An Apple from Eve

Euphemia wandered on a few paces and examined a charming group of miniature roses. If she said yes, he would want to know who, and if she said no, that would be a lie, and she found she couldn’t tell him lies easily. “Your roses are really magnificent,” she observed.

He laughed. “Put in my place, am I? Do I know him?”

She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m not going to answer that either.”

The doctor took his hand from her arm and flung an arm around her shoulders. “I can’t think why you object so strongly—after all, I have an interest in you. You’re my landlady, and this man, whoever he is, might decide to buy the house, and then where should I be?”

She said earnestly, “I can promise you that won’t happen,” and then, forgetting everything else but his comfortable presence, she added, “He won’t ever marry me. He’s…he’s…”

“Ah, the eternal triangle.” His voice was soothing and just sufficiently impersonal, although there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. “But take heart, Phemie, there is nearly always a way out.”

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

IT HAD STARTED to rain fiercely and suddenly after a long dry, hot day, and the girl at the wheel of the elderly Morris 1000 halted cautiously at the traffic lights in the middle of Chiswick, listening anxiously to the puffs and wheezing of the engine—a good car on the open road, she thought loyally, but a bit of a problem in city traffic. The lights had been red for a long time; she glanced sideways at a bus drawn in close to her left and then looked to her right: a steel grey Bentley within inches of her, its driver staring ahead of him, showing her a handsome profile with an arrogant nose and a high forehead. She judged him to be a large man, although it was difficult to know that from where she was. She amused herself guessing his age; thirty-five? Forty? Younger than that perhaps, his hair was so fair that it could have been silver. He turned his head suddenly and she was disconcerted by his cold blue stare; one didn’t expect complete strangers to smile at one, but neither did one expect a look of glacial dislike. She restrained herself with difficulty from the childish impulse to make a face at him, to be rendered speechless with rage as a long arm in a beautifully tailored sleeve stretched across and tapped her indicator.

‘Unless you intend suicide, I suggest that you put that thing in.’ His voice was as cold as his look and before she could say a word, the lights had changed and the Bentley had slipped away, out of sight in the thick traffic within seconds.

It seemed to Euphemia that she would never reach the M3, and when she did the turning to Chobham was endless miles away. She heaved a sigh of relief when she turned off at last to go through Chobham and then take the narrow road to her home, Hampton-cum-Spyway was a very small village, tucked away in a valley, with an outsize church, a cluster of picturesque cottages and a scattering of comfortably sized old houses. She went slowly down the short street, past the butchers, the baker and the post office and general stores, and drove round the village green, glimpsing old Dr Bell’s car in front of her home as she turned into the gateway at the side of the house, its gate propped open for so many years now that it no longer fulfilled its function, and stopped in front of the garage.

She turned off the engine, got out and went under the rose arch in the hedge to the front garden, crossed the unkempt lawn and opened the front door. The house was charming; wisteria hung over it like a purple waterfall, almost hiding the roses sharing the walls with it, hiding too the shabby state of the paintwork. The door was solid oak studded with nails and opened into a pleasant hall. The girl went in, dropping her handbag on to a side table, stepped over a hole in the carpet with the air of one who had done it many times before, and ran upstairs two at a time.

The landing was spacious with several doors and a number of narrow passages leading in all directions. She went straight to a door at the front of the house and went in.