A Whole Lot of Love. Justine Davis

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.