Lynne has won first prize in a competition: a makeover, and a visit to the set of the raunchiest soap on TV. As she watches handsome actor Blake Harrison go through his paces she knows that she will be having dinner with him later, but little does she dream that she will also be appearing in the show . . .

Lynne looked down on the studio floor, where a bedroom scene was in progress. The actress playing Monica was lying under the duvet, and it was obvious that she was naked from the waist up. The tops of her rather large breasts reared provocatively above the duvet. Her expression, however, was one of impatient boredom.

Blake was wearing the bottom half of a pair of silk pyjamas and standing by the bed, talking to a man with earphones and a script. His tanned torso, covered with a film of sweat, was gleaming under the studio lights. Sexy, Lynne thought, feeling her pulse throb more insistently. His broad shoulders and muscled chest seemed out of place surrounded by cables and cameras, as did the bedroom set with its floral décor. Lynne reminded herself that it was all part of the illusion called television.

Suddenly the actor turned and playfully shook his fist at the control room. The director and some of the others laughed. Blake, obviously deciding to play to the gallery, crossed his thighs coyly as he stood and toyed with the pyjama cord.

Kate giggled. 'Blake's been told to remove his pyjama bottoms. He thought he wouldn't have to. Mind you, I don't think Andrea will object.'

Lynne let the innuendo pass, not wishing to appear eager for gossip. She knew of Blake's media image as a womaniser, and even at a distance she could see how he'd obtained it. She watched fascinated as, with his back to the gallery, he slipped off the loose trousers to reveal a pair of taut buttocks and lean thighs. Quickly he slipped between the sheets, and soon the couple were embracing for the camera.

Transferring her gaze to the monitor, Lynne saw the actor caress the naked shoulders of his screen partner then cup her naked breast. She watched his fingers squeeze her large red nipple. The woman's face registered a quickening of desire, and Lynne found herself responding too. She was reminded of the all times she had gone to bed after an episode of Night Owls so turned on that she'd had to masturbate before she could sleep.

The kisses of the screen couple became more passionate and the quilt slipped down to reveal both torso's, with Monica pressed hard against Hugo's hairy chest. Lynne, acutely aware of the moistness and tingling between her thighs, felt horribly voyeuristic but when she looked round everyone else seemed perfectly at ease. She supposed they must be used to it. After all, Night Owls was the raunchiest soap ever shown on British television.

The love scene stopped abruptly as the action was cut, and then the pair lay back against the pillows, snuggling up to each other with supposedly post-coital affection. Lynne scanned the rugged features of the star and still couldn't quite believe that she would be dining with him that evening. Blake Harrison was forty-two (she'd looked that up in the TV Yearbook) and a bit of a roughneck but with irresistible charm, especially when he grinned. He was doing that now, as he looked down at his co-star and uttered the abominable cliché, 'Monica, darling, where have you been all my life?'

Once the take was over Lynne heard Blake exclaim, his words picked up by a nearby boom mike, 'Who the hell do they get to write these scripts - Barbara bloody Cartland?'

The floor manager called, 'That's a wrap, studio! Thanks very much everybody,' and Kate took Lynne's arm.

'We go to hospitality now, so you can meet His Majesty.'

'Fine. But I wouldn't mind going to the Ladies' first.'

Lynne was relieved to have a few minutes alone. There had been people buzzing round her ever since two o'clock. Besides, she need a chance to calm down after that torrid love scene. She could feel how wet she was between her legs and went into a cubicle to wipe away some of the excess, glad she'd brought a spare panty liner.

Lynne stared at her face in the cloakroom mirror and took some deep breaths. She was just about getting used to her new appearance. She was changing inside, too. With a shock Lynne realised she was feeling sexy again. Nick's infidelity had depressed her libido for months, but now she was on a real high. Beneath the tight embrace of the revealing dress her breasts were swelling with arousal, hard nipples straining against the lacy cups, the silky French knickers mercifully cool around her over-heated crotch. Lynne sighed, wondering what Nick would think of her now. Would he find her desirable, as he had in the beginning?

Debbi was in the hospitality suite with Don Chisholm, the director of Night Owls. 'So this is the lucky lady!' he grinned, holding out his big hand. 'Don't let Blake take you for a ride, will you? He's just like Hugo Townsend off the set. Type casting!'

'Don't listen to him, Lynne,' Debbi smiled. 'He's been paying too much attention to the tabloids! Don, where are your manners. Aren't you going to offer our guest a drink?'

While Don was presiding at the drinks trolley Blake Harrison made his entrance, pausing to let everyone notice him. He wore a dark grey suit with a striped shirt and tastefully jazzy tie, and his dark, silver-streaked hair rose from his broad forehead in a sweeping style that brushed his shoulders. Now that he was without make-up, Lynne could see that his rathercraggy face was lightly tanned.

His gaze homed in on her, the brown eyes widening briefly then narrowing again into their habitual half-closed position. Lynne knew he was examining every inch of her, and she could tell he liked what he saw. His wide mouth was set in the familiar down-turned smile that had given his character, Hugo, a reputation for cynicism, and a devil-may-care attitude towards women. Perhaps not even Blake himself could make the distinction any longer between his on-screen persona and his real self.

Don came out from behind the trolley. 'Blake, let me introduce you to Lynne Sanders.'

'Ah, Lynne! Congratulations on winning such a splendid prize!'

Blake's tone was self-mocking, and the rest of them laughed dutifully, as if they'd expected a joke. At his approach, Lynne could smell the musty spice aroma of Chanel's Antaeus cologne. His handshake lingered a few seconds longer than she expected. Their eyes met in a friendly smile, but she was aware that he was sizing her up.

Was he wondering if she'd prove a boring dinner-companion? Or whether she'd be easy to talk into bed? Lynne felt a brief fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the realisation that soon she would be completely alone with him, for the rest of the evening.