conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Haviland Touch about with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "the author writes a wonderful blend of wit, whimsy and sensuality...She is a master of her art."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Haviland Touch
  THE MAN BEHIND the massive antique desk reached one elegant but curiously powerful hand into the chamois bag his visitor had just set before him and pulled out a heavy, ornate necklace. The instant light caught them, a half-dozen green stones threw shards of color in a glittering show of emerald fire.
  Without commenting aloud, Drew Haviland produced a jeweler's lens and studied the necklace intently under the bright light of his desk lamp. The six large teardrop emeralds came under his scrutiny, as well as the numerous smaller diamonds and the craftsmanship of the gold work. Finally he raised his head, slipped the lens back into his pocket and looked at the other man. He was smiling slightly.
  The silence lengthened, and Drew's usually amused blue eyes were curiously flat as he stared across the desk at the other man. Finally he said in a very soft voice, "These are the Wyatt emeralds, Hanson."
  A look of surprise crossed Hanson's face, swiftly followed by comprehension. "Hell," he muttered, "I'd forgotten that you'd probably know them."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.. End with the sentence '.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He answered dryly, "At least two people that I know of in Innsbruck would hear of it within an hour. And once your name was known—which would be fairly quickly—there would be a dozen or so people across Europe speculating frantically that you were in search of the cross."
  Spencer didn't say anything else on the subject, because they arrived at the inn. It was a beautiful old building, Renaissance in style, with such a gracious, Old World atmosphere that Spencer was instantly enchanted. She followed Drew into the lobby, her hand still securely held in his, and stood looking around as the bellman brought their bags in.
  Knowing that he intended to get in touch with his contacts, she didn't think he meant that literally. She was intensely curious about the procedures involved; her imagination conjured up images of furtive meetings in shadowy alleys, and she had to smile at herself even as she replied to his question.
  Drew tried to remember what they were talking about. Those slow smiles of hers had a devastating effect on his mind, his pulse and his blood pressure. Granted, it didn't require much to upset his precarious control where she was concerned. After she had said on the jet that she didn't want to wait, he was dimly surprised he'd been able to talk at all. If he hadn't fiercely concentrated on the search for the cross...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Though morning sickness hadn't troubled Spencer very much, there were occasional bouts of nausea—and a tendency to get sleepy, which was another reason Drew worried about her being up here alone.
  Spencer tilted her head back and looked up at him, amused. "She? You're convinced this one's a girl, aren't you?"
  She turned in his arms and reached up to touch his face, her eyes suddenly tender. "It isn't nonsense. The problem is that girls get silly ideas of what a prince is. But if they're lucky—very, very lucky—they grow up and find the real thing."
  Drew kissed her, then kept an arm around her as he led her back into the castle. He wasn't a prince, but he no longer minded if Spencer thought he was. With a woman like her by his side, loving and loved, being a man was all that counted.
  TO MY KNOWLEDGE, there exists no Hapsburg Cross. All historical characters mentioned in connection with this mythical object are either figments of my imagination or else—like Maximilian I—merely recognizable names with which I wove the threads of my story.