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      SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon^® in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

       Recent titles by the same author:

      RUTHLESS AWAKENING

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      ONE NIGHT WITH HIS VIRGIN MISTRESS

      THE VIRGIN’S WEDDING NIGHT

      MILLS & BOON

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      Chapter One

      THEY SAID THE only sure things in life were death and taxes, Marin Wade thought as she lifted the sponge and squeezed wonderfully warm, scented water over her shoulders and down her breasts. But there was an additional certainty—that as soon as you got into a hot and longed-for bath the phone would ring.

      Just as it was doing at this very moment.

      Yet for once she would not be scrambling out, cursing and reaching for a towel in order to obey its summons because—oh joy, oh bliss—it was not her phone.

      Whoever it was at the other end could speak to the answering machine.

      Of course, it might be Lynne calling to check that she was settling in and that all was well, but if so she’d leave a message too. And later, when Marin was bathed and fed, she’d ring back and thank her stepsister yet again for offering her this temporary bolt hole with so few questions asked. Up to now, at least, she thought wryly.

      Lynne was three years her senior, and since their parents had retired to a villa beside a golf course in Portugal she’d taken her elder-sister role very seriously indeed. So when she returned on Sunday night she’d want to know why Marin’s dream job had come to a premature end.

      And by then it might be good to have someone to confide in over the entire nasty mess.

      Because she would be starting to feel better about it all. Once she’d got over her tiredness and the chaos of the last twenty-four hours and could think straight, she’d have this whole weekend to herself to start making plans and being positive about her life, rather than wanting to howl.

      Of course, she’d have to wait until Monday to find out if she still had a job with the agency, or if her erstwhile employer’s threat to have her fired had born fruit, she thought unhappily. But at least she could start looking for somewhere to live until her own flat became available again.

      Not that it wasn’t gorgeous here. Lynne had told her she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted, but she needed to stand on her own two feet and get herself together again as soon as possible.

      She looked around her almost in awe. This bathroom alone was to-die-for, she thought; its soft, aqua tiles made you imagine that you were floating in some warm, foreign sea. Add to that the spacious living room with its raised dining-alcove, the state-of-the-art kitchen and the two elegantly fitted bedrooms, and Marin was as near to living in the lap of luxury as she was ever likely to get.

      What she couldn’t quite figure was how Lynne could possibly afford such a sumptuous environment.

      Her stepsister was, of course, the personal assistant of Jake Radley-Smith, principal of one of the most successful financial public-relations firms in the UK—but surely she’d have to be earning mega-bucks in order to rent even a cupboard in a place like this?

      Although Marin was wallowing in it all, she felt vaguely uneasy just the same, knowing how extremely ordinary Lynne’s previous flat had been.

      And, if she hadn’t known that Lynne was deeply in love with Mike and on her way to Kent with him this very minute to meet his parents, she might even be wondering what kind of ‘personal assistance’ her stepsister had actually provided for her high-flying boss, and whether this flat was payment for services rendered.

      As if, she thought, pulling a face at herself. Dirt must be catching.

      She leaned back against the quilted head-rest, closing her eyes, as she contemplated the disastrous turn her life had taken. The worst of it was, she hadn’t seen it coming. Which must make her the biggest, most naïve idiot still walking free.

      It had also been stupid to agree to a short-term let of her own flat during her absence, but hindsight was a wonderful thing, and the position she’d been offered with best-selling romantic novelist Adela Mason had been guaranteed for a minimum of six months, so it had seemed safe enough at the time.

      ‘Her usual secretary has to have time off. Her elderly mother is about to have a serious operation and will need a lot of aftercare,’ her boss Wendy Ingram had told her. ‘Ms Mason does her research in London, then goes down to her house in southwestern France to do the actual writing, so she wants someone to fill the gap.’ She had pursed her lips. ‘Apparently, we were recommended to her, but she’s not easy to please.’

      ‘Adela Mason,’ Marin had echoed, her hazel eyes shining. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s a terrific writer. I’m her number one fan.’

      ‘Which is why I suggested you, although I suspect you’re

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