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      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS spring. Regeneration was in the air. Parks and gardens across the city were aglow with dazzlingly beautiful massed displays of azaleas, rhododendrons, and an astonishing number of spring-flowering bulbs—gorgeous oriental lilies, iris, hyacinth, heavily scented freesias and jonquils, golden daffodils. Sensual perfumes hung over the city like a bride’s fine tulle veil. The sky had the blue lustre of an opal, and a few puffy white clouds raced on high.

      Genevieve Grenville was near skipping along herself, since the current of her life had picked up. It wasn’t all that long ago since she had found herself at a very low point in her life. But that had been then. This was now—the future. Being positive, counting your blessings was the key. Move on and lock down the humiliating past. Pretty soon she just might be able to.

      Her career was helping enormously. She was now a published writer, with a bestseller under her belt. She was certain her literary agent and editor, good friend Maggie McGuire, would have approved the final draft of her new book, Lovers and Losers. She was deeply indebted to Maggie for her belief in her, and her expert guidance. Maggie had been with her every step of the way. That included the woeful state of her private life that had left her wondering why she had any ego left.

       Her debut novel, Secrets of the Past, had saved her, buoying her up. The hardback was doing a celebratory jig in her tote bag as she strode along, fired up with energy. It was a tremendous confidence booster to know that at twenty-seven she was making a name for herself in the literary world. When one was on a roll one had to stick with it; hence Lovers and Losers as her quick follow-up.

      The reviews for Secrets of the Past had been thrillingly good … “A first-rate literary debut …” “A bright new star has appeared on the horizon …” Couldn’t beat that. Even more gratifying was the incoming feedback from her readers. One couldn’t be a successful writer without one’s readership. She had encountered many of her readers wanting to express their appreciation. It was always a pleasure, even a humbling experience, when someone mentioned that reading her book had helped them through a small crisis or a bad patch in their lives.

      Genevieve knew all about bad patches.

      Secrets of the Past had even made an impact sufficient to carry a well-known magazine’s gold sticker: GREAT READ. What better plug could she want? It had come at exactly the right time.

      Her ex-fiancé, Mark Reed—the man she had entrusted with her life’s happiness—had given in to temptation and slept with the young woman most off-limits in the world to him: her stepsister Carrie-Anne. Carrie-Anne was to have been her chief bridesmaid, for God’s sake! She and Mark had been practically at the altar. She didn’t think she would ever get over the treachery. The pain of betrayal still burned in her breast. Nor could she entirely control the image of the two of them naked in bed. They had taken something from her she would never get back.

       Trust.

      But she was over the worst of it. Stiff upper lip and all that. Writing was her solace. She had learned that living with pain, setbacks, and disappointments was what life was all about. If she had been less trusting she would have recognised pocket-size blonde Carrie-Anne’s destructive potential. She had always been a devious little creature.

       Mark’s excuse took the cake. “It was a moment of madness, Gena. It’s you I love. But Carrie-Anne is always trying to get one up on you. It’s your own fault, in a way. You didn’t make enough time for me. Always the damned book!”

      What a cop-out! She had always made time for him, but she accepted the fact that spoilt rotten Mark had really wanted a woman like Mum, who spoke like a character in a Victorian novel and lived her life dancing attendance on her husband and her adored only son. Mrs Reed had once referred to it as a “noble sacrifice”.

      “Just hormones, Gena.” That had been Carrie-Anne’s excuse, her delicious little face contorted by crippling remorse. “Hormones. They’re so dangerous!”

       “Try sky-diving.” Genevieve had advised caustically. “Without a parachute. Better yet, take Mark.”

      There were no excuses for despicable behaviour.

      Her appointment with Maggie was scheduled for three o’clock. She had never been known to arrive late. When she did arrive there were two hopefuls waiting. Going to Maggie’s was much like going to the doctor’s. One could be assured of a wait. Maggie’s receptionist Rhoda, a large, flat-faced woman, darted a disapproving glance in her direction. She might have been a full thirty minutes late, or committed the cardinal sin of turning up without an appointment.

      “Good afternoon, Rhoda.” Genevieve gave the dragon lady a brilliant smile.

      Rhoda did not respond. No surprise there. But she did condescend to point a finger at a seat. Here was a woman who wouldn’t win any votes for Receptionist of the Year.

      With a smile and a nod to the other two hopefuls, Genevieve found a