door being slammed in her face, but she had no intention of leaving.

She was raising her hand to knock on the door when she heard Dakota begin strumming his guitar. She listened as the strumming went on in fits and starts. With each new start, Chelsea could sense that Dakota was becoming more and more frustrated.

Suddenly he cursed and played a loud, dissonant chord. This was followed by the sound of his guitar hitting the wall. Breaking strings twanged, and then there was silence.

Playing a hunch, Chelsea entered the dressing room without knocking.

“Tell me the truth, cowboy,” she challenged. “Is the reason you keep refusing to write a song for me because you
won't
or you
can't?”

Dakota's head was buried in his hands. “Go away.”

“Answer the question and maybe I will.”

There was a long pause. “Okay, I can't. Are you satisfied?” he mumbled.

“Why can't you?”

“I thought you were leaving,” he said, looking up at her.

“I said, maybe I would.”

“Do you try to annoy people, or is it just a natural talent?”

“What I'm trying to do is get you to write a song for me,” she said, ignoring his rudeness.

“Well, now you know I can't, why don't you be a good little girl and run along,” Dakota replied, nodding toward the door.

“A good little girl? You must be kidding.” She took a seat, crossed her legs, and dangled her red high heel flirtatiously.

“Let me guess,” she ventured. “You haven't announced a tour date because your album is going to be late… am I right? And I annoy you because it reminds you of your problem.”

“You are my problem.”

“What?”

Dakota unfolded his lanky frame and picked up the ruined guitar. “You heard me.
You
are my problem.” He tossed the guitar in the trash.

“What are you talking about? Just because I asked you to write me a song? You've got bigger problems than not being able to write me a song. If you can't produce an album, your record company will toss you out on your rear.”

“You're the reason I can't write,” he said, snagging her dangling shoe and handing it to her.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I got to you, huh?” Her smile was saucy, her wink sexy.

“No, you got to my car.”

She threw her shoe at him. “Will you quit about your stupid car. It was an accident. It was unfortunate, but frankly, don't you think you're just a little bit obsessed about that clunker. It's toast. Get over it.”

“I wrote all my hit songs in the back seat of that car,” Dakota said flatly.

“You're joking, right?”

“I wish I were,” he answered with a resigned sigh.

“Aw, come on. This is an act. You're trying to make me feel guilty, that's all,” Chelsea said. What a ridiculous idea that his ability to write hit songs was somehow tied up with an old heap she'd wrecked months ago.

Dakota looked directly at her. “I haven't written a hit song in months. I haven't written a song in months. Not even a chorus… a refrain. Nothing, since you smashed my car.”

He was serious. She'd wrecked more than his car; she'd wrecked his life—and gone skipping off as if nothing had happened. But how could she have known?

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Of course, I am.”

“You're sorry because I can't write a song for you, is that it?” He picked up her shoe, then knelt down to slip it on her foot.

The words
Prince Charming
came to mind, but she dismissed them. Her career might need rescuing, but she didn't.

“If you were really sorry,” Dakota said, when he saw that she wasn't going to be baited, “you'd help me get past my block.”

“How can I do that?”

“I don't know. All I know is that since I laid eyes on you…” He threw up his hands in a gesture of utter frustration.

“You know you're being superstitious about your car. You
can
write. It's only your mind playing tricks on you. Maybe you should try hypnotic suggestion or something.”

“Nope. You caused it, you'll end it. I just have to figure out how.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? You're agreeing, just like that?”

“Sure, why not? I need you to write a hit for me. If you can't write, I'm out of luck. It's in my best interests to help you get over your writer's block.”

Dakota actually laughed.

“What's so funny?” she demanded.

Dakota shrugged. “It's just that I would never have figured you for a pragmatic woman.” He looked pointedly at her three-inch red heels. “You certainly don't look like one.”

His disapproval stung. “What exactly is your problem? You've been on my case since you first laid eyes on me.”

“That's easy,” Dakota answered, getting to his feet. “I don't approve of you.”

“Well, since I'm not looking for a daddy, it doesn't much matter whether you approve of me or not, does it?”

“You know it wouldn't hurt you to act more like a lady.”

She hid the fact that her feelings were hurt. “It wouldn't do a thing for my image. My fans expect me to be outrageous.”

Dakota looked at her without comment, then surprised her by asking, “Where are you staying?”

“I'm staying at the Opryland Hotel. Why?”

“So I know where to send someone for your things—if I'm not unblocked by morning.”

“Excuse me, I don't recall saying I'd sleep with you, even if you are Dakota Law.”

“And I don't recall asking—even if you are Chelsea Stone,” he said darkly.

“Then what exactly are you suggesting?”

“I have a ten-acre place that will afford us a lot of privacy about a half hour from here. I'm suggesting that if we spend enough time in close quarters together, maybe you'll annoy me so much, I'll get unblocked just to rid myself of you.”

“I don't know how I can refuse such a charming offer,” Chelsea said, shooting him a sardonic look. “And for my part, I promise to do my very best to annoy the hell out of you.”

“I doubt you'll have to
try.”
Dakota mumbled.

C
HELSEA RAN HER HAND
appreciatively over the soft buttery leather interior of Dakota's new sports car.

“Actually I think you ought to thank me for wrecking your car. This one is a huge improvement,” she said.

Her comment only drew a scowl from Dakota.

She tried conversation again. “Do any of your family live with you?”

“No.”

Interesting. His no had been both final and unbreachable. She'd have to think about that—later. At the moment, she needed a subject that would interest him.

Since his songwriting was the reason the two of them were hurtling through the star-bright Tennessee night together, it was probably a safe bet. “You really shouldn't worry about it, you know.”

“About what?” he asked, glancing over at her.

“Your writer's block. I'm certain the more you keep thinking about it, the harder it will be to break through it. I know it's difficult to be creative when you're anxious about ever writing again. And when you can't come up with any ideas, it's easy to get down on yourself and give up.”

“You can put your mind at ease. I'm not giving up. I don't plan on having you for a permanent houseguest. You'll get your song somehow. What I can't figure is why you're fixated on my being the one to write a song for you. Not when your songs are playing on MTV and MTV refers to country music as yee-haw music.”

“I'm not thrilled about being forced to make this career change, but as you said, I'm a pragmatic woman. After my throat surgery, I knew I couldn't go on abusing my vocal chords as I had in the past. I knew your romantic ballads would be kind to my throat. Besides, I think it might be interesting to rock some country.”

He slid her another glance. “You really think country music is ready for Chelsea Stone?”

“It will be if I'm singing one of your songs,” she said, laying on the sugar.

Dakota snorted in derision. “More likely it'll kill two careers with one song.”

“I like you, too.” Chelsea turned her head to stare out at the black-and-white ribbon of highway unfurled before them. They rode for a few minutes in silence. She considered the reasons why Dakota might be blocked. Was it because he was being too hard on himself? Too impatient? Or was it because he was afraid to fail, afraid of losing the success he'd grown accustomed to? She could certainly relate to that particular fear.

The silence between them began to make her nervous and she reached to turn on the radio.

“I'd rather you didn't,” Dakota interjected covering her hand with his. “Hearing other people's music depresses me at the moment.”