Maid of Dishonour. Heidi Rice

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      TWO

      Gina climbed out of the cab under the High Line in New York’s Meatpacking District and mounted the metal steps to the linear park constructed along an old L-train track. The concrete pathway, edged with planters of wild ferns and flowers, bustled with joggers, canoodling couples and families enjoying the pleasantly warm but not overly muggy New York evening.

      Sweat trickled down her back as she stepped out of the heat into the cool lobby area of The Standard Hotel. The retro chic decor—all white plastic sculptures, distressed stone walls and dark leather scooped seats—made her feel as if she’d stepped onto the set of a sixties sci-fi movie.

      She lifted her arms, to deter the sweat from dampening the armpits of the vintage Dior mini-dress she’d spent half an hour selecting from her extensive wardrobe of couture originals and thrift-store finds. The plan was to look cool and sophisticated and in control while finally confronting the ghosts of her past, not like a bedraggled rag doll.

      She lingered for a moment—feeling a bit like an alien from the planet Zod—before taking a deep, calming breath, and stepping up to the reception desk.

      The expertly coiffured receptionist took down the message she’d spent most of the afternoon composing. The perfect combination of polite, impersonal and not too pushy—the single sentence gave Carter the option of contacting her, so she could give him her apology in person.

      Whether he would or not was entirely up to him. The sense of relief as she left the desk was immense. She’d done what she had to do. It really didn’t matter now if Carter called her or not. But somehow she doubted he would.

      Because as well as spending far too much time that afternoon composing the perfect message—she’d also spent rather a lot of it Googling information about the CEO of the Price Paper Consortium of Savannah, Georgia. After wasting a good twenty minutes poring over the numerous pictures, gossip items and local news reports featuring Carter Price and the ever-changing kaleidoscope of model-perfect ‘possible future brides’ who’d accompanied him to an array of high-society functions and charity events in the last few years, she’d had to concede that Marnie hadn’t lied.

      The sensitive, conflicted Southern gentleman who had once been so susceptible to her charms wasn’t just a major player now, he appeared to be attempting a world record for dating and dumping the entire debutante population south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

      This Carter was not the man who had rushed back to his childhood sweetheart crippled by guilt and self-loathing at what they had done. So she very much doubted he’d want to revisit that time in his life. But exactly how much of the change in him was her fault?

      The thought struck and stopped her in her tracks—right beside the entrance to the hotel’s lobby bar.

      Damn, her throat felt as if she’d been swallowing sand. She glanced at her watch. Ten to six. Still an hour before Carter was due to check in. She had time for a soft drink without risking bumping into him.

      She shrugged off the thought of how much Carter appeared to have changed in the last ten years as she entered the brightly lit bar. Apportioning blame for that now was a little late.

      Crowded with New York’s young and lively in-crowd celebrating the start of the weekend and a few tired-looking tourists ready to call it a day, the pristine blonde wooded space was already throbbing with life. One small table right on the outskirts of the action was still vacant. She nabbed it and waylaid a member of the wait staff.

      ‘A club soda, please.... No, scratch that,’ she said as indecision struck. ‘Make that a small dry martini, light on the vermouth.’ One drink couldn’t hurt and she’d earned it.

      When the martini arrived, Gina took a single sip, then placed it on the table in front of her, savouring the flowery taste of the gin and resisting the urge to down it in three quick gulps. She never drank to excess any more. Mostly because she now knew that inebriation had a direct correlation to stupid behaviour.

      She speared the olive at the bottom of her glass with a cocktail stick and swirled it around, savouring the light buzz from the alcohol as the guttural chatter of the Japanese tourists at the next table cocooned her in the blessedly anonymous corner. The muggy scent of body odour and expensive perfumes and colognes overwhelmed the blast of cold air from the bar’s air-conditioning system, drawing her back in time to a sultry summer afternoon a lifetime ago.

      The ripples in her martini glass shimmered out to the rim and dissipated as the hazy memory floated at the edges of her consciousness and invaded her senses.

      The phantom scent of lime polish and hyacinths tickled her nostrils as she recalled the pleasantly cool hallway of the clapboard house on Hillbrook College Campus. The parquet cold beneath bare feet as she tiptoed down the compact house’s corridor with her shoes clutched in her fist. Guilt tugged at the pit of her stomach—because she was creeping home at four in the afternoon after an all-night frat party when she had promised faithfully to spend the day revising at the college library with Reese. And then she heard again the sound of an unfamiliar male voice, low and brusque despite being infused with the lazy rhythms of the Deep South, echoing down the stairs from Marnie’s room on the first landing.