by JoAnn Ross
“Why would I want to do that?” Emma countered. “When we both know you’re more than capable of getting any man you want?”
It did not escape Roxi’s notice that Emma hadn’t answered her question directly.
“Even if that were true, which it isn’t, how about the fact that now that you’re so happy in your little oceanside love nest, you’ve fallen prey to the dreaded MWS disease?”
“MWS?”
“Married Women Syndrome. Being perfectly content in your gilded institution of marriage, you now want to lock up every other woman in there with you.”
“Don’t be silly.” The answering laugh was merry and bright. And, Roxi thought darkly, fake. Emma never had been able to tell a lie. “I seem to recall you telling me that you never went for a man with the entire package. That you just went out with men with a below-the-belt package.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember saying something like that.”
She’d been lecturing about the need to separate emotions from sex. A warning that had come too late for Emma, who’d already fallen head over heart in love with Gabriel. Which had been a very good thing, given how well things had turned out.
“Well, if you truly meant it, then you definitely won’t be at all interested in Sloan. Because the man defines a complete package.”
“If he’s such a paragon of perfection, why hasn’t some woman snatched him up?”
“Perhaps because from what I’ve witnessed in the few months I’ve known him, he’s every bit as commitment-phobic as you are. Which, by the way, blows any theory about me wanting to play matchmaker between the two of you right out of the water.”
Unless, Roxi considered, she was using reverse psychology.
Which was crazy. There wasn’t anyone in the world as straightforward as Emma Quinlan Broussard.
Emma pressed her case when Roxi didn’t immediately respond. “We really need your input, Roxie. Gabriel doesn’t want to back out of the project, especially since he and Sloan have a verbal agreement, and he’s always felt strongly about keeping his word, but—”
“Okay.” Roxi threw up her hands, both literally and figuratively. “When’s this full package paragon due to arrive in Savannah?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Unlike her husband, Emma Broussard was no actor. Which explained why she couldn’t quite keep the satisfaction from her tone. “He’s staying at the Swansea House,” she said, again a bit too quickly. “I told him I’d ask if you’d be willing to meet him for dinner.”
“So now you’re his social secretary?”
“No. I merely felt uncomfortable giving out your number without checking with you first,” Emma said mildly.
“I’m sorry.” Roxi blew out a breath. “It’s just been a crazed morning.” After a frustratingly restless night.
“Well then, a lovely dinner with an attractive, interesting man sounds like just what you need.”
Actually, if her reaction to that dream was any indication, what she needed was to get fucked, but since an elderly Swedish tourist was approaching the counter with a silver Viking dragon brooch in hand, Roxi kept that thought to herself.
Besides, as always, the quintessentially practical Emma had a point. The past few months, with her life in such flux, Roxi hadn’t taken time to actually relax and enjoy herself. The Swansea House boasted one of the best restaurants not just in Savannah, but in the entire Lowcountry region. An expensive dinner on someone else’s dime sounded more than a little appealing.
And if the evening ended in one of those antique four-poster beds the inn used in its advertising campaign, so much the better.
Five
“Well.” Out on the raised deck of her Malibu home, which looked out over the vast blue Pacific, Emma Broussard hung up the phone and eyed the man seated across the white wrought iron table. “I’ve done all I can. Whatever else happens is up to you.”
“I owe you, darlin’.” Sloan lifted his glass to her. “Big time.”
Her smile faded and a warning glinted in moss green eyes. “If you hurt her—”
“I know. You’ll have Gabe rip out my lungs.”
“That might be an option,” she agreed mildly. “But only after I hack your balls off with a rusty knife and feed them to that shark that was spotted offshore last week.”
He blew out a breath as just the suggestion of the threat had his testicles shooting up into his tonsils. “Wow. Who’d guess an expectant mother could be so harsh?”
“I like you, Sloan. A great deal. I also enjoy your artistic vision and believe that you’re one of the few people who understands and appreciates my husband’s complexities enough to draw an amazing performance from him. I’d like to believe that’s because, although you do appear to have a bit of a Peter Pan complex, you’re not a typically shallow, egotistical Hollywood movie prick.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“It was meant as a compliment. Roxi’s been my best friend since we were in kindergarten.” Her expression softened and her eyes drifted back over the sun-silvered waves. “We met the day she put a spell on a boy who’d called me fat.”
“I hope she turned him into a frog.”
“Nothing that dramatic. But he did fall off his bike riding home from school and broke his arm.”
“Let’s hear it for the witches,” he said with a grin, then sobered. “Kids can be mean.”
Sloan knew, by some standards, especially Hollywood standards, the adult Emma would be considered overweight, as well. Personally, he found her lush and ripe and sexy as hell.
“It was the truth,” she said with a shrug. “I was, as my mother insisted on pointing out, a ‘butterball.’ But you should have seen the way Roxi lit into him. She was a five-year-old warrior.” She smiled at the memory. “Thinking about it now, although the books hadn’t been written yet, she’s always reminded me of Morganna.”
She slanted Sloan a knowing look. “I believe you see her the same way.”
“I’ve never met the woman.”
He’d been in the Sahara when Gabe and Emma had gotten married, and a damn sandstorm had kept him from getting to Louisiana and acting as his friend’s best man.
“Yet here you are, planning a trip all the way across the country to be with her. After asking me to lie for you.”
“And I appreciate it, Emma. But it wasn’t exactly a lie.”
She lifted a bright russet brow, reminding him yet again that the lady was no pushover.
“More like a sin of omission,” he qualified. “Number one, I really did grow up in Savannah.” He began counting off on his fingers. “Second, I am going to be scouting shooting sites there.” A third finger went up. “And finally, meeting with someone who believes herself to be a real witch will help flesh Morganna out.”
Believes herself to be a real witch. That qualification did not escape Emma’s attention.
“Do you believe in destiny?” he asked suddenly.
“Of course.”
“I never did. I always figured we made our own destiny.”
“Perhaps it’s a bit of both,” Emma suggested. “We all have free will, the ability to make choices, take different paths. Take advantage of opportunities.”
She crossed her legs and took a sip of herbal tea. “Gabe and I knew each other back in Blue Bayou growing up,” she said. “We’d been friends for a lot of years. Well, to be perfectly honest, I’d been a friend who had a major crush on him. But things didn’t work out.”
From the shadows in her expressive green eyes, Sloan sensed that was an understatement. “He moved to Hollywood. Then my marriage broke up, and Gabriel had his little problem—”
“His scandal, you mean.”
The sunlight returned to her eyes when she laughed. “Ah, yes, let’s hear it for kinky sex scandals . . . Anyway, after he decided to return home to hide out from the press until things blew over, a friend of both Gabe’s and mine pulled a few strings, forcing us to spend some time alone together. The sparks were still there, so
. . .”
“You lit yourself a fire.”
“More like a conflagration. But yes. Either one of us could have backed away. In fact, I tried to. But Gabe had other ideas.”
“I don’t blame him. Hell, sugar, if I’d have seen you first, I would’ve given your movie star husband a run for his money.”
“That’s sweet.” She patted him on the knee. “But getting back to the point of this conversation, are you suggesting you believe Roxi may be your destiny?”
“That’s probably an overstatement. But I gotta tell you, Emma, it’s the damnedest thing. The minute I saw that e-mail of your wedding picture, I felt poleaxed.”
“Roxi has that effect on men.”
“It’s more than just her looks. Hell, this is L.A. You can’t throw a stick on a beach here without hitting a dozen women probably just as beautiful.”
“Who undoubtedly wouldn’t enjoy getting hit by flying sticks, but I understand what you’re getting at.”
“The point, and I do have one, is that the woman’s been flat out driving me out of my mind. She’s all I can think about. All I can dream about.”
“I know the feeling,” Emma said dryly. “Very well. But have you considered that it’s because you’ve been so caught up in this new project, and she does resemble Morganna?”
If that wedding picture was any indication, she was the crime-fighting witch in the flesh. He wondered if she owned a catsuit.
“Sure I have. And that’s probably all it is. But if I’m going to be able to keep my mind on work long enough to get this project in the can, I need to find out.”
Surely taking Roxi Dupree to bed would get her out of his system once and for all. And let him get on with his movie. And his life.
“I can understand that, as well. May I offer a word of advice ?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve never been one to involve myself in other people’s personal lives, but since it also occurs to me that if it hadn’t been for Nate Callahan, Gabriel and I might not have had a second chance, I’m going to risk a bit of meddling.
“If, after you get to Savannah, you begin to suspect whatever you’re feeling is more than just understandable lust for a beautiful woman, don’t tell Roxi.”
“O-kay.” He knew his skepticism was written all over his face.
“I know what you’re thinking. That deep down inside, no matter what they might say to the contrary, most women are looking for commitment.”
“Far be it from me to make sweeping generalities. But just going by my own experience, that seems to be the case more often than not.”
Although he’d always told women right up front that he wasn’t the marrying kind, after a few months, or even weeks, most suddenly started talking about silverware patterns, and bridal magazines would magically show up on bedside tables.
“Roxi’s the exception. She’s always up for a good time, but if you let her think you’re getting serious, she’s going to run. I’ve seen it happen hundreds of times.”
“Hundreds?”
Emma nodded. “At least. But I’ll let her tell you about her rule of three herself. If things get that far.”
“I know about the rule of three,” he said. “It’s the Wiccan code about whatever you do comes back to you threefold.”
“That’s one version,” Emma agreed. “But Roxi’s got her own take on it.”
“Well now, sugar, I have to admit you have indeed piqued my interest. But if she’s into threesomes, I’m afraid she’s going to be disappointed.”
Emma laughed. “I can’t swear to know everything about her, but I’m pretty sure that you’re safe there.” She touched a fingertip to her lips. “But that’s all I’m saying.”
Emma was still smiling long after Sloan had left for the airport.
“I believe,” she told Gabriel later that afternoon, “that things in Savannah could get very interesting.”
They were lying in bed, bathed in the warm afterglow of passion after making love. It still amazed her that after all these months together, she still couldn’t get enough of him. And, amazingly, if his behavior in the past half hour was any indication, her husband, who undoubtedly could have any woman in the world he wanted, felt the same way.
“Mais, yeah.” He pressed his lips against her temple. Skimmed a wickedly clever hand down her side, from her shoulder to her thigh. “Sort of like nitroglycerin and a flamethrower are interesting.”
She laughed, enjoying the image even as heat bloomed beneath his caressing touch. “I suppose it’s only fair.” She twined her arms around his neck and lifted her face for his kiss. “Why should we have all the fun?”
Emma’s last thought, just before her husband took her back into the mists, was that her two favorite commitment-phobic people might have finally met their match.
Six
They’d agreed, during their brief phone call, to meet at the restaurant. Although he’d offered to pick her up, Roxi had thought that a foolish waste of time and effort, especially since he was already staying at the inn.
She’d heard the hum of jet engines during the call and wondered what it must feel like to actually be able to pick up one of those phones in-flight and pay the outrageous charges.
“Of course, when you’re rolling in dough, I guess there’s nothing you can’t buy,” she told her cat, La Betaille, who was lying on her bed, watching her get ready for the dinner date. “Undoubtedly even women.”
Ignoring her with a feline elegance that belied the fact that the eighteen-pound former stray was missing one ear and had a diagonal scar across her nose, La Betaille began fastidiously washing her huge black paws.
“I wonder if the casting couch still exists?” She reached into the small enameled box on the dressing table and took out a pair of earrings shaped like crescent moons. They might be rhinestones rather than the diamonds Sloan Hawthorne was undoubtedly accustomed to women wearing, but Roxi liked the way they sparkled.
She studied the results in the full-length mirror standing across the room. “Though I’ll bet a man like Sloan Hawthorne probably doesn’t have to hold out walk-on roles in his movies as a carrot to get women to go to bed with him.”
She’d spent the better part of the morning shopping for an outfit designed to knock off the Hollywood hotshot’s socks, and if she was lucky, various other pieces of clothing.
She turned sideways and ran her hands down the front of the dress. Her breasts, which had always suited her just fine, thank you, suddenly seemed, well . . . a bit insignificant.
Since when had she started comparing herself to any other woman?
“You’re an original, you,” she said, looking over her shoulder at her butt, which, if she did say so herself, looked damn fine in this dress. “Besides, it’ll be a new experience for him. Touching real, honest-to-god womanly flesh instead of silicone.”
Apparently unimpressed by that prospect, La Betaille merely yawned.
She’d just fastened a moonstone pendant around her neck when the limo Sloan had insisted on sending for her arrived outside the small carriage house she was renting behind one of the stately homes on Chippewa Square, where Forrest Gump had sat on his famous bench and contemplated life as a box of chocolates.
“Okay,” she said, as the driver rang the bell. “Showtime.” Smoothing her hands over her hair, Roxi drew in a deep breath and pressed a hand against her stomach, which had suddenly gone all fluttery.
Which was just proof that she’d definitely been working too hard. Men never made Roxi Dupree nervous.
She reached down and stroked the cat’s head. “Don’t wait up.”
As if taking her literally, La Betaille rolled over, closed her amber eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
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.
