She gazed at the tidy piles on her desk. She also had a fiancé, a wedding that she’d been promising to plan for a year, and paperwork she needed to attack before she could go home for the night.

She waved good-bye as Carlota wheeled away her cart, then picked up a thick envelope from the Internal Revenue Service. It should have gone to Tom Reynolds, her accountant and business manager, but he’d called in sick yesterday, and she didn’t like letting things pile up.

Which didn’t mean that she was driven, demanding, or difficult.

She slit the envelope with a monogrammed letter opener. The press had been calling all day for her comments on the newspaper article, but she’d taken the high road and refused to respond. Still, the negative publicity made her uneasy. Her business was built on both the respect and affection of her fans, which was why she tried her hardest to live an exemplary life. An image was a fragile thing, and this article would damage hers. The question was, how badly?

She pulled out the letter and began to read. Halfway through, her eyebrows shot up, and she reached for her telephone. Just when she’d thought her day couldn’t get worse, now she had a screw-up with the IRS. And it looked like a doozy-a bill for $1.2 million in back taxes.

She was scrupulously honest with her taxes, so she knew that it was one of their maddening computer errors, which didn’t mean it would be simple to straighten out. She hated to pester Tom when he was sick, but he’d need to attend to this first thing in the morning.

“Marilyn, it’s Isabel. I need to speak with Tom.”

“Tom?” Her business manager’s wife’s speech was slurred, as if she’d been drinking. Isabel’s parents used to sound like that. “Tom’s not here.”

“I’m glad he’s feeling better. When do you expect him back? I’m afraid we have an emergency.”