Pacific Heat

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Pacific Heat

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘DIANE HARAN!’

Olivia was stunned. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever expected to be offered such an assignment. To be invited to write Diane Haran’s extraordinary rags-to-riches story was amazing. Diane Haran: screen goddess; model; superstar—and the woman who five years ago had walked off with Olivia’s husband.

‘Yes, Diane Haran,’ repeated Kay Goldsmith, rather impatiently. ‘You have heard of her, I suppose? Well, of course you have. Everybody has. She’s world-famous. What is amazing about this is that Diane Haran should have heard of you.’

Olivia took a deep breath and stared at her agent. ‘What do you mean? Diane Haran’s heard about me?’

‘Well, it was her idea that you should be the first to be offered the opportunity to be her biographer. She’d read your book about Eileen Cusack, I believe, and she’d obviously been impressed with your approach.’

‘Really?’

Olivia knew she sounded cynical, but she couldn’t help it. The theory that Diane Haran might have come up with the idea of asking her to be her biographer based on Olivia’s interpretation of the Irish poet’s tragic existence was laughable. Eileen Cusack had been a heroine in the truest sense of the word, balancing the needs of her family against a crippling bone-wasting disease, and writing some of the most beautiful lyrical verse besides. She’d died just a few weeks after her biography was published, but Olivia knew she would never forget her bravery or her sweetness.

Diane Haran was neither brave nor sweet. She was selfish and manipulative and greedy. She’d been introduced to Richard Haig at a party his agency had given for the then rising star they’d hoped to represent And, even though she’d known he was married—Olivia had been at the party, too, for heaven’s sake—she hadn’t hesitated about seducing him away from his wife.

‘Liv?’

Kay’s curious enquiry brought Olivia’s attention back to the present and she realised she had been staring into space for quite some time. But the idea that Diane Haran should have suggested that she might want to play any part in her biography was ludicrous, and it was time she explained that to Kay.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said, and when Kay’s dark eyes widened in disbelief she pushed back her chair and got up from the desk, crossing the room to stare out of the window. Below Kay’s office window, high in a tower block near the embankment, the city traffic created a constant hum of sound. But it was reassuring to know that life was going on regardless. For a moment, she’d felt an awful sense of time suspended.

‘What do you mean, you can’t do it?’ Kay was on her feet now, coming round the desk to join her at the window, her plump, diminutive form accentuating Olivia’s height and the extreme slenderness of her figure. ‘Have you any idea what’s on offer here? A fantastic fee, a share in the royalties, and the chance to spend a few months in the sun.’

Olivia looked down at her companion. ‘A few months in the sun?’ she echoed, compelled into an involuntary reply.

‘That’s right.’ Kay explained. ‘She wants you to go out to California and spend some time with her. She’s almost through making her current movie and her agent says she’ll have some free time before the next one is due to start shooting in September.’

Olivia’s mouth was dry. ‘Her agent?’ she said faintly.

‘Yes. Phoebe Isaacs, of the Isaacs and Stone agency. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of them, but they’re pretty big in the film business. Phoebe Isaacs is quite a tough cookie, as they say on the other side of the water.’

Olivia blinked. ‘You’re saying that this Phoebe Isaacs was the person who contacted you?’

‘That’s right.’ Kay sensed the younger woman was weakening and attempted to press her case. ‘But make no mistake, it was Diane Haran herself who chose this agency, because she knew you were one of my clients.’

Olivia blew out a breath. ‘I still can’t do it,’ she said, even though her mind was buzzing with what Kay had just said. As far as she’d known, Richard was Diane’s agent. That was the carrot she’d dangled in front of him all those years ago. As if her own undisputed beauty hadn’t been enough.

‘Why not?’

Kay was irritated, and Olivia couldn’t really blame her. After all, the deal she was being offered was considerably more generous than anything she’d been offered thus far in her career. But then, her association with Kay was only three years old. Kay didn’t know why she and her ex-husband had separated. It wasn’t something she talked about these days, and when Richard had left her she’d still been working for the women’s magazine she’d joined when she first left college.

‘I just can’t,’ she insisted now, and, feeling slightly intimidated by Kay’s frustration, she went back to the desk. ‘You don’t understand,’ she added, pressing her hot palms down onto the cool wood. ‘I—I’ve met Diane Haran. Years ago. And I didn’t like her.’

Kay groaned. ‘You don’t have to like her!’ she exclaimed, returning to her own side of the desk. ‘And it’s obvious she doesn’t remember you. Or if she does—and if she knew how you felt—she doesn’t hold any grudges. She wants you to write the story of how she became successful against all the odds. She’s not looking for a lifelong commitment. Just a few short weeks of your time.’

Olivia licked her lips. The idea of flying out to California, of spending several weeks, or even months, with Diane Haran, was anathema to her. It wasn’t just that she disliked the woman. She hated her, she despised her. She blamed her totally for the break-up of her marriage. She and Richard had been happy together. Everyone had said they were the ideal couple. They’d known one another since their college days, and when Richard asked her to marry him she’d been in seventh heaven.

She hadn’t been able to believe her luck, she remembered now, recalling how envious all her friends had been. Richard Haig had been the most attractive boy she’d ever seen, and one of the few people in her year who was actually taller than she was. At five feet ten, she’d always regarded her height as a drawback, but Richard had assured her he loved willowy women. The fact that she wasn’t beautiful or outstandingly clever hadn’t seemed to bother him either. For some reason, he had fallen in love with her, and she’d had no doubt that they’d live happily ever after...

‘I can’t do it,’ she said again, aware that Kay was watching her closely. ‘Kay, I’m flattered, but I’m sorry. This assignment just isn’t for me.’

‘You still haven’t given me a decent reason why not,’ retorted Kay, bumping down in her chair. ‘Dammit, Liv, this is a chance of a lifetime. I can’t let you throw it away.’

Olivia hesitated, and then sank down in her chair again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I suppose I do owe you an explanation. I can’t work for Diane Haran because I—know—the man she’s married to—’

‘Richard Haig?’ Her ex-husband’s name tripped carelessly off Kay’s tongue, and Olivia made a concerted attempt not to show her surprise. ‘Hey, you don’t have to worry about that. From what I hear their marriage is on the rocks.’

Olivia swallowed. ‘On the rocks?’

‘So I hear.’ Kay nodded. ‘I gather they’ve been having problems for some time. He drinks, you know. Or at least that’s the story. My guess is that some other man must have caught her eye.’

Olivia stared at her. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Why not?’ Kay was dismissive. ‘You have to admit that this marriage has lasted longer than the other two she’s had. Who was the first? Oh, yes, Gordon Rogers. She only lived with him for a couple of months.’

‘I—I thought she’d only been married once—once before,’ murmured Olivia faintly, but the woman opposite shook her head.

‘No. Don’t you remember that actor Christian de Hanna? When she found out he was a needle-pusher, she threw him out.’

Olivia felt dazed. ‘So—who is she seeing now?’ she asked, trying to sound as if she was only casually interested, and Kay lay back in her chair with a rueful sigh.

‘Search me,’ she said. ‘That’s the million-dollar question. But you can be sure that he’s got something your friend doesn’t have.’

‘My friend?’

For a moment, Olivia was confused, and Kay gave her a searching look.

‘Richard Haig,’ she said irritably. ‘Our benefactor’s current husband If you want him, you can have him. Take my word for it.’

Olivia’s lips parted. Was she so transparent? she wondered in dismay. With the little information she’d given Kay, had she exposed her feelings so clearly? ‘I don’t want him,’ she declared hastily, but the words didn’t sound convincing to her. The truth was, she did want him. She always had.

‘Well, that’s up to you,’ said Kay briskly, evidently deciding she’d said enough. ‘But I would seriously advise you not to turn this offer down. I don’t think you realise the impact it could have, not just on the public but on your career. And goodness knows, you’d be in a position to pick up any number of other commissions at the same time.’

Olivia looked down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. She couldn’t do this, she told herself fiercely, however attractive Kay was making it sound. She couldn’t work with Diane Haran, not knowing what she’d done to Richard. And if Richard needed her he knew where to find her. It wasn’t up to her to go looking for him.

But what if he was humiliated by what had happened? a small voice chided in her ear. What if he regretted the break-up of their marriage now, but was too ashamed of his own actions to approach her again? Richard had his pride, and their divorce had been rather acrimonious. He’d done his best to make her a scapegoat, and Olivia had been left feeling battered and bruised.

Which was another reason why she should refuse this commission, the same small voice reminded her sharply. Did she really want to lay herself open to that kind of emotional abuse again? And she wouldn’t be working for Richard; she’d be working for Diane Haran. There was no guarantee that she’d even see him, if what Kay was saying was true. No matter how tempting it might be to imagine a reconciliation between them, she was thinking with her heart, not her head.

Realising Kay was waiting for her to say something, she asked the question that had first sprung into her mind. ‘Why California?’ she enquired. ‘Doesn’t she live in England any more?’

‘I understand she has homes in both England and the United States,’ said Kay immediately. ‘Oh, and a villa in the South of France, as well. But as most of her films are made in America I suppose she finds it most convenient to live there.’

Olivia’s mind boggled. She found it hard to conceive what it must be like to be so rich. Diane had probably found it hard, too, she acknowledged. At least, to begin with. A council flat in the East End of London was where she’d lived for the first fifteen years of her life.

‘You’d have to do some research here,’ Kay commented, almost as if Olivia had agreed to her request. ‘Her family have all moved away from Bermondsey, of course, thanks to Diane’s generosity. But I expect there’ll still be people there who remember her as a child. Schoolfriends, neigh-bours, and so on.’

Olivia regarded the other woman wryly. ‘I do know how to go about researching a subject’s background,’ she remarked, wishing Kay would just let it go. But what she wished most of all was that Diane had never asked for her; had never ignited the spark of unwilling excitement that the thought of seeing Richard again could bring.

Kay had straightened in her chair now, and was watching her closely, and Olivia felt the heat from her thoughts invading the pale hollows of her throat. ‘Does this mean you’re thinking of accepting the commission?’ Kay asked, leaning across her desk, and Olivia drew back from that avid stare.

‘I—I have no desire to work with Diane Haran,’ she insisted tensely, but they both knew that she hadn’t actually said no.

Olivia got back to her flat in the late afternoon. Situated on the top floor of an old Victorian town house, the flat was her home and her refuge, the place where she’d sought sanctuary when Richard had got his divorce. Until the divorce, they’d been living in a pretty semi-detached house in Chiswick, but even without its unhappy memories Olivia couldn’t afford to keep it on. Instead, she’d moved into this rather gloomy apartment in Kensington and over the years she’d transformed its narrow rooms and draughty hallways into a place of light and beauty.

Henry came to meet her as she opened the door. Rubbing himself against her legs, he showed her how much he had missed her, but Olivia wasn’t deceived. He was hungry, and he was reminding her it was his dinner time, and for the first time since she’d left Kay’s office Olivia’s generous lips curved in a smile.

‘It’s all right. I haven’t forgotten you,’ she said, juggling the two bags she’d brought from the supermarket and shouldering the door closed behind her. ‘How does salmon and shrimp appeal to you?’ Henry purred his approval as Olivia started down the hall. ‘I should have known,’ she added ruefully. ‘It’s only cupboard love.’

The kitchen smelled reassuringly of the plants and herbs she cultivated so assiduously. Trailing fronds of greenery brushed her face as she deposited the bags on the counter. There were daffodils on the window-ledge, providing a vivid splash of colour, and although the skies were overcast outside the kitchen was bright and cosily immune from the cold March wind.

Once Henry had been dealt with, Olivia filled the kettle and set it to boil. She would eat later, but for now she thought she deserved a hot, sweet cup of tea. As she put the food she’d bought away, she tried not to think of Diane Haran and her commission. This was her home; she didn’t want to sully it with thoughts of her ex-husband’s lover. She’d felt safe here, secure, far from the misery that loving Richard had brought

With the tea made, she had no excuse for lingering in the kitchen, and, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the office she’d created for herself. With the walls lined with books—both for pleasure and for reference—and a modern computer and printer, it was comfortingly familiar, her desk still as cluttered with papers as it had been when she went out.

Taking a sip of her tea, she perched on the old leather diplomat chair she’d bought at a warehouse sale three years ago, and regarded the clutter resignedly. She’d been planning on spending some time catching up with her correspondence, but there were still notes and discarded pages of manuscript from her last book lying around. That was why she’d been to see Kay that afternoon: to hear her judgement on her latest profile of a woman sailor. Suzanne Howard had sailed single-handedly around the world at the age of seventy-three.

The fact that Kay had been delighted by the manuscript had been eclipsed by the conversation they’d had about Diane Haran. But Olivia was relieved to know that what she was producing was still on track. When her first book—a biography of Catherine Parr, the only one of his six wives to have survived Henry the Eighth—had been successful, she’d been afraid it was only a one-off, that her next book would bomb as many second books did. But the life of Eileen Cusack had proved a best-seller, and that had encouraged her to approach the Howard family last year.

She wondered if Richard knew what she was doing. When he’d walked out, she’d been working for Milady magazine, with no prospect of improving her career. Perhaps if he hadn’t walked out she wouldn’t have found the nerve to tackle a book, she thought consideringly. It was true that he’d always made fun of the gossipy pieces she’d been paid to produce for the magazine.

Which brought her back to the subject she’d been trying to avoid ever since she’d left Kay’s office. Was she actually going to write Diane Haran’s story—or at least as much of it as the public would be permitted to know?

The shrilling of the telephone was a welcome escape from her thoughts, and, pushing back a strand of dark, tof-fee-coloured hair, she reached for the receiver. It crossed her mind, as she brought it to her ear, that it could be Kay, but it was too late now. Besides, she was fairly sure that Kay was satisfied that she’d promised to think about the commission. She was unlikely to try and push her any further. Not today, anyway.

‘Yes?’

‘Liv. At last!’ It was her father. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.’ He paused, and when she didn’t instantly jump in with an explanation he continued, ‘Are you all right? Not having a problem with the new book, are you?’

‘No.’ Olivia blew out a breath. ‘No, Kay’s very happy with it, as it happens.’ She forced herself to sound positive.

Her father and stepmother had supported her all through her divorce from Richard, and they’d be most disturbed to hear what she was thinking of doing. ‘I—er—I was just at the supermarket. I’ve just got in.’

‘Ah.’ Matthew Pyatt sounded relieved. ‘Well, your mother and I were wondering if you’d like to come for supper.’ He always referred to her stepmother as her mother. After all, she had acted as such since Olivia was barely five years old. ‘We’ve got something we want to discuss with you, and as we haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks we thought it would kill two birds with one stone. What do you think?’

‘Oh, Dad—’ Olivia wasn’t enthusiastic. After the afternoon she’d had, she’d been looking forward to doing nothing more energetic than putting a frozen pizza in the microwave and curling up with a bottle of wine. Besides, she needed time to think before Kay came back to her. And she wasn’t sure she could hide her anxieties from them. ‘Could I take a rain check?’

‘There is something wrong.’ Her father had always been incredibly perceptive, which was one of the reasons why she’d hoped to put him off. ‘What is it? What’s happened? You might as well tell me.’

Olivia sighed. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said, not very convincingly, she had to admit. ‘I’m—tired, that’s all. It’s been a stressful few weeks, finishing the book and—’

‘Why are you stressed?’ Her father broke in before she could warm to her theme. ‘You’re not being harassed by some man, are you? You read about these things in the papers—young women who live alone being terrorised in their homes. I’ve never been entirely happy with the security at the flat. Anyone can get in downstairs.’

‘No, they can’t.’ Olivia was impatient. ‘You know visitors have to use the intercom to get in.’

‘But when that door opens to admit a legitimate visitor anyone can push in with them,’ retorted her father. ‘I know. When I used to install heating systems, you’d be surprised at how many robberies there were.’

Olivia had to smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that the way it sounded.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Her father snorted. ‘And you’re not going to avoid an answer by being smug.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Olivia gave in. ‘I’ll come for supper.’ She suppressed her misgivings. ‘Just give me time to take a shower and change. Is eight o’clock all right?’

The Pyatts lived in Chiswick, just a stone’s throw from the station. It gave Olivia quite a pang getting off the train at Grove Park station. For the four years that she and Richard had been married, she’d got off there every evening on her way home from work. But at least her father’s house lay in the opposite direction to the one she used to take. The Pyatts’ house was detached, with double gates and a block paved drive leading to the front door.

Her stepmother opened the door to her.

‘Liv, my dear.’ Alice Pyatt reached up to bestow a warm kiss on her stepdaughter’s cheek. ‘Your father’s just gone down to the cellar to get some wine. He’ll be annoyed he wasn’t here to greet you himself. He’s been watching for you for the past half-hour.’

‘Am I late?’ Olivia let her stepmother help her off with her coat before stepping into the living room. There was a fire glowing in the hearth, and she moved towards it gratefully. ‘Mmm, this is cosy. I miss an open fire at the flat.’

Alice draped Olivia’s overcoat over the banister and followed her stepdaughter into the room. ‘You’re not late,’ she assured her. ‘It’s your father who’s anxious. Now, what can I get you to drink? Sherry, perhaps, or a G and T?’

‘Will I need one?’ Olivia sank down into the armchair nearest the fire. ‘You’re looking well. Is that a new shade of lipstick you’re wearing?’

‘I am, and it is, but you’re not going to get out of your father’s questions that way,’ responded Alice, with a smile.

‘And I have to say you do look rather peaky. Something is wrong, isn’t it? Your father’s seldom mistaken.’

Olivia sighed. ‘Nothing’s wrong exactly,’ she said, shaking her head at her stepmother’s offer of the sherry she was pouring herself. ‘I’ll wait for the wine,’ she added as Alice came to sit opposite her. And then, ‘I don’t look peaky, do I? I’m just feeling a bit—nervy, that’s all.’