WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED on Monday morning, Lucy
Fitzhenry leaped out of bed. It was hell waiting for that
alarm. She hated wasting time on sleep when her life was
so brimming full. She wasn't just jazzed to start the day;
she was kite-high and dancing-ready.

She made it three feet across the room before the nausea
hit. One second she was fine, the next she was beyond
miserable. Thankfully she made it into the bathroom before
a major upchuck.

Afterward, she knelt on the cold tile with her elbow
crooked on the toilet seat, too weak to get up — at least
for another couple seconds — feeling infuriated in general.

She knew she was getting an ulcer. This was the third time
in the last two weeks her stomach had done the revolt
thing, and healthy twenty-eight-year-old women with cast-
iron stomachs didn't hurl for no reason, so that had to be
it. An ulcer. An ulcer caused by stress.

It was tough for a fussy perfectionist who'd always been
big on responsibility and doing the right thing and making
everyone happy to suddenly take on wickedness. She was
trying. She was putting her whole heart into it. But it
definitely wasn't coming naturally, so she had to struggle
at it, and changing one's personality was unavoidably
stressful.

Her stomach rolled one more time, but the ghastly part of
the nausea seemed to have passed. She hoped. Slowly she
pushed to her feet, opened the glass doors to the shower,
and flicked on the faucets.

She'd had the clear glass shower doors put in last week.
That, and her sleeping naked, were two visible signs that
she was gaining on her wickedness goal. Another concrete
measure of progress were the purple satin sheets on her
bed. Temporarily she didn't have a guy to vent all this
new wildness on, but one thing at a time. Her stomach
needed to recover from all these personality upheavals
before she gave it any more stress.

By the time she climbed out of the shower, she was not
only feeling fine again, but picking up speed. She ran
naked into the kitchen to pop a bagel in the toaster, then
charged back to the bedroom to raid her closet. Since
ninety percent of her wardrobe consisted of either
designer Gap or designer Old Navy, the day's clothes
decision was hardly tricky. She opted for Gap today. T-
shirt. Sweatshirt. Jeans — not her favorite pair; they
bagged a little in the butt, but she should have known
better than to buy a size seven without trying them on;
they were always a little big.

Back in the bathroom, she poked in her contacts, smacked
on lip gloss, and ran a brush through her chin-length
blond hair — her hair was so fine it was already nearly
dry. Then she claimed the bagel and streaked for the front
door…taking ecstatic, if hurried, pleasure in galloping
over the white carpet. White. WHITE. White, thick, plush
and totally impractical. The print over the fireplace of
the eagle flying over silvery-green waters was another
splurge — she fiercely, fiercely loved that picture. But
both the print and the carpet were further proof that she
was mastering the indulgent, impractical, wicked thing.

Of course, the carpet wasn't paid for. And neither was
most everything else. But as of two months ago, she was no
longer renting. The duplex had a mighty mortgage, but it
was still hers-all-hers. Possibly she was the latest
bloomer of all late bloomers at twenty-eight, but what the
hey. She'd had to fight harder than most for true
independence, and for darn sure, she was grabbing life
with both fists now.

At the front door, she yanked on the jacket her parents
had given her for Christmas — a white Patagonia number
that was crazily impractical considering her work, but
unbeatably warm. And on the first of March in Minnesota,
there was still a solid, crusty foot of snow on the
ground, the temperature cold enough to make her eyes
sting. She locked the door, still pulling on her white cap
with the yellow yarn daisies. She'd have hat hair all day,
but who cared? She'd look like a train wreck after the
first hour of work anyway.

With the hot bagel crunched between her teeth, she slid
into the driver's seat of her old red Civic, turned the
key and begged it to start — which it did. The baby just
liked to be coaxed on cold mornings. Praying for the Civic
had become a second religion. The Civ had more than
200,000 miles on her. Lucy's newest theory was that if she
gave the car enough wash-and-waxes and changed its oil
long before it asked and vacuumed it twice a week, it'd be
too happy to die. At least until she got the living room
carpet and couch paid for.

In Rochester, where she'd grown up, people knew what rush
hour was. Not here. Eagle Lake probably put up traffic
lights out of pride, although some cars did show up to
keep her company once she reached the highway. Originally
she'd chosen Eagle because it was a nice, long drive from
her parents — and also because there was already a solid
nest of singles and other young couples in the area — but
it was a good half-hour commute to her job. She finished
the bagel, tuned the radio up for a kick-ass beat and was
singing hell-bent for leather when her stomach suddenly
produced an unladylike belch.

Not AGAIN. Yet the nausea came on like a battleship, heavy
and ugly and overwhelming. Her skin turned damp and hot so
fast she barely had time to pull over to the shoulder and
brake. Hands shaking, flushed and hot, she leaned over the
passenger side, argued with the door, thank God got it
open, arched her head out…and then nothing.

The bagel stayed in. The bite of freezing wind on her
cheeks seemed to help. Eventually she sank back against
the headrest, feeling weak and yucky, cars speeding past
her. The practical voice in her head ordered her to quit
messing around and call the doctor, enough was enough with
this nausea thing.

But her emotional side kept trying to figure out what
she'd done to deserve this. Yeah, she was trying to be
more wicked, but basically the sins on her conscience
wouldn't fill a list. She'd skipped school once in
kindergarten. She'd thought evil, evil thoughts about Aunt
Miranda — but then, so did everyone else in the family.
She'd gone to a party one time without underpants. She'd
let Eugene hang on too long. She'd borrowed her sister
Ginger's blue cashmere sweater in high school and got a
spot on it and never 'fessed up. And yeah, there was that
one other occasion.

She'd come to call that one other occasion the Night of
the Chocolate.

But as quickly as that memory surfaced, she shuffled it,
fast, into the part of her brain labeled Denial.

God — if there was a God, and she thought there was — just
couldn't be paying her back for that one. She'd already
suffered enough.

When it came down to it, she'd lived like a saint 99.99
percent of her life. She dusted under the refrigerator,
never took a penny that wasn't hers, always flossed. Her
family relentlessly teased her for becoming a fussy old
lady before she was thirty — which really hurt her
feelings.

The point, though, was that this stomach upset thing
wasn't a sign that her life was about to spin completely
out of control. It was just an ulcer or something like
that. A something that a visit to the doctor — however
inconvenient and annoying — would resolve once and for all.

And just like that, she felt better. Her hands stopped
trembling and the weak feeling almost completely
disappeared. Cautiously she restarted the car and pulled
out on the road. She didn't turn the radio up and sing
like her usual maniac self the rest of the way — why tempt
fate? Sometimes it paid to be superstitious.

Twenty minutes later, she was still okay. In fact, not
just okay, but feeling totally fine when she spotted the
thousand-acre fenced-in estate. She turned at the
tasteful, elegant sign for BERNARD'S.

The sign didn't bother spelling out Bernard Chocolates. It
didn't have to. Anyone on four continents — at least
anyone who appreciated fine chocolate — would easily
recognize the name.

Even though it was Lucy's second home, getting through the
property every morning was more complicated than joining
the CIA. Still, she was used to it. At the front gate, she
simply popped in ID to make the electricity security fence
open.

The driveway immediately forked in three directions. The
road to the right led to the plant. The middle road
meandered up to the Bernard mansion. Humming now, Lucy
took the familiar third road that curled and swirled a
half mile, bordered by lush pines and landscaped gardens.

A moment later she reached another electric fence — this
one fifteen feet tall, with a gate that was both locked
and manned 24/7. Instead of waving her through, Gordon
hiked outside when he spotted her crusty Honda. "Hell,
Miss Fitzhenry, I was about to call the cops. You're seven
minutes late. I was afraid you must be in an accident."

Sheesh. Was she that predictable? "I'm fine, honest. Did
you have a nice weekend?"

"Oh, yes. Me and the missus saw a good movie, had the
grandkids over. In the meantime — both Mr. Bernards are up
at the house. Asked me to tell you to stop by around ten
this morning if you could."

"Thanks. And you have a great morning," Lucy said as she
rolled up her window, but her pulse suddenly bucked like a
nervous colt's. Her pulse, not her stomach, thank heavens.
The nausea seemed to be totally gone — but she still
couldn't stop the sudden bolt of nerves.

The nerves were foolish, really. Any day now, she'd known
the Bernards would summon her for a serious meeting. Her
last experiments had been beyond successful — so
successful that they affected the entire future of the
company. That was great news, not bad.

It was just that she normally met with Orson Bernard, not
his grandson. On paper she reported to the senior Bernard,
and God knew, she adored the older man, loved being with
him and working with him both. Still, Orson was well over
seventy and long retired. Everyone knew who really signed
the paychecks these days.

It wasn't as if Lucy didn't like Raul Nicholas Bernard.
She did. Orson's grandson was too darned adorable and
charming and sexy not to like. Everyone liked Nick.