“Hello there. Welcome to the Grove Manor Inn. I’m . . . here let me help you with those. Let me take at least one of them. I’m Albert, the lazier part of Mark and Albert.”

He spoke “Albert” without the closing “T,” and, from both his mixed British and Caribbean islander accent and his strikingly good “best of several races” looks, it wasn’t hard to conclude that he was Jamaican. He also was a hunk and a half, beautifully built, at least six foot two tall, broad in the chest, and slim in waist and hips.

Andy had known a gay couple operated the B&B on Grove Street, in Richmond, Virginia’s, Fan District—a mostly residential area of large, late nineteenth and early twentieth century row house that took its name because the streets radiated west away from the government center in the form of a fan. The Web site had made quite clear the two male hosts were a couple, if in a subtle way, so that potential guests would know before deciding to book. Andy didn’t know, however, that at least one of the couple was a god-like, light-chocolate hunk.

That didn’t help Andy one bit. He wouldn’t have booked into the B&B, knowing it was run by a gay couple. He was having a hard enough time not hyperventilating what he was doing in Richmond at all—what was expected of him here. Sandi had made the reservations.

And Sandi was still working her way out of the front seat of their Volvo SUV. She wasn’t clumsy; she was six months pregnant and showing. And she was feeling every added inch of girth and had been complaining of the discomfort all the way from the coast.

“And, by process of elimination, you must be the Clemons,” Albert said as he reached out for one of the bags Andy was carrying at the back gate into the swimming pool area of the B&B. Andy had entered the alley behind the Grove Street houses, as directed, and parked between two cars on a four-car parking pad. “The Arnolds are already here and settled in. There are just the four of you for the two nights you’ll be with us. The Arnolds are staying longer than you at both ends.”

“Hello,” Andy finally said, trying not to look at Albert like he could eat the man up, “Yes, we’re the Clemons. This is Sandra. I’m Andy.”

Sandra Clemons had finally caught up with them, although she was moving almost in a waddle. She was still stretching her spine with a fist in the small of her back and looking slightly harried from the drive from the coast. Beyond that, she was looking radiant, a small blonde who looked every bit the sportswear model she’d been before she’d had her first child. She smiled at Albert and shook his free hand. Andy was still juggling a suitcase, a computer bag, and the bolster pillow stuffed in a bag. Sandra couldn’t get comfortable without a body pillow to lean full length against when she finally got around to sleep. Despite showing six months, she still needed attention from Andy most nights before going to sleep. . . .

In swim suits and rising from pool beds beside the pool as Andy, first, and then Sandra and Albert entered the yard, were what must be the other couple staying at the B&B. He was older, maybe in his fifties, of imposing stature—barrel chested, well-muscled for his age, bald and bull necked, but with bushy eyebrows and a chest heavily matted with curly salt and pepper hair. His stomach was still flat and his legs were those of a rugby player. A man, standing ramrod straight, of military bearing and Marine physique.

The woman, in contrast, was a raven-haired, trim, elegant society dame type either not older than her late thirties or having an expert plastic surgeon on retainer. She was tanned to a golden sheen and proudly and unapologetically wearing a black string bikini. Despite her age, no apologies or self-consciousness were required. Still, she was so deeply bronzed that the tanning must be perpetual and she’d probably be looking like old leather in ten years. In the meantime, though, she was gorgeous.

“Admiral and Mrs. Arnold—Hal and Margaret,” Albert said, gesturing with his free hand toward the couple at the pool.