A Whole Lot of Love

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.