CHAPTER ONE

      WHEN Gina reached the restaurant, she was relieved to see that she was a few minutes early. Not only would it be bad manners to keep a guest waiting, but in this case it would be purely stupid. She had one shot at this presentation. If she couldn’t pull it off today, the plan wouldn’t fly at all. So she’d take advantage of the extra few minutes to go over her mental notes once more.

      The maître d’ looked her over doubtfully. “Would you like to wait in the bar, Ms. Haskell? Or at your table?”

      “The table, I believe. My companion will be arriving within a few minutes. You do know Mrs. Garrett, don’t you? Anne Garrett?”

      The man’s expression didn’t so much as flicker, but his voice was cool. “Certainly I know the publisher of the local newspaper, Ms. Haskell.” He didn’t show her to the table; he snapped his fingers and a subordinate arrived to escort her instead.

      Dumb question, Gina thought philosophically. If she’d tried, she couldn’t have made it clearer that she was moving outside her normal circles. Next time, why don’t you just ask him if the fish is fresh? He couldn’t be any more insulted by that.

      If there ever was a next time, of course. There weren’t many occasions for Gina to go to a really first-class restaurant.

      In fact, though she’d lived in Lakemont much of her life, Gina had never been inside The Maple Tree before. As the waiter seated her, she took a quick—and, she hoped, unobtrusive—glance at her surroundings. The dining room was large, but because the tables were set far apart there weren’t as many of them as she would have expected. Though she could hear the murmur of voices from the ones nearest to hers, she couldn’t have eavesdropped even if she’d tried. Not only the distance between tables but the soft tinkle of ragtime music in the background prevented it.

      The decorating scheme seemed to have been adopted from the restaurant’s name; as if to make the point, on one wall was a grouping of arty photographs of trees and individual leaves. The walls and carpet were the soft green of new leaves, while the table linens were a splash of autumn colors—red napkins against pale gold tablecloths. Unusual though it was, Gina thought the effect was stunning.

      At the far end of the room sat a glossy grand piano next to a small dance floor, and along one side of the dining room was a bar. Its wood surface—no doubt it was maple to fit the theme, Gina thought—was so highly polished that it gleamed nearly as brightly as the brass that accented it.

      For an upscale restaurant at lunchtime, she thought, the bar seemed strangely quiet. In fact, there was only one man sitting there, occupying the tall stool at the end nearest to Gina’s table. He thumped his index finger against his glass, and the bartender moved toward him and picked up the glass. The man turned toward the room and with no warning whatsoever looked directly into Gina’s eyes.

      She felt herself turning pink. It was one of the hazards of being a redhead—though in this case it was perfectly ridiculous to feel the slightest embarrassment. It wasn’t as if she’d been watching him—it was pure coincidence that she had happened to be facing his direction when he’d turned.

      No matter what he might think, he hadn’t caught her doing anything rude—which was more than she could