“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for. One lucky woman is seconds away from the dream date of her life—dinner and dancing with romance cover model, Declan Brand!” The emcee waited until the cheering and screaming subsided before continuing. “Drum roll, please.”

The spotlight honed in on the karaoke stage and the twirling ticket tumbler. Five hundred Hawaiian Islands of Romance conference attendees held their collective breath. Declan Brand, the hottest, most drop-dead exquisite hunk of a male cover model to come along since that blond-tressed eighties icon of bodice-ripper fame, stood poised and ready to draw the highly coveted grand prize. Sisterhood was nonexistent in the crowd. It was every woman, plus her erotic fantasies, for herself. There wasn’t a set of dry panties in the audience.

Not so for Christy Walken.

She nearly snorted iced tea through her nose in derision at the other women, all lusting for the hard-bodied professional rodeo cowboy turned model. Grudgingly, she admitted the towering, life-sized cardboard cutout of him positioned in the hotel’s lobby was pretty to look at. In an unguarded moment, even she had imagined what it would feel like to run her fingers through his dark, wavy hair and caress his honey-bronzed skin, but the group of women she’d encountered in the ladies’ room had assured her he was gay in the same breath as describing him as lickable, suckable, and fuckable.

What a prick for leading all these gullible women on.

The only reason she was even here was because Cindy, her married and silly-over-romance-novels sister, had begged her to fill in for their middle sister, who’d bailed at the last minute. Christy never could say no to her youngest sister, especially since Christy knew what this trip meant to Cindy. But a romance-novel conference? She must have lost her mind when she’d catered to Cindy’s pitiful pleas. At least no one here knew her.

Yesterday, when she’d finished with the last of her appointments for the week, Christy had posted a Closed for Vacation sign in the window of her photography studio, packed her bags, and hopped a flight with Cindy, who’d been as giddy as a schoolgirl in the seat beside her.

She had to admit there were a few perks to this outing. Last night’s breathtaking sunset view from their fifth-floor hotel room, which overlooked Waikiki Beach, was worth the trip in itself, and the well-equipped gym more than met her daily workout needs. Being able to skip the breakout sessions tomorrow wasn’t bad either.

“Ticket number six-sixty-nine. Christy Walken!”

Hearing her name shocked her out of her musings.

“Christy Walken of Colorado Springs, Colorado. You are the lucky winner! Where are you, Christy? Don’t be bashful.” The emcee’s voice rang out over the hushed, expectant crowd.

Denial reared its proverbial ugly head, and Christy craned her neck, looking over the crowd with the rest of the curious women at her table. What a coincidence. There’s another Christy Walken from my hometown. Halfway across the Pacific Ocean. In Hawaii. At a romance reader’s convention. There was no other explanation. She certainly hadn’t purchased a ticket.

“Here she is!” Cindy leaped from her seat, shrieking and madly waving a ticket over her head. “Over here! She’s my sister!”

Oh. Fuck. No!

An instant before the spotlight swooped down and pinned her to her chair, Christy hissed through clenched teeth, “Cindy, why did you put my name in the drawing? You take it. I can’t do this.”

“Oh, stop whining. It’ll do you good.”

As usual, Cindy missed the point. Mortified, Christy slid down in her seat, desperately wanting to disappear under the table. Looking frantically for an escape route, she found nothing but gawking, grinning female faces, and her sister’s continued histrionics, drawing unwanted attention. Christy visualized herself crawling on hands and knees, scurrying from table to table as she made her way to the back doors and freedom. Before she could put her panic-driven plan into motion, two beefcake ushers in leis grabbed her arms, lifted her from the chair, and practically carried her through the throng of screaming women. The emcee cheered them on, and the crowd took up the chant, sending the noise level off the charts.

Shit! Some idiot’s sure to Tweet this.

The emcee shoved the microphone in her face the moment the ushers deposited her on the stage. “Tell us how you’re feeling right now, Christy.”

“I’d rather have a root canal.”

The emcee floundered, and Declan moved in, effectively smoothing over the awkward silence as he took the microphone. Had Christy not been seething in angry humiliation, she would have given more than a cursory glance at Declan’s bulging pectorals, the taut stretch of his shirt over his broad, muscular chest, and the way he filled out his skin-tight Levi’s. Any other woman would have creamed her jeans upon gazing into his electric blue eyes then melted slowly into a puddle of orgasmic abandon when he flashed his famous and, despite her determination not to notice, disarmingly charming bedroom grin. The sensuous warmth of his palm on the small of her back as he guided her to a tall bar stool next to the karaoke machine should have sent her swooning. The cheesy logo emblazoned across the front of his T-shirt encouraged her to Get Brand-ed.

How clever.

Now the table decorations made sense to her. They were promotional giveaway souvenirs of short-handled, miniature cattle brands showing Declan’s Get Brand-ed logo printed backwards, with accompanying inkpads tied up in little mesh drawstring bags. She recalled seeing something just as frivolous in a catalog—monogrammed steak brands for searing personalization into a hunk of grilled beef.

Well, I have a suggestion where he can stick his cutesy logo.

The room went silent. Declan brought the karaoke mic close to his lips and rubbed his thigh against hers. “I chose this song especially for…us,” he said.

There was no mistaking the insinuation of future intimacy in the way he accentuated the words. The rhythm of his deep, dreamy, melted-chocolate voice caressed every woman within hearing range, causing a frenzied outburst of delighted screaming. He milked the moment to its promotional fullest, losing himself in the role of becoming the man of her dreams. He leaned into her with the promise of a kiss…and more…only to pull back, stopping at the last possible moment before his lips touched hers. He was a seasoned performer who knew how to play a part, especially for a crowd of women, to the hilt.

Christy rolled her eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Just shoot me now. YouTube, here I come.