The Swansea Inn had begun its life as an antebellum mansion belonging to a cotton broker. Three stories tall, created of the local gray Savannah brick that turned a dusky pink when bathed in the red glow of sunset, it overlooked the Polaski Monument in Monterey Square, which Roxi considered the prettiest of the city’s twenty-four lush green squares.

      She’d heard rumors that the inn had, for several decades prior to the War Between the States, been a house of prostitution, where wealthy planters and merchants had kept a bevy of women for their shared pleasure. There was even one bit of local lore that had General Sherman, after deciding not to torch the city, but to give it to President Lincoln as a Christmas present instead, paying a visit to the house to celebrate having concluded his devastating march across Georgia to the sea.

      Like so many stories about the city, the tales were couched in mystery and wrapped in sensuality, and had been told and retold so many times it was impossible to know how much was true, and how much was the product of Savannahians’ vivid imaginations.

      She’d never been inside before, partly because she knew she’d never be able to afford the prices, but mostly because it was a private club. A place, yet more rumors persisted, of assignations. Even, she’d heard whispered, the occasional orgy.

      She might have a liberal view of sex, but if Sloan Hawthorne had plans along those lines for tonight, he was going to be disappointed.

      The moment the black car glided to a stop at the curve, the inn’s glass door opened and a man came down the stone steps.

      A sudden, white-hot sexual craving zigzagged through her like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue summer sky, sending every hormone in her body into red alert.

      Roxi recognized him immediately. She’d Googled him yesterday after talking with Emma on the Internet, and while on all those Web sites she’d visited he’d definitely appeared to be a hunk, up close and personal he was downright lethal.

      His hair was warm chestnut streaked with gold she suspected was a result of time spent beneath the California sun, rather than some trendy Beverly Hills salon. He was conservatively dressed in a crisp white shirt, muted gray striped tie, and a dark suit, which looked Italian and probably cost more than her first car.

      He opened the back passenger door. His eyes, which were as green as newly minted money, lit up with masculine appreciation as they swept over her.

      “Wow. And here I thought the woman was fictional,” he murmured.

      “Excuse me?” Her body wasn’t the only thing that had gone into sexual meltdown. Sexual images of herself and Sloan Hawthorne writhed in her smoke-filled mind.

      She told herself the only reason she was taking the hand he’d extended was that the car was low, her skirt tight, and her heels high.

      Liar. Not only wasn’t she sure she could stand on her own, she was actually desperate for his touch. Not just on her hand, but all the other tingling places on her body.

      “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. Sheepishly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I tend to talk to myself when I’m bewitched.”

      “I see.” He wasn’t just drop-dead gorgeous. He was cute. It also helped to know that she wasn’t the only one who’d been momentarily mesmerized.

      The butterflies settled, allowing Roxi to pick up a bit of her own scattered senses. “Does that happen often?” she asked.

      “This is the first time.” His gaze swept over her—from the top of her head down to her Revved up and Red-y toenails, then back up to her face again. “That is one helluva dress.”

      “Thank you.” It was a basic black dinner dress. That was, if anything that was strapless and fit like a second skin could be called basic.

      “Did you wear it to bring me to my knees?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Well, then.” He flashed a grin that would’ve dropped a lesser woman to her knees. As it was, it had moisture pooling hotly between Roxi’s thighs. “You’ll be glad to know that it’s working like a charm.”

      Like so many of the fine old homes in Savannah’s historic district, the Inn had several steps originally designed to keep the dust and mud from the unpaved dirt streets outside the house.

      Sloan put a hand on her back as they started walking up the five stone steps, hip to hip. Although the gesture seemed as natural to him as breathing, Roxi’s knees were feeling a bit wobbly as a doorman in a burgundy uniform with snazzy gold epaulets swept the door open for them.

      She would have expected Sloan to stay at one of the modern brass and glass high-rise hotels that tradition-loving Savannahians loved to complain about. It would have made it easier to dislike him. Or at least keep her emotional distance.

      But the minute she walked into the inn, which epitomized sultry Savannah, Roxi was charmed by the black and white marble floors, the mahogany paneling, the pink marble pillars holding up a ceiling that soared at least fifteen feet, and the grand, sweeping staircase that made Scarlet’s Tara look like a poor imitation.

      “It’s stunning,” she breathed, gazing up at the ceiling that managed to have enough gold leaf to be elegant without crossing over to tacky excess.

      “My family’s always been proud of it,” he said mildly, waving a hello at the concierge seated behind a cherry desk polished to a mirror sheen.

      She stopped in her tracks. “Are you saying your family owns this inn?”

      She’d known he was rich. His family, according to Google, owned one of the largest brick companies in the country. But having grown up with a shrimper for a father and a housewife for a mother, Roxi found herself a bit intimidated by the idea of old wealth.

      “No. I’m saying an ancestor built it.”

      “He was the architect?” Her heels clattered on the flowing black and white marble as they crossed the room.

      “Actually, he laid the bricks. My family came from a long line of stonemasons. Which is how we got into the brick business.”

      “Ah, Mr. Hawthorne.” The tuxedoed maître d’ at the open doorway to the restaurant bowed as if greeting foreign royalty. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

      “It’s good to be back, Randall,” Sloan said. “How’s the family? Didn’t my mother tell me your daughter was about to have another baby?”

      “She gave her mother and I our third grandchild last week.” His chest puffed up with obvious pride. “A beautiful little girl. Seven pounds, three ounces. They named her Elizabeth Rose.”

      “That’s wonderful.” Sloan’s answering smile was, Roxi noted, every bit as warm as the ones he’d been tossing her way. She’d read a quote from Nicole Kidman, who’d called him a rarity in Hollywood, a genuinely nice man who treated everyone, from grip to catering staff to star, with equal respect.

      “Give the proud parents my best,” he said.

      “I’ll certainly do that.” The maître d’ beamed. If he’d had a tail, he would have been wagging it. “If you’ll just follow me, we have your table waiting for you.”

      The restaurant floor was carpeted and the walls draped in a rich Savannah green silk, both, Roxi suspected, designed to mute the noise. It seemed to be