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you mean that dilapidated property, yes, I’m buying it.”
      Peyton let out an unladylike squeal and squeezed his arm. Gaston worked as a real estate agent at a downtown firm, but his parents, who’d moved to Hilton Head six months before, came from old money. Gaston had spent much of his inheritance buying and renovating historic properties slated for demolition.
    “I was praying you’d come to the rescue,” she said. “It would have been criminal to tear down a house with such classic Italianate styling.”
    “So you’ve said.” Gaston smiled and offered his arm. They walked onto the portico together. As always, the grandness of the hall, with its great white columns stretching toward the sky, took Peyton’s breath away. She and Gaston passed under the Irish harp imbedded in the paneling above the door and through the main entrance to the domed rotunda where the event was taking place.
    “To clarify,” Gaston said, “the reason I hoped to run into you was so I could be your escort this evening. You are here unescorted, are you not?”
    Peyton’s eyes swept over the milling crowd, and her head halted in mid-nod. No more than ten yards away, Cary/Mitch snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed it to her mother. Her father spotted her, his glower transforming into a smile. He immediately disengaged himself from the group.  
    “Why, Peyton, how good it is to see you.” Her father clapped Gaston on the back. “You too, old friend. You restore my faith in my daughter’s taste in men.”
    “Darlings, you both look fabulous.” Her mother was right behind him, clasping Gaston’s hand before kissing the air on either side of Peyton’s face. “Peyton, it does my heart good to see you dressed in something other than that dreadful uniform those carriage people make you wear.”
    Peyton’s spirits fell the way they always did whenever her mother disparaged the tour-guide business, but she knew better than to disagree. It never got her anywhere.
    “I beg to differ, Amelia. I think Peyton looks great in those khaki shorts.” Mitch joined their group. Peyton had been brought up far too well to blast him in the presence of Gaston and her parents. She set her mouth, intending to silently communicate her displeasure. “But then I’m biased. I think she’d look great in anything.”
    Mitch’s eyes moved appreciatively over her before his lips curved in an intimate, heart-tugging smile. “Hello, Peyton.”
    “Hello, Mitch,” she whispered back before she could stop herself. She was afraid her lips were curving into a smile.
    Damnation. How was she supposed to hiss at him when he complimented her like that? Or when he looked the way he did? The other men in the room were similarly dressed, but Mitch stood out like a peacock among penguins. The cut of his tux drew attention to his broad shoulders and long legs. The stark black color complemented the inky darkness of his hair and set off his blue, blue eyes.  
    As she got to know what was inside the man, she’d thought she was becoming immune to his good looks. So why, all of a sudden, was he harder and harder to resist?
    “I’m Cary Mitchell.” Mitch held out a hand to Gaston. “Peyton’s date.”
    Gaston cut his eyes at Peyton but shook Mitch’s hand. “G. Gaston Gibbs III. I was under the impression Peyton was unescorted.”
    “Only because I thought I was supposed to pick her up at her parents’ house.” Mitch’s words were as slick as usual, but something in his voice sounded different. His eyes smiled at her. “Work was so crazy today I got mixed up. Forgive me?”
    Peyton’s jaw dropped. That was twice in two days that Mr. What’s Done Is Done had apologized. The tilt of his head as he waited for her answer suggested a vulnerability she’d never noticed before, and she figured out what was different about his voice. It was crazy, but he sounded. . . sincere.
    “A woman never truly forgives a man until he