“As soon as you agree, Addison will make sure Dustin knows to expect you. It’s all been arranged, but Addison didn’t want to speak to his brother about it until I’d finalized things with you.”

“What if Dustin says no?”

“He won’t,” Camille said with a firm nod. “He might want to, but he won’t. You see, there’s money riding on this venture. Apparently quite a lot of money.”

“He will get a lot of money if he learns to dress well?” Isobel asked, stymied. “But deep down he really wouldn’t want to do this. Is that what you’re really telling me?”

“It’s complicated,” Camille explained with a patient sigh. “Addison was left to execute his father’s will, and Izzy, the poor man is beside himself, with the situation being what it is. I feel so sorry for him. What a predicament!”

“Go on,” Isobel urged, not at all certain she wanted to hear more.

“Apparently their father was afraid Dustin would squander his inheritance away instead of doing something useful with it. Addison is terribly worried about his brother. I guess he’s kind of stubborn, and he’s definitely his own man. Marches to the beat of his own drummer, so to speak.”

She paused, clasping her hand over her heart in the melodramatic way that was uniquely Camille’s. “Can you imagine the tremendously heavy burden their father left on poor Addison?”

“How so?”

“Addison was named Dustin’s trustee in the will, even though Dustin is a full-grown man. You can imagine how Dustin felt. And Addison certainly didn’t ask for the formidable task of bringing Dustin into line. According to the terms of the will, Dustin has certain obligations to meet—delineated by his father—in order for Addison to release the funds to his brother.”

“He has to learn to dress well?” Isobel asked again, befuddled. “In order to get his hands on his rightful inheritance?”

None of this made the least bit of sense, and Isobel was beginning to feel very much as if she’d stepped into another dimension.

What kind of a man was Dustin, that his father would put such insane demands on him?

One thing she knew for certain—she would balk at such radical and unusual demands being placed upon her. If Dustin were half the independent spirit Camille had described him to be…

Camille laughed. “No, of course not, silly. He has to make a splash in society or something outrageous like that, and of course clothes make the man, right?

“It’s a good start,” Isobel said with a laugh and a shrug. I’d be looking for a little more than that in a man.

Camille giggled. “After I told Addison about you, he thought you’d be the perfect person to bring Dustin around. You, of all people, can guide him in making a true contribution to society. Those are the exact terms of the will. Can you believe it?”

“I see,” Isobel said under her breath, though she wasn’t sure she did. The idea was intriguing, of course; definitely intriguing. The thought of transforming a scalawag of a man into a prince would be a challenge, but it also sounded kind of fun.

“Okay,” she said after only a brief pause to consider the short-and long-term ramifications of her decision. She didn’t want to examine her own motives too closely. “I’ll do it.”

She didn’t ask how much money she would make. She was taking on this project for the challenge, and she trusted Camille that the time she spent would be worth her weight in gold. Literally.

And she was surprised by how excited she was at the prospect of making over the erstwhile Dustin. It had been a long time since she’d done something truly stimulating, and her heart was pounding with anticipation.

“I knew this was something you’d want to do,” Camille squealed, throwing her arms around Isobel’s neck and dancing her around in dizzying circles. “Oh, how wonderful for you!”

“Wonderful for me?” she asked, laughing at her friend’s excited antics. “I thought Dustin was the one to benefit from this deal.”

“Oh, he will,” her friend agreed immediately. “He most definitely will. But won’t it be such fun for you, as well? Admit it. You love the idea. Pygmalion at its best.”

“I suppose the idea has merit,” she agreed. “I do have one condition, however, and I refuse to take on this project unless it is met unconditionally.”

“What’s that?”

“This Dustin guy—he has to go into this experiment with his eyes wide open. If he doesn’t agree to the makeover, if he is not comfortable with the idea of working with me or if he expresses doubts or disinterest, I do not want to move forward with this.” Isobel listed items on her fingers. “The project must all be conducted on the up-and-up, with everything laid out up front for Dustin and for me. No surprises and no reluctant subjects. Do you understand what I’m getting at here?”

“I’ll speak to Addison immediately,” Camille assured her, obviously trying to rein in her high, excited tone and appear more businesslike and reserved. It didn’t fool Isobel for a moment.

Her friend continued, gulping in air to remain calm. “He said he would be the one to speak to Dustin about it and firm up the final details. After that I’ll be able to let you know when and where you two can meet and get the ball rolling toward Dustin’s new look. He’s got to agree. He just has to.” She winked. “Especially when he meets you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isobel squawked, feigning offense and pressing her lips together to keep her smile hidden.

“Why, you’re so pretty you’ll knock his socks off. And then, my dear friend, you can replace them with preppie argyles.”

“Oh, I just love it when I get to play fairy godmother,” Isobel teased, waving an invisible magic wand through the air. “But this sounds just a little too weird to be real.”

Camille laughed and whirled about on her toes like a ballerina. So much for her businesslike demeanor, Isobel thought, smothering her grin. She didn’t know where her friend got all her energy, but she wished just a little of it would rub off on her.

“There’s a first time for everything, Izzy,” Camille said, clapping her hands in anticipation. “And you, my dearest friend in all the world, are going to be the best thing that ever happened to Dustin Fairfax. He won’t even know what hit him.”

Dustin lifted the drumsticks into the air, adjusting his grip on the wood so he could play the drum set that curved around the stool on which he sat. He closed his eyes and with a flick of one drumstick, adjusted his backward black-and-purple Colorado Rockies cap to keep his curly black hair out of his face.

His music of choice, at the moment, anyway, was a trumpet-licking jazz CD he’d picked up over the weekend. Eclectic was the only way to describe his taste—in music, or in anything else he had a strong opinion about.

The drum set was new—or at least, new to him. A friend who had been a drummer in a high-school band was getting rid of it to make room for a baby crib.

Dustin had grabbed the opportunity and bought the set for a song. He’d never played a percussion instrument in his life, but he figured now was as good a time as any to learn.

It wasn’t the first instrument he would have taught himself to play in his life.

How hard could it be?

He made a couple of tentative taps on the snare drum with his sticks, and then pounded the bass a few times with the foot pedal.

Smiling with satisfaction, he began pounding in earnest, perfect rhythm with the beat of the jazz CD. He didn’t care at the moment whether or not he sounded good. He was only trying to have a good time. Technique would come later, with many strenuous hours of practice, he knew.

He sent a timely prayer to God that the insulation in his house would be sufficient to keep his neighbors from knocking his door down with their complaints about the horrible din.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone clamped his hand tightly on Dustin’s shoulder.