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jerk.
    â€œNow 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.”
    â€œWhat’s your answer—will you write a song for me?” Chelsea persisted.
    â€œI’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.

Chapter 4
4
    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.
    â€œThe interview with ‘E’ went great,” she informed him. “How did your gig go last night?”
    â€œThe sound system wasn’t the best, but the crowd didn’t seem to notice,” he answered. “When’s the piece going to run?”
    â€œI’m not sure. The interviewer said it would probably air in about two weeks. So, where are you headed next?”
    â€œSomewhere in Iowa, I think.”
    â€œGood,” she told him. “You’ll have time to write letters. Do you have the address here?”
    â€œI always know where you are, babe. How about Dakota? Does the poor bastard know you’re in Nashville?”
    â€œHe knows.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd he said he’d think about it, just to get rid of me.”
    â€œBut you’re going to try again, right?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œWell, good luck, babe. I’ve got to run. The band’s waiting to go out to breakfast.”
    â€œIt’s two in the afternoon.”
    â€œYou’ve been off the road too long—that is breakfast time.”
    â€œOh, 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