“You Are Beautiful,” Ethan Said.

She stared at him. He’d sounded utterly sincere.

“And I don’t mean all the usual stuff, that you’re smart, and kind, and compassionate, and that that makes you beautiful. Although it’s all true. I mean beautiful in the literal sense.”

Layla was having trouble breathing. She could only continue to stare at him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been told all this before. But never like this, or by a man like Ethan.

“I mean it,” he said. “I just realized I’ve been looking at women I would have found attractive once, and all I can think of is how skinny they are.”

He focused on her suddenly. She felt a bit dizzy, then realized she was holding her breath. She let it out, slowly.

“Come to dinner with me,” he said suddenly.

“I’ll go change,” she said softly.

Move over, Cinderella.

Dear Reader,

Spring is in the air…and so is romance. Especially at Silhouette, where we’re celebrating our 20th anniversary throughout 2000! And Silhouette Desire promises you six powerful, passionate, provocative love stories every month.

Fabulous Anne McAllister offers an irresistible MAN OF THE MONTH with A Cowboy’s Secret. A rugged cowboy fears his darkest secret will separate him from the beauty he loves.

Bestselling author Leanne Banks continues her exciting miniseries LONE STAR FAMILIES: THE LOGANS with a sexy bachelor doctor in The Doctor Wore Spurs. In A Whole Lot of Love, Justine Davis tells the emotional story of a full-figured woman feeling worthy of love for the first time.

Kathryn Jensen returns to Desire with another wonderful fairy-tale romance, The Earl Takes a Bride. THE BABY BANK, a brand-new theme promotion in Desire in which love is found through sperm bank babies, debuts with The Pregnant Virgin by Anne Eames. And be sure to enjoy another BRIDAL BID story, which continues with Carol Devine’s Marriage for Sale, in which the hero “buys” the heroine at auction.

We hope you plan to usher in the spring season with all six of these supersensual romances, only from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

A Whole Lot of Love
Justine Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is for all the big girls

who have felt the sting of careless cruelty.

JUSTINE DAVIS

lives in San Clemente, California. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

A policewoman, Justine says that years ago, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was, at that time, occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Author’s Note

One

“You wouldn’t be averse to selling your body for a good cause, would you?”

Ethan Winslow’s first thought was that this woman had the sexiest voice he’d ever heard. His second was that if he didn’t pay attention, he would end up following that low, husky, seductive, downright erotic voice into who knew what kind of mess.

“Look, Ms….”

“Laraway.”

“Ms. Laraway, I appreciate your effort, but I’d just as soon write a check.”

She laughed. Damn, the laugh was even sexier, deep and sensual. “We’ll gladly take that, too. But we’d really like something more…corporeal, as well.”

“My backside on the block?” he asked wryly.

“I’ve heard it’s a fine backside.”

She said it so cheerfully that he found himself grinning in spite of himself. He was sitting here casually discussing his backside, and the auctioning off of same, with a woman he’d never met but who had the kind of voice that gave men X-rated dreams.

“And who told you that?”

“Oh, you have many fans in town, Mr. Winslow.”

Are you one of them? he wondered almost hopefully. If she looked anything like her voice, he might reconsider doing something about his dismal social life.

“Surely you wouldn’t want to disappoint them?” the voice said. “You could bring in the largest donation of the night, from what I’ve been told.”

“You’ve been told,” he said, “way too much.”

“It’s a character flaw,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “People talk to me.”

Ethan laughed. It felt odd, and he wondered if his baby sister was right and he really had become too darn serious. He leaned back in his chair, turning his head slightly to avoid being toasted by the southern California sun pouring through his office window.

“I can see why,” he said.

“They also find it very hard to say no to me.”

He didn’t doubt it; he wondered if there was a man on earth who could listen to this voice for long and still say no. To whatever she asked. He wondered idly if she’d found her way into this work because she knew the effect it had, that voice. Maybe she’d learned somewhere along the way that she could use it to loosen the wallet of any male.

At least she’d chosen to use it in a good way, if that were the case, he thought.

“You see,” she went on, “I’m very…persistent.”

“So are bill collectors.”

She laughed, that wonderful laugh again. “Some people see it that way, I know. But I prefer to think of it more like a puppy begging at the table, with big sad eyes that you try to ignore but can’t. Then you end up feeling guilty and give them what they want.”

He chuckled. “So, you admit you use guilt?”

“Absolutely,” she answered blithely. “It’s one of my best tools. Besides, once people give, they feel so much better.”

His chuckle became another laugh. “So it’s for their own good, then?”

“Absolutely. And ours, of course, but you see, that’s the best part. Everyone winds up happier. So, may I add you to the roster?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say yes. His mouth was open to say yes. Then, at the last second, he remembered what he would be saying yes to. He’d never been to one of those kinds of charity auctions before, but visions of beauty pageant contestants were vivid in his mind.

Uh-uh. No way.

Lord, she’d almost had him, with her cheerful demeanor, her sense of humor…and that voice.

Almost.

“Listen, Ms. Laraway, I have a meeting scheduled in ten minutes. I’ll consider your…request, but I have to go.”

“Certainly. My goal is to convince you to volunteer, certainly not to interfere with your work,” the sexy voice said, and he wondered again why he didn’t just say yes. “But please, do think about it. I’ll get back to you.”

He did think about it. In fact, when his assistant stuck her head in the door and reminded him that his meeting was to begin in approximately forty-five seconds, and that the staff was already in the adjacent meeting room, he realized he’d been thinking about it for the entire ten minutes.

Or rather, thinking about the amusing, sexy-voiced Ms. Laraway. He wasn’t going to participate in her auction—parading himself around like a horse in a sale ring wasn’t his idea of fun—but it was tempting, if only to meet the woman.

He gathered the papers he’d been going over in preparation for the meeting before he’d been interrupted by the call. He started toward the meeting room door, but stopped as his assistant turned to go back out to her desk.

“Karen?”

She turned, looking at him questioningly. He’d inherited both Karen Yamato and this office when Pete Collins had turned over the reins to him and retired. His old mentor had told him that Karen was both the glue that held things together and the oil that kept them running, and it hadn’t taken Ethan long to realize Pete had been understating things a bit. The petite, ageless-seeming Eurasian woman, who looked to him exactly as she had when he’d first come here as a boy, was as close as anybody around West Coast Technologies came to being indispensable. And that included him.

“Did you get a number from the woman who just called? From the Alzheimer’s charity?”

“Layla? Of course.”

Layla? Her name was Layla? A voice like that, and a name like Layla Laraway? The mind fairly boggled, he thought. And his own mind was conjuring up all kinds of heated, sweaty images.

“Did you change your mind and decide to do the auction?”

“I…no. I just wanted to know when it was. I forgot to ask.” I need to know how much time I have to come up with an excuse. Then he frowned. “How did you know I wasn’t going to do it?”

Karen lifted a brow at him, reminding him without a word that even after only five years, she knew him almost as well as she’d known Pete after twenty years of working for him. Perhaps it was in part because he’d learned so much from her former boss that he’d taken on some of his characteristics. He didn’t mind; he could do a hell of a lot worse than emulate Pete Collins. Or, at least, the Pete who had sat in this office.

He fought off the old pang and was glad when Karen offered a distraction.

“I’ll call Layla back for you during your meeting, if you’d like,” she said.

He looked at her, curious about the familiarity in her tone. “You know her?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Smart. Dynamic. Dedicated.” Three things guaranteed to gain Karen’s approval, Ethan thought. “What I’ve heard, I admire,” she added.

He knew too well that no one won Karen Yamato’s admiration lightly; if Layla Laraway—Lord, what a name—had gotten it without even a face-to-face, she had to be something.

“So you think I should do it?”

“I think,” she said, with a gesture toward the door, “you should go to your meeting.”

He jerked upright; he’d actually forgotten. Again.

He was still shaking his head as he walked into the room. He was rarely so scattered. He didn’t want to think a single phone call from an unknown woman had done it, because that would mean he would have to consider that both his sisters were right about his dearth of a social life, and that he was rapidly losing what they called his minimal social skills.

“We understood that you needed at least a year after you broke up with Gwen,” Margaret had told him just yesterday. “You were together a long time. But now it’s been three years. It’s time.”

“What is it with women?” he’d asked, figuring the best defense was a diversion. “Do you always put time limits on things like that?”

“Only,” his oldest sister had returned dryly, “when our brother is turning into a workaholic monk.”

“You’re too damn sexy to be celibate,” Sarah had put in.

Now that had scattered him. She was his baby sister, for crying out loud, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking things like that, let alone saying them.

Of course, she was twenty-eight now. He supposed she wasn’t quite the innocent he’d held in the dark the night their world had fallen apart. But still, it was hard not to think of her as that frightened ten-year-old sometimes. He—

“Ethan? Are you ready to start?”

He, Ethan thought as he snapped back to the present, was losing it. Definitely.

He glanced at his head of Research and Development, Mark Ayala, whose report on the progress on the Collins project was the reason for this meeting. He knew what he would hear, which was no change in the status quo, but he would take that happily over any setbacks. He’d only begun the project ten months ago, expected it to take years, and considered it worth the time and expense.

“Sorry, Mark,” he said as he took his seat at the head of the long table. “Let’s get to it.”

Mark began, in that report-making drone that always reminded Ethan of Professor Kosell’s economic theory classes. He’d always sat in the back of the theater-style lecture hall, high up and close to the door, so he could escape quickly and make it to work in the scant fifteen minutes he’d had to get across town. Unfortunately, the back part of the room was also the highest part of the room, where the heat of a hundred or so bodies rose, and that, coupled with his usual lack of sleep and the professor’s monotone, had frequently been enough to have him nodding off.

Ethan didn’t care for these types of meetings. He’d found most people too intimidated by the formal setting to really cut loose with any original thinking. He much preferred to keep current on projects by visiting his people in their own environment, where the actual work was being done. And for original thinking, he was much more likely to take a group out for pizza and beer, and let the ideas flow.

He liked the fact that West Coast Technologies was still small enough to do that, and he planned on keeping it that way. Pete had been a firm believer in “If it ain’t broke…” and Ethan was content to hold that line for now. He knew they couldn’t compete with all the large companies around, so he focused on specializing, working on things that had the potential to be multifunctional, or highly useful to a smaller group of people.

And then there were his pet projects, such as this one. Ethan made himself tune back in, as he sensed from Mark’s tone that he was finally winding down.

“—can see, overall, things look very promising. The difference between the control group and the ones with the implant are marked.”

“How much longer are your tests scheduled to run?” Ethan asked.

Mark leaned back in his chair, scratched a bit at his beard, then said, “Another two months before we move on to the next phase.” He looked down at his notes, then back at Ethan. “Speaking of that, it would be so much more helpful if we could—”

Ethan held up his hand, knowing what was coming. “Sorry. There’s got to be a better way to test this than to perform a dozen mouse lobotomies. That should be our last resort. I don’t like the idea of intentionally and permanently destroying their memory just to see if we can fix it.”

“They’re mice,” Mark said. “And pampered ones at that. The best food, comfy cages with fresh shavings every day…my dog doesn’t live as well as these guys do.”

“Maybe you should take better care of your dog,” Ethan said, but jokingly. “Think of another way, Mark. I know you can. Maybe…something temporary?”

The R and D head looked at him, then sighed. “I’ll try. I’m checking on a chemical that supposedly temporarily affects that part of the brain, but I’m not sure how it might affect results for our purposes.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should just get ’em drunk.”

Ethan grinned. “Ouch. Crabby, hungover mice. But better than psychotic ones.” He glanced down the table at Moira O’Donnell, the production manager. “You’re current, Moira?”

The redhead nodded. She tapped at her notepad with a long, flame-red nail. “I’ve tracked the necessary changes as we go. We can go into production within seven days and have enough on the market to give us a nice head start on any deconstruction copy-catters.”

Ethan understood her concern. With any such product, no matter how complex, you had to expect that as soon as a competitor could get his or her hands on it—legitimately or otherwise—they would be taking it apart to study its construction, then building their own. Every amount of inventory you could get on the market before that happened solidified your hold on the market. Even if it was years away, they needed to be ready.

But in Ethan’s mind, that didn’t apply here. “Thanks, Moira. But on this one, put your focus on speed, not foiling industrial espionage. If we succeed, I’m not looking to make a fortune, I just want it available to as many people as possible as soon as possible.”

Moira nodded, although she didn’t look happy. It was her competitive nature, Ethan guessed. But that nature was part of what made her so good at her job, and on most other projects it paid off.

He shifted his gaze to the representative from the W.C.T. legal department. “So, how goes the war on your end, David?”

“The FDA,” David Grayfox said with a grimace, “is the biggest pain in the—”

Again Ethan held up a hand. “Yeah, I know. So we can expect approval for voluntary human testing in about two zillion twenty-five?”

“About,” David mumbled.

“Keep pushing. We have to determine if what works on our pampered, well-fed and wonderfully housed lab mice will work as well on the human brain.”

He knew he was stating the obvious; this was, after all, the entire point of the Collins project.

“Yeah,” Mark added offhandedly as he gathered his papers, “we may all need it someday.”

Ethan knew Mark hadn’t meant it that way, but nevertheless, the joking rejoinder dug deep into a sore spot that had never healed.

“Pray that you don’t,” he said, unable to stop the edge that came into his voice.

Mark looked at him, startled, then sheepish, as if he only now realized what he’d said. “Right, boss,” he muttered, and Ethan knew that, from the generally anarchistic Mark, the title “boss” was tantamount to an apology.

Ethan nodded and stood, indicating the meeting was over. The others exited the room, and he started back toward his office. Karen caught his eye; she already had the receiver to her ear, but gestured at the phone on her desk, and he saw that two lines were lit. She mouthed a name at him.

Layla.

To his amazement, since he had a perfectly reasonable question to ask her, he hesitated. He stood there, staring down at the lit phone line as if it had the power to shock him if he touched it.

Only when he realized Karen was looking at him rather oddly did he nod and stride past her into his office. He stood behind his desk, looking down at his own phone, where the second line blinked tauntingly. He set down his notepad. Then his pen. Then himself, noticing that the creak of his leather desk chair seemed louder than usual.

Odd, how he had no trouble saying no in a business framework, but when it came to things like this, especially for charity, it was much more difficult. He had so little time, he’d made it a habit to say no to everything that required more than a monetary donation, and even those he picked rather carefully.

So he would say no again. Simple.

He stared at the phone.

He shouldn’t keep her waiting. He’d in essence called her, after all.

He would just tell her no. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it.

He cleared his throat and picked up the phone.

“How was your meeting?” were her first words after he said hello. “Constructive?”

Somewhat relieved at the subject, he answered, “More a case of not regressing. Not much progress, but no bad news.”

“Sometimes that’s good news.”

He found himself smiling. “Yes, sometimes it is.”

“There’s a lot to be said for no forward progress, if it also means not sliding back to the bottom of the mountain.”

It was so close to his own thoughts that he couldn’t help chuckling. “Exactly.”

“It wasn’t by chance about the memory chip, was it?”

His amusement vanished in a rush. The Collins project wasn’t hush-hush, but it wasn’t general knowledge, either. Certainly not outside the industry.

She seemed to understand his sudden silence. “It’s why you were added to my list since last year, Mr. Winslow. We’re loosely affiliated with the national Alzheimer’s Association, and they track people who are doing research in the arena, even privately.”

“Oh.” He relaxed; they had had contact with several of the leading research facilities, any of which could have mentioned the project. And it wasn’t as if she shouldn’t know, given her connection. “Sorry. Reflex.”

“One you’ve had to develop, I imagine. It must be frustrating to put a lot of time and money into something, only to have someone else beat you to it.”

“It is. But in this case, I’d celebrate, if theirs worked. As long as it gets done.”

“That’s…an admirable attitude.”

Ethan felt suddenly uncomfortable. He’d had his share—more than his share, he thought—of nominations for sainthood, and he didn’t like it. Or maybe he just didn’t like it that the world had become a place where what he did, which was only what he thought had to be done, made him so different in the eyes of many.

“As is what you’re doing,” she added. “If your chip should work, it could become instrumental in the treatment of Alzheimer’s.”

“‘If,”’ he said dryly, “is a very big word. Especially in this case.”

“Trying to jog the human memory bank is tricky, computer chip or not.” He could almost hear her smiling as she added, “And some mornings are harder than others.”

Since he seemed to be having one of those mornings, he couldn’t help but laugh. Damn, but she was going to be hard to say no to. But he was still going to do it.

“Look, about your auction—”

“When I asked you to think about it,” she put in, sounding amused, “I did mean for more than an hour.”

It did, now that she mentioned it, seem a bit churlish to turn her down after that short a time. His “No” died unspoken. “I…just needed to know when it is.”

“Ah. To see how much time you have to wiggle out of volunteering.”

Embarrassed that she’d called it so accurately, he said, “No.”

“Oh?”

“To see how much time I have to wiggle out of it gracefully.”

She laughed. He’d been right, it was a wonderful sound, full and rich in that low, sexy voice. “It’s much easier to simply give in gracefully, Mr. Winslow.”

This was odd, he thought. He’d been in high-pressure business negotiations where he hadn’t felt the least bit persuaded by any power tactics, yet he was feeling it here.

“And you don’t have to come up with your ‘Evening to Remember’ plans right now. I only need them a week ahead, so you have a few days.”

Ah, he thought, at last, the answer to his question. “So, it’s the weekend after next?”

“Yes, on Saturday evening. There are no real rules for the evening you plan, it can be fun or elegant or creative, so you can keep it safely impersonal. If you need any help, feel free to call. I always have suggestions.”

After her promise to call him back and her cheerful goodbye, he hung up and sat looking at his phone. The sound of her voice echoed in his mind, along with the sound of his own laughter. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he remembered.

He never had told her no.

He had the oddest feeling he’d just been flattened by a velvet steamroller.

Two

“Darlin’, for you, anything. Will you be there?”

Layla smothered a sigh. “I’m the event coordinator, so, yes, I’ll be there. I’ll be busy all evening.”

“But not all night, I hope.” If ever a man could leer over the phone, it was this one.

“I’ll put you down, then, Mr. Humbert. I’ll need your plan for your auction date by next Friday. And thank you.”

She hung up gratefully.

She pushed back an errant strand of blond hair, propped her elbows on her desk and let her head rest in her hands. Just for a moment, she thought. It couldn’t hurt.

It was always this way, she told herself, right before the annual fund-raiser. Crazy, endless and exhausting. No reason to feel any more tired than usual at this time of year. But she did.

It was Humbert and his lack of subtlety. It shouldn’t have gotten to her—she’d heard much worse before—but somehow this time it had been more wearing. Maybe the effect of all this verbal leering was cumulative. Or maybe she was just tired of hearing it, knowing how the tone would change when they saw her.

She knew why it happened. It had been the bane of her existence since she’d been old enough to notice. A name like Layla Laraway and a voice people likened to classic Lauren Bacall, and she was doomed. The combination of voice and name had been more curse than blessing. At least for her. For someone else, it might have been a boon. For someone else, someone the name and voice would fit.

“How’d it go?”

Layla leaned back and looked at her boss, who was standing in the doorway of her small office. “Mr. Humbert agreed to participate.”

“Layla, you are a wonder!” Harry Chandler shook his head. “You could get a freezing man to give you his last piece of firewood.”

“Now there’s a charming visual,” she said dryly.

“I never said you would, just that you could. You turn that voice on a guy and he’s helpless. Nice work.”

She knew that to some extent it was true, but it wasn’t something she was necessarily proud of. True, it produced well for her chosen work, and she wasn’t ashamed of using it for that purpose. But she knew that this was the only way she could justify it; anything less than a cause like this one would make what she could do distasteful.

“So, are we all set with the auction lineup?”

“Almost. Martina Jennings said yes, and Gloria Van Alden hasn’t called me back yet, but she gave a fairly definite yes earlier.”

“She’ll do it,” Harry said. “She loves getting up there in her finest diamonds and offering a package no one else can afford.”

“Yes,” Layla agreed, “but she bids as well, and generously.”

“Amen,” Harry said. “How about the men?”

“One holdout. Ethan Winslow.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Don’t know the name. Is he new?”

She nodded. “Since last year. He runs West Coast Technologies. He popped up on the list after the compilers discovered they were starting a research project on a computer chip that could be used to jump-start the memory center of the brain in Alzheimer’s patients.”

Harry’s brows went up. “I remember reading about that. It’d be a miracle, if they can do it.”

She nodded again. She’d been impressed by the information she’d read. Ethan Winslow had begun his project quietly, without fanfare, but with a determination to see it through. It could take years, but he’d said in the one brief interview he’d done that he was prepared for that. But what had impressed her more—and had made her make the call—was the mention at the end of the article that it appeared this was Winslow’s personal baby, and that he was providing a sizable part of the funding out of his own pocket. The reporter had dug a little deeper, learning from someone on staff that Winslow’s feeling was that since he and W.C.T. could afford to fund it, they did so, leaving grant money from the Alzheimer’s Association to go to other researchers who might not have his resources.

“Sounds like our kind of people. Do you think he’ll do it?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to call him back tomorrow.” And, surprisingly, she was looking forward to it. She’d enjoyed talking with him, bantering, hearing him laugh. Talk about sexy voices, she thought. Ethan Winslow had the kind of voice women saved on their answering machines, just so they could hear it again. The kind of voice that could read the phone book and set your pulse racing. The kind of voice that made lonely nights seem longer. And hotter. The kind of voice—

“You’ll reel him in, girl,” Harry said, derailing her rather reckless train of thought. “You always do.”

He went back to his own office—not much bigger than hers—leaving her pondering his last words.

“Dedicated, smart, dynamic…sounds like somebody trying to sell you on a blind date who’s a dog.” Bill Stanley laughed at his own joke as he and Ethan inspected the new skis Bill was considering.

Ethan grimaced wryly; it was true, if unkind. But then, Bill had never been the soul of sensitivity, even as a boy.

“If you heard her voice, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

His old friend’s brows rose. “She gives good phone, huh?”

“If you want to put it that way,” Ethan said, his tone wry, because Bill was more accurate than not. He wouldn’t have worded it quite like that, but remembering his reaction to her voice, he couldn’t deny there was some truth in it.

“Well, whatever she looks like, she’s a step up from your current state.”

He couldn’t deny that, either. Lying awake last night, he’d found himself trying to remember exactly when his last real date—meaning something not connected to his work—had been.

He couldn’t remember.

“Too expensive,” Bill said, putting down the ski he’d been hefting. “I think I can get a deal from a guy I know.”

Ethan shrugged; Bill could always get a deal from somebody. They went through this every time he wanted something; Bill would go pick a salesperson’s brain, Ethan’s brain—not that he knew much about skiing—anybody’s brain, then go buy it someplace else.

“So,” Bill said as they abandoned the search, “are you going to put yourself on the block, flaunt yourself for sex-starved society matrons to make bids on your studly body?”

“It’s a charity auction, Bill. Not a sex-slave auction.”

“Too bad,” Bill quipped. Then, finally, he turned serious. “Are you going to do it? Hey, I’d even buy a ticket to see that!”

Ethan grimaced. “I’ll give her your name, you can take my place.”

As soon as he said it, Ethan regretted the words. He didn’t want to think about Layla Laraway turning that voice loose on Bill.

“Hey, if she turns out to be as sexy as you say, why not?”

“Very charitable of you,” Ethan said pointedly as they exited the sporting goods store. Bill got the message and became serious.

“Okay, buddy, kidding aside, I know you care about the cause.”

“A lot of people care about the cause.”

“But you especially care, because of Pete.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. He fought down the silly notion that had been floating around in his mind for the past twenty-four hours, that somehow, if he did this, went so public with his support, it would put the seal on Pete’s fate, make it impossible to deny.

Bill left it until they were seated in his car. “How is he? Have you seen him lately?”

Ethan didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to remember. Ironic, he thought. But Bill was waiting, looking at him curiously, and he forced the words out.

“Last time I was there, he didn’t know me.”

He didn’t mention how long ago it had been. He wasn’t proud of how he’d cut and run, but he simply hadn’t been able to make himself go back.

“That’s rough,” Bill said in that sympathetic tone Ethan had learned to despise from anyone, a sympathy offered without any real understanding. He knew Bill genuinely felt bad for him; they’d been friends for nearly all their lives, since their families had moved to the same block. Although Bill was a year older, they’d gone to all the same schools. Bill was one of the few things in Ethan’s life that hadn’t changed, and he valued the relationship because of it. But Bill’s life had been blissfully devoid of misfortune, so he didn’t really understand.

“I know how much he meant to you,” Bill said.

“He’s not dead yet,” Ethan snapped, irked at Bill’s use of the past tense.

Bill pulled back. “Touchy today, aren’t you? I swear, you need to get yourself la—”

Ethan held up a hand before Bill could finish his prescription for his sex life. “If that was the answer to everything, the way you think it is, you’d be a full partner by now.”

He knew that would sufficiently distract Bill; his lack of progress in the law firm he worked for was enough to start him on a diatribe that would go on as long as his listener could stand it.

Ethan put on an expression of attentiveness, but he’d heard it all before, given Bill his opinion before, and didn’t see any point in doing it again when he knew his friend wouldn’t make a move until he was ready. So instead he sat silently, letting Bill run on, while his mind went…elsewhere.

By the time Bill dropped him off at home, Ethan had admitted to himself that he was quite looking forward to his next call from the persuasive Ms. Laraway. Even if he was still determined to say no.

“Do you do the auction itself?” Ethan asked.

He sounded merely curious, so Layla tamped down any suspicions that he might have a motive for asking. From the beginning, many of the men she called started asking questions about her part in the proceedings. It had taken Harry—gentle, tactful Harry—to explain to her that they wanted to be sure they got a look at her, after hearing her voice. He’d left it at that, but Layla knew perfectly well that he knew what generally happened after that. She’d been doing this for six years now, and some things never changed.

“No, we hire a pro to run the actual auction. Adds momentum.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Now, for your date, I highly recommend that you make it something you enjoy doing anyway. Makes the evening easier to get through if you for some reason don’t hit it off with your companion.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“No, most people have a great time. You already have something in common with your date, caring about Alzheimer’s research. There’s something very feel-good about doing it, I think. And having no romantic expectations helps everyone relax.”

“So, no matches made in heaven have come out of this?” he said wryly.

“Actually, a couple of relationships have grown out of it, but we haven’t had a wedding yet.”

“You’d have to be the maid of honor,” Ethan said. “Or matron.”

Layla’s tapping of her pencil on her notepad—a habit she’d never had until talking to this man—stopped. Was this some subtle probe to see if she was married?

Of course not, she told herself.

And this kind of silly speculation was unlike her. She made herself focus and leave the foolishness behind.

“Afraid I don’t do weddings, this auction is more than enough,” she said, purposely but cheerfully misunderstanding his intent. “Now, back to your arrangements.”

“What if it’s something you like, but your…companion hates?” he asked, seeming to let her change the subject easily enough.

“Then hopefully she won’t bid on you,” Layla said with a laugh; she was delighted that he still hadn’t said no. Each minute that she could keep that from happening upped the likelihood that it wouldn’t. And, she admitted, allowed her to keep talking to him. “Although I can’t vouch for the sanity of some women in the heat of bidding on an attractive man. Of course, we encourage that. It is all for a good cause, after all.”

“I appreciate your efforts and enthusiasm, Ms. Laraway, but I’m afraid most of your bidders would find what I’d come up with rather boring.”

He wanted to say no. He intended to say no. She sensed that. And she wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet.

“You might be surprised,” she said. “Some people prefer…simpler things.”

“Like you? What’s your idea of the ideal evening?”

Listening to you talk. Then she sat up sharply, realizing with a little shock what she’d just thought. For the first time in her life she had an inkling of what the men she talked to were feeling. Quickly she pulled herself back together and went for the diversion.

“Sorry, I can’t bid. Conflict of interest and all.” As if she ever would, anyway… “Why don’t I send you a list of the ones I already have, so you can get an idea of what’s being offered, and you can go from there?”

He didn’t respond for a moment, and with an instinct honed fine in six years of this work, she knew he had reached the moment of decision. And that same instinct—augmented by a gut-level feeling she didn’t question—told her the time for ignoring his objections and reservations was gone. Told her that this was a man who would prefer honesty and forthrightness.

“Mr. Winslow, if you’ve seriously considered this and are still uncomfortable with it—in other words, if the benefit you see doesn’t outweigh your hesitation—just tell me and I’ll remove you from the list, and you won’t hear from me again.”

Again there was a brief silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, “I’ll do it.”

This time it was she who hesitated. Odd, she thought; she was usually eager to jump in and cement the concession. “You’re sure?” she asked instead.

“I said I’ll do it.” He sounded the tiniest bit cranky, as if now that he’d made the decision, he didn’t want it questioned. “Send me that info you mentioned.”

“I will. Right away.” And then, recovering her inexplicably shaken poise, she added, “Thank you, Mr. Winslow.”

“If I’m going to sacrifice my body for the cause,” he said dryly, “the least you can do is call me Ethan.”

“All right. Ethan.”

It felt strange to even say. And not until she had did she realize she’d been avoiding using his first name even in her thoughts, despite the easy familiarity they’d achieved in their phone calls.

She managed a polite goodbye, hung up, picked up her pen and added Ethan Winslow’s name to her list.

And wondered where her usual sense of accomplishment was.

Layla made a last-minute check in the mirror. Her long black dress was the best she had, the small but lovely diamond necklace and earrings her father had given to her sparkled, her makeup was perfect and her hair was tidily tucked into its French twist. Nothing could change the basics she had to work with, but she’d dressed up the dandelion as best she could.

She wanted to be out there at the door of the hotel ballroom, to thank the people who had volunteered to help. It was also best if she got the first contact with those who were new to the auction out of the way early. After that, it would be easier on her if she simply kept out of sight until it was her time to go on stage—Lord, she hated stepping out into that spotlight—but she felt she owed at least a personal thank-you to those who were giving of their time and subjecting themselves to the good-natured revelry of the auction.

She had already met most of the people who would be coming, but there were three she had not. The woman she hadn’t met was the head of a small local chain of specialty coffee shops; she had laughed and said yes almost immediately. The two men had required further convincing, although Harry, as always, joked that they just wanted her to call them back so they could listen to her voice again. She’d always laughed, shaking her head at the idea.

After talking to Ethan Winslow, she wasn’t laughing anymore.

If she were honest, she would admit that meeting him was what had her on edge. Which was the last thing she needed tonight, when it was up to her to see that things went smoothly. It was unlike her, too; she had long passed the point of letting such things bother her.

Resolutely, she made her way to the door to join Harry in the greetings. The first few people she knew, and by the time she had greeted them and chatted for a moment, she was back in the groove and relaxing. Gloria Van Alden made her smile; the woman might be sixty-two, but she outshone many of the more practiced young glamour girls with her poise and class. She’d led a fascinating life, traveling around the world until her husband fell prey to the killer they were stalking tonight.

If I were a man, I’d bid on her in a second just to hear the stories she could tell, Layla thought. In fact, she added to herself with an inward grin, she would like to bid on her anyway, and she would be willing to bet Gloria would understand perfectly. Gloria knew she was fascinating. Sometimes Layla longed for that kind of bone-deep confidence.

She was still smiling after the woman when she heard Harry’s voice, “Layla? You haven’t met Mr. Winslow yet, have you?”

She took a quick breath and held it. She knew what was coming. She’d seen it so often before, she was past being hurt by it. If she’d been scarred, deformed or even missing some visible parts, the reaction would have been little different. But she was none of those things. Her sin was much greater; she was, quite simply, a big woman. She’d left single-digit sizes behind at age twelve and had never been back. She’d grown used to comments like “You have such a lovely face” or “Your hair is so gorgeous,” the subtext unmistakably being “You’d be beautiful if you’d just lose some weight.”

At twenty-three she had determinedly starved herself to the point of passable thinness—and had spent her twenty-fifth birthday in the hospital. On that day she’d had an epiphany of sorts. Just as, at five-ten, she would never be petite, she would never be model-thin, either. She would, she decided as she lay in that hospital bed, with needles in her arm, settle for healthy and fit. It was the best she could manage, and it would have to do.

And, for the most part, it did. Her doctor was happy, she could keep pace with Harry, who was a long-distance bike rider; could match her marathon-running best friend Stephanie for at least half of her training runs; and above all she felt good.

Except at times like this.

Slowly, she turned around.

He was every bit as attractive as she’d been told. Were it not for the sharp glint of intelligence in his vivid blue eyes, he would be the walking cliché of tall, dark and handsome, she thought ruefully. Dressed in a tux that fit too exquisitely to be rented, he was…he was…

He was just as sexy as he sounded on the phone.

He stared at her, and she knew he was realizing she was not.

She told herself she hadn’t winced, not even inwardly. She’d expected this, after all. She waited to hear the inevitable “You’re Layla?” in a tone of disbelief, waited to see his intent expression turn to one of disappointment. Then would come the awkward pause, which varied in length depending on the mental acuity or grace of the man.

Ethan Winslow, it seemed, had a lot of both; his look of surprise vanished after a split second, and he held his hand out to her without hesitation.

“Congratulations, Ms. Laraway.”

A little startled at his speed, it took her a moment to take the proffered hand. Recovering, she lifted a brow at him. “For getting you here?”

He smiled. It was breathtaking. “That, too. But I meant, this looks like quite a production.”

“Oh, it is,” Harry said heartily. “And we couldn’t pull it off without Layla. She’s indispensable.”

“I’m sure she is. Anybody who could talk me into this…”

Harry laughed brightly. “She is amazing.” He turned to an attractive brunette in a silvery evening gown, one of the ushers for the evening. “Cheryl will show you to your table. Champagne and some truly decadent desserts are on us, of course.”

Ethan, seeming to realize he was holding up the line at the doors, nodded, gave Layla another glance that lasted a moment longer than it should have, then let the brunette—who was suddenly looking a lot happier with her job—lead him away. Layla watched him go, her thoughts tumbling.

Her greetings to the others were somewhat distracted, and she looked forward to the moment when she had to retreat backstage in preparation for the beginning of the evening’s festivities. Once everyone had arrived and she was certain the initial serving was going well, she headed to the back of the room.

She had a moment to recover her poise and make another check in the mirror. Nothing had changed, except that she was oddly flushed. She knew she would be that way within minutes of being under the stage lights anyway, so she didn’t worry. Nor did she allow herself to think of the cause.

She made her way out to the podium that sat off to one side, and right on cue the stage lights came on, drawing the crowd’s attention. She swallowed, wishing she could leave this part of it to someone else. It wasn’t that she was shy, but she wasn’t comfortable being the center of attention for a group of hundreds.

She got through her introduction and the thank-yous on behalf of the Marina del Mar Alzheimer’s Center well enough, she thought, and turned to introducing the emcee for the evening. It was someone new, a comedian from Laughlin, Nevada, whom Harry had found. She’d thought his credits a bit padded, but Harry had chosen him, so she hadn’t questioned his decision.

Now she was simply glad when he came out and she could again retreat backstage. She had a few things to do: check with the kitchen to be sure things were running smoothly; make sure they’d stocked enough champagne and wine; check on the tracker’s table, where they kept tabs on who bid what for whom; and touch base with the hotel staff, to head off any potential problems. Then she could once more retreat backstage, where everyone knew to find her if there was a problem.

Everything seemed to be going well, and after a brief chat with the maître d’ they’d been assigned for the evening, she started walking along the side of the ballroom, heading toward the backstage door. She was passing the front tables when she felt an odd tickle at the back of her neck. She paused and looked, but there was no one close by. Then she noticed a turned head at one of the front tables and realized someone was watching her.

The stage light widened as the first of the auctionees came onto the stage. In the spillover light, she could now see the man whose gaze seemed fastened on her.

Ethan Winslow.

Instinctively she pulled back slightly. She couldn’t be sure he could see that she’d noticed, but he must have seen that she’d stopped. She turned quickly and continued on her way, wondering. By the time she was backstage, she’d convinced herself he was regretting that he’d ever agreed to this and wanted to be sure he knew where she was so that he could take it out on her later.

She didn’t relax until she was behind the curtain and sitting quietly in the chair she’d placed there earlier, in the perfect spot both to monitor the activity on stage and get a feel for what was happening out in the crowd.

She didn’t, she realized after a few minutes, much care for Harry’s choice of emcee. More than once, there was something in Marty Ruttles’s jokes that bordered on cruel. Fortunately, it wasn’t constant and probably wouldn’t leave the audience with a sour taste.

She was delighted when Gloria’s evening at a premiere musical, complete with celebrity party afterward, went quickly and for a very respectable amount. But then, she’d expected it; Charles Emerson, the bidder, had told her he’d had his sights set on Gloria for months now.

And she wasn’t in the least surprised at the buzz that went around the room—among the females, at least—when Ethan took the stage, before Ruttles even announced what his planned evening was.

Ethan didn’t look happy, but it didn’t matter; nothing could detract from the impact of this man in a tuxedo. He could have proposed an evening of laying brick and Layla bet it would go in a rush. As it was, his offering of an evening at the upcoming grand opening of the new county museum of natural history—to be attended by a rather select group—only added to the anticipation.

The emcee urged the crowd to spend freely, to make the newcomer welcome, and opened the bidding. It went as quickly as she expected. Usually a newcomer to the process began to relax when he realized there were at least going to be bids, but Ethan didn’t look any happier now than he had before. And when the bidding finally ended—with, Layla noted without surprise, the highest total so far—he seemed nothing more than grateful to escape.

She leaned back in her chair. If Ethan Winslow couldn’t relax, she certainly could. She was always relieved when a first timer’s auction went well, and she told herself she was no more relieved than usual that his had.

Odd, she thought, she hadn’t even noticed who had made the final bid. The amount limited who it could be, she supposed; there were only a few people in that bracket. She would have to ask. It was part of her job, after all, to be aware of such things, she told herself. She would have to do a press release on the results of the auction, and of course the highest bid would be included, and who made it. So she would have to know who had paid such a high price for an evening with Ethan Winslow.

It had nothing to do with her beyond that, she assured herself.

And realized she was doing a lot of that, telling herself things meant nothing, really.

She was so deep in her thoughts that she almost missed her cue to come back out to wrap things up. She always reserved the last minutes of the evening to personally thank everyone; she owed them that, even if she would rather walk on hot coals than go out there again. But there was nothing more important to her than this cause, so go she would, and do the best she could.

“—the reason this evening is what it is, the power behind the scenes, the dynamo who organized it all, got you all here and kept things running tonight…”

She was starting to get embarrassed; Ruttles apparently did everything to excess, including introductions. At last he said her name. She steeled herself, then stepped out onto the stage. The applause was gratifying, she supposed, but she still wanted this over with.

She headed for the emcee, her hand already rising to take the portable microphone, but she paused in puzzlement a foot away when Ruttles didn’t move—in fact, held the microphone away from her.

The man looked at her with that too wide smile that had so irritated her when she’d first met him. He lifted the microphone. Began to speak.

And stunned Layla breathless.

Shock filled her as his words penetrated. She stood motionless, as if rooted to the stage she’d never wanted to take. She stared at him, sure her face was registering her horror, but unable to help it.

Every old, self-conscious feeling she’d ever had about herself came roaring back, magnified into dread. This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t….

But it was.

Ruttles was trying to auction her off.

Three

Ethan had never been so glad an evening was nearly over. Even the date that had been sold along with him couldn’t be as awkward and uncomfortable as this had been.

He’d been engrossed in reading the program, which described the accomplishments of the sponsoring Alzheimer’s center, when he heard Layla introduced. He had looked up as she crossed the stage. She walked like a queen, he thought rather inanely, head up, shoulders back. She didn’t slump, didn’t mince, didn’t try to hide her size. And it wasn’t that she was obese by any standard, she was just…big. A big, solid woman. With a definitely female shape. Her curves were generous but well-proportioned, her waist, well-defined, and what he could see of her legs, nicely shaped.

Layla Laraway was simply a lot of woman, and he had a feeling that was true in more ways than one.

He was honest enough to admit he’d been surprised at his first sight of her. And had immediately felt guilty for it; it wasn’t her fault he’d pictured a petite, sultry brunette on the other end of the line. But what had disturbed him most was what he’d seen in her eyes, in her face.

She knew.

He’d thought about it as he let Cheryl, a woman who was almost exactly what he’d imagined the sexy-voiced Ms. Laraway would be, lead him to his seat. He hadn’t paid the woman much attention, he feared, despite her stream of friendly chatter.

Of course she knew, he realized as he’d taken his seat. How could she not? She must have been faced with this before, the reaction from someone who’d only heard her and had done as he had, built some sort of image in his mind. It had shown in her face, in the sudden tension in her stance, and he didn’t like thinking about what it must be like for her to go through that time and again.

She didn’t move the way some of the larger women he’d known did. In fact, she moved like an athlete, in balance and graceful. And when she stopped, she simply stopped. She didn’t strike a pose as many of the women this evening did. She simply stood, again in balance.

His gaze went back to her face.

He saw nothing short of mortification there.

Ethan abruptly tuned back in to what was happening. And once he realized that the long, painful silence he’d just tuned into was the result of the idiot emcee trying to auction off their hostess, he understood her look perfectly.

“She may be a great organizer, but I couldn’t afford to feed her.”

Ethan’s head snapped around, and he stared at the man at the table behind him who had made the comment. The man had the grace to look abashed, then lowered his head and stared at his plate. A bid that was quite obviously a token, far below most of the rest of the evening, was called out.

Ethan’s gaze shot back to Layla. She was still staring at the emcee in shock. But then she seemed to pull herself up and regain some of her poise. She reached for the microphone, and he could sense she was going to try to pass it off as a joke.

The emcee, apparently oblivious, laughingly held the microphone out of her reach.

Anger shot through Ethan. She’d put this whole thing together, she’d worked long and hard, she was utterly dedicated to this cause, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than to be treated this way.

And the next thing he knew, he was on his feet.

“I know it’s too low for the woman who brought us all here tonight with her tireless efforts,” he said, loudly enough to be heard across the room, “but I’ll match the highest bid of the night.”

Layla’s head came around sharply. She stared at him, and he had the oddest feeling she wasn’t particularly grateful for what he’d done.

“Well, well,” said Ruttles. “A man who doesn’t even care that she doesn’t have a date prepared!”

“She organized this, didn’t she?” Ethan said with a wide gesture toward the room. “I’m not worried.” You jerk, he added silently.

A round of applause that seemed as much relieved as anything met his words, and he sat down.

Layla, brooking no further denial, finally wrested the microphone away from the suddenly wary emcee. But if she was angry, it didn’t show in her voice as she thanked everyone for coming and promised that their contributions would be put to good use in the fight.

The lights went out. In the shadows, Ethan saw her set the microphone down on the podium and walk away. He stood, but waited until most of the crowd had filtered out, watching the stage door.

“Thank you, Mr. Winslow.” Ethan turned to see the man who had greeted him at the door. Harry, he thought. “That could have been an awkward moment.”

Ethan shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“I should have listened to Layla. She said she didn’t like the guy.”

Good judgment, Ethan thought.

Harry thanked him again, then bustled away. Ethan waited. And waited. The lights went down in the room, and the hotel staff, who were already cleaning up, cast glances at him.

He finally left without ever seeing Layla again.

“I’ve been more humiliated in my life, but not in the last ten years.” Layla stabbed at her salad rather viciously.

“Sounds to me like the proverbial prince on a white horse rode in and rescued you.”

Layla slanted a look across the table at Stephanie Parker.

“Hey,” her best friend said, “who cares how it happened. Just enjoy.”

Layla grimaced. “You only say that because you haven’t seen him.”

Stephanie set down her own fork, then looked at Layla intently. Her friend, Layla thought, was exactly the kind of woman you would expect to see Ethan Winslow with. Normal height, with thick, glossy dark hair cut in a short, chic bob, a slim, shapely figure and a glamorous look that could have graced any magazine cover. And on top of that, she had brains; she was a vice president at one of the biggest ad agencies in the county.

But beneath all the glamour was the most steadfast, loyal friend Layla had ever had. They had connected in the third grade—before Layla had begun the spurt of growth that had left Stephanie far behind—and been the closest of friends ever since.

“So,” Stephanie said now, “how gorgeous is he?”

“The kind that’s usually spoken in conjunction with the words ‘drop dead,”’ she said wryly.

Stephanie grinned. “Good girl!”

Of course, Stephanie didn’t understand. How could she?

She’d never in her life been anything less than beautiful. She doubted if Ethan Winslow had ever been, either.

“I’ll have to look up his name,” Stephanie said.

It was a hobby of Stephanie’s; she loved to analyze how people matched or contradicted the meaning of their name. Layla, Stephanie had told her years ago, was a variation on the Middle English Leala, which meant loyal.

“So where are you going to take him?”

Layla sighed. “I’m not.”

“But he bid—”

“It was charity, Steph.”

“Well, of course. The whole thing was for charity.”

“I mean what he did was charity. Out of pity.”

“He told you that?”

“Well, no.”

“What did he tell you?”

Layla shifted in her seat. “Nothing. I…haven’t talked to him.”

Stephanie’s dark, perfectly arched brows rose. “You haven’t talked to him since Saturday night?”

“I took yesterday off. I always take the Monday after the auction off, you know that. And I haven’t been into the office yet today.”

“And you…what, forgot his phone number?”

“It’s on my desk. At work,” Layla clarified. Sometimes Stephanie was like a bulldog, never letting go. And now she was studying Layla as if she were one of her proposed ad layouts.

“So tell me, girlfriend,” Stephanie drawled, “who are you hiding from? Him, or yourself?”

“Both,” Layla admitted. “But with reason. It would be…silly to expect him to keep that promise, when it was made essentially under duress.”

Stephanie sighed aloud. “So, you think he’s one of those? Like Wayne?”

Layla grimaced. This was the problem with friends who had known you forever, they knew too much. She’d tried her best to forget Wayne Doucet, who had been the architect of both the highest and lowest days of her life. The highest had been when, at her thinnest, he’d proposed to her. The lowest had come after her hospital stay, when she had regained some of the weight she’d forced herself to lose, and gotten back to what her doctor had told her was a healthy weight for her. Wayne had dropped hints about her “porking up,” as he’d called it, and when she finally told him that this was her natural weight and she couldn’t fight it anymore, he had walked out. But not before saying he thought she’d better give him back the ring he’d bought her—if she could get it off.

“I don’t think there’s anybody like Wayne,” she muttered.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re out there,” Stephanie said. “But it usually takes longer than two minutes face-to-face to ferret them out.”

Layla flushed. “I don’t really think he’s…like that.”

“Then why are you running?”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m just…giving him time, so he knows it’s not important, that I don’t really expect him to do it.”

“So you do think he’d hold your size against you?”

Layla sighed; Stephanie was clearly in full bulldog mode. “I was watching his face when he first saw me. He was better and quicker at hiding it than most, but it was there.”

She knew she didn’t have to explain. Stephanie had been through enough with her over the years. And one of the things Layla loved most about her was her honest outrage at the way Layla was sometimes treated. She could almost feel it bubbling up in her old friend right now.

On the thought, Stephanie spoke and proved her right. “You’re a smart, dynamic, intelligent woman! And whether you believe it or not, you’re beautiful. It’s the men who can’t see that who have the problem.”

Impulsively, Layla reached across the table and clasped her friend’s hand. “And you’re the best friend anybody could ever have.”

“Humph. You didn’t say that when I broke your bike,” Stephanie said.

Layla grinned, glad Stephanie was at least smiling. “Nor you when I broke your brand-new Walkman before you’d even had a chance to listen to it.”

They both laughed then. It was an old joke with them, had been for a long time, so long that it had become a signal of sorts. On the rare occasions when they did argue, if either of them felt things were getting out of hand, too close to permanent damage being done, those were the code words. Layla had only to say “Bike breaker,” or Stephanie to say “Walkman wrecker,” and the fight was over.

Stephanie had always told her that someday she would meet the man who would love her for herself. Layla had always laughed it off, but somewhere deep inside she had hoped her friend was right. That someday that man might happen along. But there was no doubt in her mind that, no matter how appealing the thought might be, a man like Ethan Winslow wasn’t him.

“You’re a hard woman to track down.”

Layla whirled, almost knocking over her desk chair. Ethan Winslow was standing in her office doorway, lounging against the doorjamb rather nonchalantly.

“I…hello. I just got here.”

He nodded toward her desk. “A couple of those messages are from me.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I usually take some time off after…the auction.”

“I can understand that. It’s…quite a production. And things like that don’t go as smoothly as that one did without a heck of a lot of work.”

“Thank you,” she said; most people didn’t think that much about what went on behind the scenes. But she didn’t think he’d come here just to acknowledge that; no doubt he was here to make sure there was no misunderstanding, that she didn’t expect him to really follow through on that bid.

“Come in,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners.

He did, grabbed the single chair opposite her desk and sat. He waited until she also took her seat before speaking.

“So,” he said with a crooked grin that made her pulse speed up a bit, “where are you taking me?”

So many answers to that raced through her mind that she clamped her jaw to be sure her mouth stayed shut. She had a moment to be grateful she was already seated. After a moment’s desperate thinking, she came up with the perfect diversion.

“I forgot to check and see…who was your winning bidder?”

She realized, as he lifted a brow, that she’d betrayed her interest by her words, but he answered easily enough. “Gloria Van Alden. I gather she’s quite the mover and shaker in town.”

Layla’s nervousness vanished. “Gloria? Lucky you! She’s been everywhere, has the most marvelous stories, and she’s a delightful person, to boot. You’ll have a wonderful time.”

He smiled at her, so warmly it almost made her blush. “That’s the impression I got when I spoke to her.”

“You don’t mind that she’s…a mature woman?”

His smile faded. “Why would I? I’m not looking to marry her, not that it would matter if I was. Besides, she’s younger in the ways that count than a lot of women my age.”

He sounded insulted, Layla thought. She liked the fact that that was his first reaction. She wasn’t quite sure why, but assumed it was for Gloria’s sake.

“So, where are you taking me? And when?”

Layla sighed. “Look, Mr. Winslow—”

“Ethan, please. If we’re going out on a date, we should at least be on a first-name basis, don’t you think, Ms. Laraway?”

No, Layla thought, sometimes I don’t think at all….

“Ethan, then. And Layla, please. I want you to know how much I…appreciate what you did.”

“Do you?” He leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands in front of him. “I got the impression that night that you wished I’d kept my mouth shut.”

Startled by his perception, Layla admitted, “I was hoping to just make it go away, treat it like the joke it should have been.”

“I don’t think he would have let you.”

Something in the way he said the “he” made her feel absurdly warmed. And gave her the nerve to go on. “That aside, I do appreciate it. But please understand, I never expected you to actually go through with it.”

And she didn’t. She knew perfectly well that he’d done it out of pity, or sympathy, or some equally repellent emotion. But he seemed a kind enough man, and she truly appreciated that he could be moved to act in such a situation.

“I never lie, and I always keep my word, Ms. Laraway.”

“I’m sure you do, but this is…different.”

“Why?”

“Because it never should have happened in the first place.”

“Granted.” He looked at her steadily. “If you can’t stand even a single evening with me, just say so.”

Layla gaped at him. How could he imagine any woman would think such a thing? “I…of course not.”

“Okay. Then where are we going?”

She looked at him this time with genuine curiosity. “Why? You didn’t even want to do the auction in the first place.”

“That was different, and it doesn’t mean I don’t support the cause. It’s important to me. Very important. And I made a bid in good faith.”

He seemed determined. To finish his good deed, she supposed. Perhaps she should just let him. She became aware she was tapping a pen she didn’t even remember picking up from her desk calendar. She set the pen down.

“I…don’t have a plan. I never thought you were serious.”

He didn’t argue with her again. “You’ve been doing this for years, right? You must have thought about what your idea of the ideal auction package would be.”

“What appeals to me wouldn’t necessarily appeal to some of the high rollers we pull in.”

“That’s their problem,” he said, obviously not including himself in the high-roller class, although Layla knew he qualified financially. “What would you choose?”

“Oh, something silly.” Her own words about high rollers triggered the only thing she could think of at the moment. “Like a trip to the highest, fastest roller coaster in the state.”

He grinned suddenly. “I love roller coasters.”

That grin should be registered as a weapon, Layla thought ruefully. With a conscious effort, she pulled herself together. It wasn’t like her to be this flustered by anyone, let alone a man, and she wasn’t going to start now. She looked at him thoughtfully.

“Or,” she said, “a sailboat trip to Catalina Island for lunch.”

“Great, let’s do it.” The grin widened. “I learned to sail in the Boy Scouts.”

Layla rolled her eyes and groaned theatrically. “A Boy Scout? You were a Boy Scout?”

“Guilty, I’m afraid.”

“Merit badges?”

“Several.”

“Camp-outs?”

“Those, too.”

Layla shook her head in feigned shock. “Oh, dear. I just don’t know, that sounds far too…normal.”

“Would you feel better if I said I quit when I was sixteen?”

“Maybe. Being kicked out would be better.”

Ethan laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made Layla laugh, too. And suddenly she realized that she would enjoy spending time with him, even knowing it would be merely a one-time obligation on his part.

I’m not looking to marry her….

He knew it was only an auction date. How often had she reassured participants it was nothing more than a few hours spent on an enjoyable activity with someone who cared about a cause just as you did? Maybe she should take her own advice.

Who cares how it happens? Just enjoy.

Stephanie’s words echoed in her mind. True, Stephanie didn’t truly understand the problem, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t good advice, too.

And for once, she was going to take it.

“I have a friend whose family has a sailboat,” she said. “I’ve sailed with them enough times that I think they’d trust me with it.”

“It’s a date,” Ethan said, still grinning. “When?”

“Your choice. A weekend day would be best, I presume?”

She couldn’t believe she was going ahead with it. But now that she’d said it, now that she’d committed to it out loud, she felt an odd, unfamiliar sense of excitement and anticipation.

They agreed on next Sunday, and once it was done, Layla found herself mentally calculating how much time she had to drive herself crazy over the idea. She wouldn’t back out, not now that she’d agreed to it, but she knew there would be times over the next few days when she would wish she could.

“Layla?”

She looked up toward her doorway, where the young college student who helped around the office stood, clutching a manila envelope to her chest. Ethan stood, so smoothly and naturally that Layla knew it was automatic, and the girl’s eyes widened. Her gaze flicked from him to Layla.

“Yes, Missy?” Layla asked, smiling; the girl was very shy, so she was always careful to be welcoming and encouraging. The girl smiled back, taking the encouragement and stepping into the office.

“I—I’m glad I caught you before you left. Mr. Chandler wanted to know if you could take this with you. It’s the memo on the funding for adult day-care at The Oaks.”

“Of course.” She took the envelope the girl held out. “Thank you.”

The girl nodded and scuttled out of the room. Ethan watched her go curiously. “Is she always that nervous, or was it me?”

Layla gave him points for noticing—and for good manners—even as she warned herself to remember this man’s perceptiveness. “She’s just very shy. Especially around men.”

“Oh.” He turned back to her. “You have an appointment?”

“Of sorts. At The Oaks, the Alzheimer’s board-and-care home. I go a couple of times a week.” She added the folder to the small stack of papers she had ready to go. And then, impulsively, she asked, “Would you like to go? See where a lot of the money you earned for us goes?”

“No.”

It was short, almost rudely sharp, and she looked up at him in surprise. He seemed to realize what he’d sounded like, because when he spoke again, his voice was more normal.

“Sorry.”

But his jaw was still clenched, his lips tight. There had been a time when she would have assumed his reaction was to her temerity in even asking him, but she’d grown up since then. Besides, he didn’t seem to be the type; he would hardly have forced the issue of their auction date and then take offense at this.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” It was sharp again, and she heard him take a deep breath before he went on. “I just don’t go to that place.”

His vehemence startled her. She’d run into it before, she even understood it, but she hadn’t expected it here. In most cases, she knew it was a natural dislike of facing the reality of Alzheimer’s. But she had been at this long enough to sense that this was different. She recognized the feeling, the attitude, the anger, the guilt.

This was personal.

She wondered who was at The Oaks that Ethan Winslow didn’t want to see.

Four

Ethan had given up trying to figure out all the reasons why he had made that bid. He supposed it was all tangled up with his feelings about being up on that stage himself, and how alone it had felt, an empathy drilled into him by his two sisters—both of whom had fought their own battles with weight over the years—and the vision of the lively, amusing woman he’d come to know over the phone placed in a humiliating position.

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