“You do,” Edie agreed solemnly. She might not have shared her mother’s determination where men were concerned, but she loved her siblings dearly.

“And one of them needs you,” Mona had said, playing the trump card. “Tonight. Lord knows what will happen if Very Nice Andrew breaks off the engagement.”

“Do you think he might?” Edie thought Andrew was besotted with her sister, but she supposed even he could be pushed too far.

Andrew Chalmers was twenty-three, a three-event Olympic swimming medalist, cute as a button and an all-around nice guy, to boot. He had been head over heels in love with Rhiannon since they were in high school together, poor fool.

Though, to be fair, when she wasn’t flirting outrageously with everything in trousers just because she could, Ree genuinely seemed to be in love with Andrew, too. He steadied her, brought out the caring, sweet side of her. And both Mona and Edie were delighted.

A month ago, Andrew had asked her to marry him. Instantly Rhiannon had said yes. They were getting married next summer.

Rhiannon was happily planning their wedding. Or had been—until yesterday’s quarrel.

It hadn’t been subtle. Right there in the middle of one of the Mont Chamion’s most elegant royal reception rooms in front of the king and most of the royal family, Rhiannon had pitched a fit when Andrew had said he was leaving to go to a swimming competition in Vancouver.

“But what about me?” Rhiannon had wailed. “You’re taking me to the wedding!”

“I’m not, actually,” Andrew had said in calm, reasonable tones. “And you knew that, Ree. I said so last week when you wanted me to come over. I said I could come but I had to leave on Friday.”

“But I want you to be with me!”

“You can come with me. I said so,” he reminded her.

But Rhiannon hadn’t wanted to miss the royal wedding. And she’d been sure she could twist Andrew around her finger once she got him here. But Andrew had more backbone than that. And no flood of tears or flurry of words had deterred him. He had stalwartly held his ground and soon thereafter caught a flight to Paris and then to Vancouver. Privately Edie had cheered him on, glad he wasn’t knuckling under to every demand Rhiannon made.

But she had worried, too, because Rhiannon had been in High Drama Mode ever since.

“She’ll ‘do something,’” Mona predicted. “I know it. And so do you. She’ll ruin it, shoot herself in the foot.”

Shooting herself in the foot, literally, was not Rhiannon’s problem. Doing something outrageous with an entirely inappropriate man just to spite Andrew was.

Rhiannon was one of the most beautiful young women Hollywood had ever seen. She was Marilyn Monroe at twenty. Betty Boop in the flesh. And she could flirt for England. Or Wales in this case as Rhiannon’s father was the fiery Welsh poet, Huw Evans. Rhiannon had dual-citizenship. And the ability to get into trouble no matter which continent she was on.

So here Edie was, lurking on the edges of the ballroom, clad in her sister’s sparkly mauve dress that looked magnificent with Rhiannon’s sun-kissed platinum-blonde tresses and deep golden tan, but made Edie’s brown hair look dull and which washed out her fair skin, making her freckles stand out like spots. Even worse was the fact that Rhiannon’s size seven matching heels were pinching Edie’s size nine feet. It was like being stuck in a badly adapted version of Cinderella—and there wasn’t a fairy godmother in sight. Of course there was no prince, either.

Only Mr. Trouble.

Even as Edie watched, Rhiannon cozied up to him, leaning closer, slipping her arm through his. Then she ran the fingers of her other hand down the front of his dinner jacket and giggled a breathless giggle at something he said. She tossed her head, making her hair dance in the light reflected from the crystal chandeliers. At the same time she tucked herself against him and reached up to playfully tousle his hair.

Edie swallowed a groan. Next thing you knew she’d start fiddling with his tie. Undressing him! Mona was right. Disaster was imminent.

Gritting her teeth against the blisters forming on her heels and toes, Edie pushed away from the pillar and made her way toward her sister.

“Ah, there you are!” she said cheerfully. She even managed to beam brightly though it felt more like a wince.

Rhiannon turned and tossed her hair again, obviously annoyed at having her flirtation interrupted. She was no fool. She had to know exactly why Edie was here. “What do you want?” Ree demanded.

Her tone had Mr. Trouble’s dark eyebrows arching as he looked down his blade-straight nose at Edie, wordlessly asking the same question.

She flashed him a smile of polite acknowledgment, but focused on her sister. “I’ve had a text from Andrew.” Which, fortunately, was absolutely true.

Rhiannon lit up, then remembered she was mad at Andrew and frowned. “Why’s he texting you?” Her tone was accusatory.

“Can’t imagine.” Edie shrugged. “Maybe because you turned your phone off?”

Rhiannon’s lower lip jutted out petulantly. “I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Well, he wants to talk to you. Badly. He sounded desperate.”