PROLOGUE

Los Angeles
Academy Awards ceremony

"Violet, over here!" cried more voices than Violet James could count.

"Awesome gown!"

"Man, you look hot!"

Then, in one slice of silence, "Violet, I love you!"

The crowd at the Oscars tittered at the heartfelt declaration. Violet paused on the red carpet and pivoted on her sky-high stilettos to smile when she spotted the young man in the stands. She blew him a kiss, to which he responded with a shout and an ebullient fist-pump. The crowd cheered loudly for America's Sweetheart.

They loved her.

And East Tennessee's favorite daughter loved them right back.

"We're going to be late, darling, and we still have to face the dragon." Her husband of four months, British actor Barry Marsden, placed his palm on the small of her back and guided her gently toward the waiting fashion reporter.

Violet turned up her palms toward the bleachers. "Gotta go. So sorry," she called out, then blew another kiss to encompass all of them. The screaming rose to a fever pitch.

Then, with a sigh, she turned toward the has-been actress who'd breathed life into a dying career by carving up other actors for fun and profit.

"Hello, Violet. Who are you wearing?" asked Sally Stern, her face permanently frozen by countless surgeries. Sally's verbal knives were already sharpened and eager for her flesh, Violet had no doubt.

"A brilliant, exciting new designer, Adam Cutler." Violet smiled brightly and executed a quick runway twirl to give the television cameras a complete scan. The figure- hugging silver garment with the modest front neckline skimmed her collarbone in a boat neck, the long fitted sleeves widened at the wrist to drape in an elegant trumpet nearly to her knees. The gown followed every curve of her body so faithfully she hadn't eaten anything but low-cal protein shakes in a week, then it belled out below her knees to pool gracefully on the ground.

The dress was the picture of restrained grace—until she revolved for the camera to glimpse her back, bare in a scoop nearly to the cleft of her derriere. Down her spine spilled a single line of pearls and silver rosettes, linked by a chain so delicate it was invisible to anyone not right next to her. The only other jewelry was a wide silver cuff bracelet studded with pearls and diamonds, at her ears the diamond teardrops Barry had given her for a wedding gift. Her jet-black hair was styled after the legendary glamour girls like Jane Russell and Veronica Lake, a smooth fall turned under at the ends and dipping over one of her famous turquoise eyes. Her lipstick was killer red.

Violet's curves might be more modest than Jane Russell's bombshell proportions, but she knew she was pulling off quite a look with the striking contrast of milky skin, silver gown and raven hair. Sometimes being a girl was too much fun.

"Stunning, darling, simply stunning." Violet's eyes widened in wonder as Sally touched her with surprising gentleness on her arm. "You're going to win tonight, I'm certain, and you'll deserve it for your courage."

The diva reporter dished out praise so sparingly, far more inclined to wield verbal knives.

Violet had to work hard not to faint. Or throw her arms around the woman as her basic nature urged her to do. Even after twelve years as an actress, five at the top of the box office, she couldn't completely stamp Southern warmth out of her, nor did she have any desire to. It was hard enough to remain human—or sane—in the artificial environment in which she lived.

So she gave in and hugged Sally, smiling as the dragon's cheeks turned rosy. "Thank you, Sally. That means a lot."

One genuine squeeze of the hand from the older woman, then Violet all but danced away. What a night this was!

The icing on the cake was her handsome spouse by her side, escorting her with his usual panache. She was grateful for the evening together, even if too much of it would be spent in public and on alert. They didn't have nearly enough time to spend alone while juggling two busy careers.

But this was part of the package, so Violet smiled and smiled. Stopped to sign autographs all the way into the auditorium, once even forcing the security guys to allow a preteen girl to come down from the stands to present her with a teddy bear she'd made just for Violet.

Because she adored her equally-talented husband who, by all rights, should be up for an award, too, she took less time with her fans than she normally would, waving goodbye and heading inside. Now to endure the hours until she would learn if the role she had defied her wholesome image to play would, at long last, garner her the respect of her peers.

Just as they reached the doors, Barry dipped her into a romantic kiss that sent cameras flashing and would have her fans sighing over the fairytale that was her life.

This was what was truly important, the love they shared, the life they would build. Whether or not she won mattered much less. Her ill-fated first marriage to the director who'd made her a star had ended after four years, and she'd grieved over the loss of a dream. No one in her family had ever been divorced, and beneath the star patina beat a very ordinary heart, one that only wanted to love and be loved. Trouble was, she loved her work, too, and she was good at it. In the end, she'd decided that perhaps love wasn't her lot, and she'd told herself to be grateful for all she had.

Though she'd thought never to marry again, three years later, Barry had charged into her life and swept her off her feet. She hadn't believed the on-set love affair cliché could ever happen to her, but Barry and she were no cliché. He loved her to distraction, and she loved him.

She had been given a second chance, and this time she would get it right. She and Barry would be Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, with a dash of Ward and June Cleaver thrown in. They'd grow old together gracefully and, with luck, die in each other's arms.

So what if she was a hopelessly middle class small-town girl, as her best friend Avery had teased? She didn't care. Her parents were still in love after thirty-six years, and Violet's two brothers had growing broods themselves.

She laid one hand over her flat belly as Barry ushered her inside. Before too much longer, she hoped she and Barry would begin a brood of their own. Maybe their lives were a long way from how she'd grown up in Tennessee, but Violet had determination in spades. She was rightfully renowned for her work ethic, and she never gave up on a goal—both had brought her a long way from her roots.

Now America's favorite Girl Next Door had a new goal: to create a real family, a real life.

And she would do it right here, in the capital of the Land of Make-Believe.