A Whole Lot of Love. Justine Davis

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