Bad Boys Southern Style. JoAnn Ross

      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 Quinn 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.