part of him ached. He couldn’t possibly go any faster—but he had to. Agonizing step after agonizing step, he drew closer to the figure ahead of him. He drew level. One more stride and he crossed the finish line—a nose ahead of the other man.
The crowd roared. Flags waved. Confetti floated through the air. “First place goes to…Brad Rivers!” boomed a voice over the loudspeaker.
The two men stopped jogging but kept walking to keep their muscles from cramping. They both breathed heavily. After a few minutes, the shorter one managed to gasp, “Damn…you…Brad, you beat me again!”
Brad laughed, even though his lungs burned with each exhalation. “I wasn’t about to give up that trophy—I like the way it looks on my desk.”
“You like taunting me with it, you mean.” George Yorita, Brad’s business partner and best friend, scowled, his thick black brows drawing together in a mock frown.
“C’mon, George. I never taunt.”
“Then why do you start polishing the damn thing every time I come into your office?”
“Trophies need a lot of upkeep—”
George snorted. “Yeah, right.” Before he could complain any more, a tiny Japanese-American woman with a toddler in tow came up. “I saw you running, Daddy,” the three-year-old said. “How come you let Uncle Brad beat you?”
George smiled ruefully, hugging his wife and ruffling his son’s hair at the same time. “Brad is very determined. When he wants something, he gets it.”
“You’re spoiled, Brad.” Laura Yorita shook her head. “You can’t always have everything you want.”
“So far he has,” George grumbled. “You should see the car he just bought. A ’65 Mustang in mint condition. When he told me it was on eBay, I tried to bid on it but got locked out. A million people must have been trying for that car, but Brad somehow managed to get it. The prettiest little convertible I ever saw. Original seats, hubcaps, detailing—”
“Maybe you should stay here and salivate over Brad’s car,” Laura said sweetly, “while I take Collin home for his nap.”
George grinned at his wife. “No, I’ll come with you. See you at the office Monday, Brad—but you better not drive that car. And you better not polish that trophy within my sight.…”
Brad watched the three of them leave. Holding his son’s hand, George bent to whisper in Laura’s ear. She laughed and nodded. He put his arm around her waist and they continued on, George shortening his steps to match those of his wife and child.
A slight frown etched Brad’s brow and he turned away, staring at the other runners crossing the finish line but not really seeing them. He hadn’t always gotten what he wanted. There was one thing that continued to elude him.…
“Water, mister?”
Brad took the proffered bottle, nodding his thanks to the race volunteer. Drinking the cold liquid, he turned his gaze back to the race.
Another runner had just crossed the finish line—a woman. She had a great figure, large breasts, small waist, curving hips, long legs. She looked familiar. He’d seen her somewhere before.
Yeah, now he remembered. At a party he’d attended a few weeks ago. The woman had been there. He hadn’t paid too much attention to her then—beyond the obvious, that is.
“An actress,” someone had told him.
He studied her more closely now. In addition to her other attributes, she had a beautiful face and carried herself with grace and self-assurance. She wore no engagement or wedding ring.
An idea sprang into his mind.
An insane idea. A completely ridiculous idea.
But then again, it had been an insane idea to start an electronics company just when all the tech stocks were taking a dive. And it had been ridiculous to expand into e-business, just when all the dot-com’s were going belly-up.
In short, he would try. And he would succeed.
Because the truth of the matter was, in the end, he always did get everything he wanted.
Chapter One
The wedding dress glowed in the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the plate-glass windows of the small shop. Sequins formed a delicate tracery of vines on the bodice. A cluster of palest pink silk roses gathered the back of the full satin skirt into the faintest hint of a bustle. It was a Cinderella dress, symbolic of the bride’s hopes for a happily-ever-after future with Prince Charming. Next week, a young woman would walk down the aisle in this dress and pledge the rest of her life to the man of her dreams.
Samantha Gillespie shuddered.
The reaction was involuntary. She really had nothing against marriage, Sam told herself as she studied the dress on the dais before her. It just wasn’t something she wanted to do right now. Or any time soon. She was only twenty-four, for heaven’s sake, and no matter what her mother said, Sam wasn’t ready to get married yet. Not when life held such an endless array of possibilities. Why would she want to give that up for marriage?
“Well?” a voice demanded impatiently from the back of the shop. “Have you finished it?”
Sam glanced over her shoulder at the petite woman standing in the doorway of the small office at the far end of the showroom. “Almost,” Sam told her sister. “I think it needs a few more clusters of roses at the back.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Dressed in a pastel-pink suit and frilly white blouse, Jeanette glared over the top of her chunky, black-rimmed reading glasses, her lips pursed. Samantha recognized the expression—and the suit. She’d tried to get Jeanette to wear something less insipid, more contemporary, but her sister refused to cooperate. “I can’t wear that stuff you wear,” Jeanette always said.
Which was completely unfair, Sam thought, tightening the knot of the shirt tied at her waist and smoothing her ancient blue jeans. The casual look might not suit Jeanette, but a deep red suit with a tailored cut would flatter her dark hair and eyes and make the most of her pleasingly plump figure.
“Why don’t you let me make you a new suit?” Sam wheedled, ignoring Jeanette’s disapproving expression. “We got in some red linen that would look gorgeous on you.”
“No, thank you.” Jeanette’s toe, in a dull pink pump, tapped a stern tattoo. “I would prefer you worry about Miss Blogden’s gown rather than my attire. She and her mother are supposed to be here in half an hour. Mrs. Blogden will be furious if the dress isn’t finished.”
“Don’t worry.” Samantha retrieved a sewing kit and some pink silk from an antique armoire, then returned to the dais where the dress in question was reflected in a three-way mirror. “It won’t take me long.”
“Good grief, Sam!” Jeanette advanced from the office to the hat stand in the middle of the room—a more strategic spot for lecturing. “Must you always wait until the last minute? You know what Mrs. Blogden’s like.”
Sam
