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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.

Chapter 3
3
    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