Let's sum up the believability factor of this book in one simple example. The owner of a lumber company tells the female lead that few if any people today--definitely not he--can recognize and name trees simply by looking at their bark and leaves. This is on a par with a master chef stating that few people--definitely not she--can name a spice by tasting it.
Not convinced? Here's another. For seven years this woman has gone from one small town to another, lying to the locals, weaseling her way into their lives, gaining their trust, and assessing how she can best get them to sell out and move to a condo in the city. She is a master (mistress?) at this. And yet, coming upon the town which is the center of this story, she is bowled over by the down-home-ness of one woman's country cooking, one couple's foreign accent, one woman's mental collapse as a result of her daughter's death, and of course, the requisite hunky man-meat with a wounded heart who will never let himself love again. See anything in that list that you wouldn't find in every other heartland-USA small town?
Okay, that part is funny. What isn't funny--what is simply irritating--is that this master of deceit seems never to be able to think of anything deceptive to say. She never says or does anything to demonstrate the masterful technique that we have been told makes her the best at what she does. She goes through her time in this town in a constant state of cognitive dissonance, torn between the need to complete her mission and the allure of this wonderful back-country life apparently unstained by Walmart and MacDonald's.
Nope, sorry. I'm willing to suspend my disbelief at the door to a certain extent, but this is just ridiculous.