He rolled his body toward her, allowing himself a daylight inspection of her slumbering form. Her wealth of brown curls cascaded over the pillows and shone with russet highlights. Delicate features blessed her oval face—plush lips, high cheekbones, and a saucy little nose. Were it not for a nasty bruise on her hip, her curvy, ivory-toned physique was one of perfection. She was as stunning as his golden-haired fiancée waiting for his return in Culpeper Court House, Virginia.

A smile creased his face, while his body responded to her slender nakedness. He gently ran an index finger over the damp softness of her swanlike throat. With his fingertip, he captured a bead of her perspiration and brought it down to one of her firm breasts. Her nipple grew hard and pointy as he drew a shiny wet circle around its rosy edge. All at once, she awakened.

For a moment, her hazel eyes locked with his, flickering with the intelligence of a fox and the playfulness of a kitten. Then she appraised the movement of his hand and her teeth flashed in a broad grin. “You know—Juanita warned me of your friskiness, Mr. Kingsbury,” she said in a tone matching the sultry weather.

“Did she?”

“Said you were not only handsome, but downright insatiable.”

“But what do you think, Tempeste?”

“Juanita’s female complaint might have been ill-timed—” She paused to stroke his genitals. “Then again, after spending uncountable hours with you, perhaps she simply needed time to recuperate. But her loss was my gain.”

He swallowed the compliment whole and enjoyed the sensations her touch provided.

“Do tell me the unvarnished truth, Mr. Kingsbury. Were you frightfully disappointed last week when I showed up at your door in her stead?”

In reply, he pulled Tempeste into his arms and ravished her breasts with hungry kisses. She responded without stint, clawing his back and buttocks, and grinding her crotch against his thigh. Her navel, moist and satiny, pressed against him and forced a groan from deep within his throat. Soon, she straddled him and their perspiring bodies became a slick oneness. He sank into the wonder of her flesh, and time slipped away. No, he thought later, as their convulsing forms came to rest, he may have been surprised when this woman appeared at his door, but he had hardly been displeased. In truth, it had been the most enjoyable week of his life.

Two weeks earlier, his steamer had arrived in Charleston at Vanderhost’s Wharf. With his father’s instructions indelibly etched in his mind, he pushed all thoughts of personal wants aside, hired a carriage, and made a stop at the Farmers and Exchange Bank. There, he met with the manager, Horatio Branchfield, who was also a member of the slave-importation syndicate. But much to Heath’s delight, the formal meeting had been postponed. One of the conspirators had been delayed in New Orleans and Heath found himself free to explore the city.

After checking into a corner suite of the Mills House Hotel, he spent the remainder of the day strolling along Meeting Street. At first, used to the lazy stillness of Culpeper, he had enjoyed the fevered hustle and bustle of daily life. And the city’s numerous saloons and gambling halls offered welcome entertainment as he waited day after day for word of the rescheduled meeting.

But as the days passed without a word, one barroom began to look like another. Eight, ten, twelve hours at a poker table grew monotonous. He decided he needed something more—female companionship.

Furtive inquiries eventually led him to a grand, two-story house on the East Battery, situated across the street from the Cooper River. Gulls banked and wheeled over the mansard roof or came to roost beside the steep chimney. Lilting strains of a pianoforte spilled from the open windows. Gardens lining the walkway brimmed with roses and lilacs, while hedges of crape myrtle added a splash of green to the archetype of Southern gentility.

Heath’s randiness propelled him to the door where he soon came face-to-face with Mrs. Daphne Bettencourt. She was a plump, sixtyish widow with cotton-colored hair and the regal dignity of Queen Victoria. The bejeweled dowager escorted him into her sumptuous parlor. T’ang vases lined the center of the marble mantelpiece; jade temple dogs flanked them and stood sentinel. Crystals dangling from a Waterford chandelier caught sunbeams and sent prismatic flashes of color across the patterned wallpaper and Axminster carpet. The high-toned grandam poured Heath four fingers of brandy, then sat before him on a sofa smothered in pillows and doilies. After a few minutes of formal pleasantries, her ring-heavy hand tinkled a sterling silver bell.

In seconds, a bevy of fetching lasses entered the room, all donned in fluffy, yet, revealing gowns of faille and taffeta. Alluring, epicene scents clogged the air and caused his heart to pound. He marveled at the sight—flowers of femininity just begging to be plucked. Such noble elegance, such civilized formality—so unlike the single-dwelling hovels in the Flats of Culpeper County where dirty-faced women catered to a man’s needs in a bid to supply their next meal.

With the prim and proper grace of aristocracy, the proprietress introduced her “girls” one by one. Then, with unflinching directness, she queried him as to which of her employees he would “care to rut.”

Heath gulped his brandy, then strutted before them like a wealthy child in a confectionery shop. His gaze soon fell on the dark-haired Juanita, or rather, on her plunging décolletage. He voiced his decision, forked over the hefty twenty-dollar fee to the smiling widow, then whisked his companion to his hotel suite. The following morning, he returned to Mrs. Bettencourt and placed a standing order for Juanita and her exceptional talents.

But he soon realized he wanted more than someone to share his mattress—he wanted to experience this strange city through the eyes of someone who lived here. Unfortunately, Juanita was not the right choice. Though a beauty in her own right, and an expert in matters of the flesh, she was also the type of woman he wouldn’t have paraded on his arm in public. Her raucous voice and flashy manner of dress advertised her profession. She could hardly be considered proper company for an upstanding gentleman from Virginia.

But the woman who now lay snuggled in his arms was different. Had she been presented to him that day in Mrs. Bettencourt’s parlor, he would have certainly chosen her over Juanita.

Tempeste Louise Rittenhouse not only carried herself with the poise of a well-bred and educated young lady, but her less-than-ostentatious attire spoke of class and sophistication. Her widowed father, she had told him, was killed a few years earlier in a boating accident. Tempeste, the sole heiress to the Rittenhouse Shipping Company, should have been a wealthy woman, but her father’s misguided investments left her with nothing but debt. So just last year, with no family to care for her and in financial despair, Tempeste had chanced to meet Daphne Bettencourt. The elderly mistress, with a shrewd eye for moneymaking potential, kept the twenty-year-old belle from starvation and provided a roof over her head.

Now, as Tempeste stroked his chest and cooed into his shoulder, Heath felt blessed. For five days running, Tempeste had been the perfect companion. During the mornings, they would breakfast in Washington Park or Wragg Square, hire a carriage for sightseeing excursions, or take long leisurely walks along the Battery or under the ancient live oaks in White Point Gardens. One afternoon they toured both the military Citadel and Independence Hall. On another afternoon, standing arm in arm on the Post Office’s cupola, they gaped at the marvelous city beneath their feet. In the evenings, they attended the theaters, the galleries, then gorged themselves on delicacies at the finest restaurants.

And just yesterday, much to Tempeste’s delight, Heath had chartered a luxurious yacht and crew for a day of sailing. With iced caviar, oyster croquettes, and magnums of Veuve Clicquot at their fingertips, they lounged on deck and viewed the islands and government forts ringing the majestic harbor, including a three-tiered masonry work guarding the harbor’s entrance—Fort Sumter. Later, as dusk mantled the sky in a velvety purple, they strolled barefoot on a secluded beach and made passionate love in the sand. Yes, Heath thought, as the memory placed a gratified smile on his lips, Tempeste’s rousing display of carnal knowledge certainly lived up to her name.

When they returned to his suite in the wee hours, a message awaited him. The meeting with the syndicate would take place Monday morning at eight sharp. So, with just one day of leisure remaining before reality reared its ugly head, he wanted nothing more than to spend the day with this woman’s flesh pressed against his.

But now another church bell chimed and broke the breathless afterglow. Tempeste peered over his shoulder at the nightstand. She consulted his pocketwatch and an expression akin to horror crossed her face. Her complexion went ashen.

“What’s wrong?” asked Heath.

“I’m late,” she cried, scrambling off the bed. She snatched her frilly underclothing from the carpet and began to dress. “She’ll kill me.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Bettencourt. She wanted me back at the house no later than nine.”

“So? Blame me. Tell her I kept you otherwise engaged.”

“It’s not as easy as all that.” She fumbled with the buttons on her petticoat and bit her lip. In her manic haste, one of the buttons snapped off. Tears of panic filled her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” said Heath, swinging his legs off the mattress. Half-concerned, half-amused by her manner, he came to stand before her and aided her with the remaining buttons. “After all—I’m a client of good standing. I could provide the additional capital.”

“It’s not the money, Mr. Kingsbury.”

“Then what?”

She turned her back to him. “Mrs. Bettencourt has strict rules.”

“As the saying goes—rules were made to be broken.”

“Not her rules.”

Heath smothered a laugh. He could hardly believe the white-haired dowager ran her whorehouse with an iron fist. But apparently this girl did believe it. And for some reason it scared her. “Nonsense, Tempeste. I’ll get dressed and accompany you back to—”

“No—please,” she said, dropping her head. She still refused to look at him. “I mean—that’s very gentlemanly of you but—well, it’s not your problem.”

From behind, Heath wrapped his arms around her and felt the lines of her breasts beneath the sheer fabric. “It is my problem when my plans have been altered,” he said, burying his face in her sweet-scented hair.

“What plans?”

“I was hoping to purchase your companionship for another day.”

“Trying to wear me out like you did Juanita?” asked Tempeste. Her jest sounded forced, doing little to hide the tremor in her voice.

“I refuse to stay in this hotel suite without you.”

“Perhaps Juanita might be feeling better.”

“I don’t want her. Spend another day with me.”

“That’s very tempting, but—”

“All right. We don’t have to stay in bed all day. Another picnic? Or the theater, perhaps?”

“That’s not possible!”

“Money makes anything possible.”

Instantly, her supple body went as stiff as a board. “I know.”

She pried herself out of his arms and grabbed her maroon gown from the chair.

Mouth agape, Heath watched her dress and felt a twinge of annoyance. He would be damned if he’d give up his final day of relaxation before business commenced. Besides, without knowing when or how it happened, he had grown quite fond of Tempeste. Never before had he had a full-time woman at his side, adhering to his every whim and satisfying his many urges. It had felt like a trial marriage, and he liked it.

Once attired, Tempeste slipped on her shoes and finger-combed her silken tresses. She collected her gloves and reticule, then stepped toward the adjoining parlor. Heath sprang into action. He scrambled over the bed and seized her arm. Tempeste flinched as if she’d been hit.

“What is the matter?” asked Heath, alarmed at her reaction.

She yanked her arm free. “Please—I must go.”

“Haven’t you had fun these last few days?”

“Of course. It’s been—absolute heaven.” She turned her face into her shoulder. “But what I want doesn’t matter. The rules are firm. I must leave.”

Heath encircled her with his arms, crushing her against him. “Not before I know what rule makes it impossible for me to spend the day with you.”

Tempeste gazed up at him through moist eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Nothing short of marching to the Battery and giving that old bitch a piece of my mind.”

Without warning, she kissed him hard on the lips. “Thank you for wanting to help, but…”

“But what? Tell me!”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Does the widow force you to read scriptures? Drag you to church?”

“I’m—” She shivered in his arms. “I’m spoken for.”

Anger clenched Heath’s jaw. It was one thing for the madam to infringe on his plans—but another man? Uncontrolled jealousy twisted his stomach. “But now I’m doing the speaking. Whatever this gentleman is paying Mrs. Bettencourt for your time, I’ll double it.”

A conglomeration of expressions overspread her face—confusion, gratitude, relief. She pulled out of his arms and sank into a chair. “You’d pay two-hundred dollars for me?”

Heath blinked. “Two hundred? But I thought—”

“One-hundred dollars he pays. Every Sunday. You see now why Mrs. Bettencourt insists I keep my appointments?”

“Why five times the standard amount?”

She licked her lips; her shoulders drooped. Her face wrenched in momentary anguish. “My Sunday gentleman likes to—I mean—” She wrung her lace gloves. “He has a fondness for certain—pleasures.”

All at once, Heath recalled the bruise on Tempeste’s hip, her tears of panic, and the way she flinched when he earlier grabbed her arm. His throat tightened. Twenty-three years of living under the same rooftop with his father, the volatile Armstrong Kingsbury, provided enough insight to discern how this woman had been injured. His anger crested. “You refer to this man as a gentleman? A scoundrel! A God-damned rounder! And Mrs. Bettencourt turns a blind eye?”

“As you said before”—her voice grew thick with tears—“money makes anything possible.”

Heath stomped to the window and rubbed his throbbing temples. As fierce sunlight scorched his naked flesh, he made a quick calculation of his available funds. Little remained. In a bid to keep up appearances, Armstrong had insisted Heath take a suite in this opulent hotel. But the meeting’s postponement had caused his capital to dwindle. Yet, with his impending marriage into a wealthy family, and the untold assets from the slave ship soon to fill his pocketbook, he supposed he could take the gamble. Besides, he couldn’t allow this woman—the woman he had chosen to be his companion for the remainder of his stay—to be thrust into the arms of a man like his father.

Finally, he spun to face her. “A gentleman of Virginia will not be denied. You wait here.”

An hour passed before Heath returned to the suite. Tempeste, pacing the parlor and dry-washing her hands, looked up at him expectantly. He did nothing but smile. She charged across the room, into his outstretched arms. Moments later, as she ripped the clothing from his body and treated herself to his tingling flesh, Heath basked in mouth-watering victory.