Shattered Illusions

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.

Shattered Illusions

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE shouldn’t have come.

The feeling grew stronger every minute she was kept waiting in this beautiful room, which was nothing like any office she had ever imagined.

But office it was, despite the drifting clouds of chiffon at the long windows. A place where Catriona Redding wrote her very successful novels, regardless of the famous paintings that looked down from the silk-hung walls.

Jaime drew a steadying breath.

The desk alone must have cost a small fortune. A singular slab of polished granite, its surface was strewn with the evidence of Catriona Redding’s profession. Files, books, a veritable plethora of pens and pencils; Jaime already knew that she preferred to write her books in longhand, and who could blame her? Sitting in this room, which reflected the light of the huge outdoor pool that flanked it, with the sweep of Copperhead Bay beyond, the clatter of keys would have been an intrusion, even from the computer that Jaime would be expected to employ.

If she was taken on for the probationary two weeks...

And she was by no means certain that she would be. Although she had passed the preliminary interview with Catriona Redding’s agent in London, she had still to meet the woman herself, had still to be approved by her proposed employer. It had been made clear to her from the outset that Catriona Redding would make the final decision. For all she was here in Bermuda, the job still hung in the balance.

She cast another look about her, wondering if leaving her here in this impressive apartment was intended to intimidate her. She knew so little about the woman she had come here to meet, and the longer she remained in isolation, the more doubtful about her own motives she became.

What was she doing here? she asked herself. What did she hope to achieve? Did she really want to be Catriona Redding’s secretary, even briefly? She was a lecturer in English, for heaven’s sake. It was years since she’d taken orders from anyone.

She knew the obvious answer, of course. She wanted to meet Catriona Redding. She wanted to meet her, and get to know her in an unthreatening capacity, to try and find out why she’d done what she had. It had seemed the easiest—if not the wisest—way of achieving her ambitions, without embarrassing either herself or Catriona Redding. If she was taken on, she’d worry about her choices then. For now, she was content to take one day at a time.

Or she had been until a rather snooty housekeeper had shown her into Catriona Redding’s study...

The instructions she had been given in London had been explicit. She was to regard this interview—at Catriona Redding’s luxury estate in Bermuda—as a preliminary to being given two weeks’ probationary tenure. In consequence, she had been advised to bring her immediate needs with her, and should the position be made permanent she should make arrangements for the rest of her belongings to be sent on.

Which had seemed reasonable enough, and Jaime had quite enjoyed the unfamiliar trip across the Atlantic. She’d always liked flying, and her seat in the British Airways jet had been very comfortable. Had she not had a germ of apprehension beavering away in the pit of her stomach, she might have been able to appreciate the trip for its own sake. She had never crossed the Atlantic before, and although Bermuda was not a West Indian island it was situated nearer to the American continent than anywhere else.

And that was probably why she was feeling so uneasy now, she decided. The holidays she’d taken in Europe had not prepared her for the effects of jet lag, and although it was a sunny evening here in Bermuda her body clock was telling her it was already after eleven. She was tired. That was why so many doubts were assailing her. When she’d had a good night’s sleep, she’d feel much more optimistic.

But before that happened...

A sudden splash, as if of an object striking water, alerted her to the fact that someone was using the pool outside. The patio windows were slightly ajar, as witness the billowing curtains, but even if she had not been able to hear the rippling water she’d have guessed what was happening by the patterns spreading on the ceiling above her head.

She was tempted to get up and see who it was. But the anxiety—fear—that it might be Catriona Redding kept her anchored to her seat. Besides, she did not want to be caught spying on whoever might be using the pool. She had to remember she was here for an interview, and, as such, she would be unwise to risk losing the job out of curiosity.

All the same, her eyes were drawn in that direction, and she felt a twinge of envy for whoever had the right to cool off in that way. For all the room was air-conditioned, she could feel the draught of warm air coming in through the crack in the windows, and her nerves were working overtime to send an unpleasant trickle of perspiration down her spine.

A shadow moved beyond the windows, and she realised the swimmer had emerged from the pool. She saw the silhouette of a man, tall and dark, moving with a lithe grace across the tiled apron. His back was to her, for which she was grateful, for when he bent to lift a towel from one of the chairs that faced the water she was almost sure he was naked.

Her mouth dried instantly. Whoever he was, he was obviously someone Catriona Redding knew well. She blinked. It was something that had not occurred to her. That the woman might be involved with someone else. Which was foolish, she acknowledged impatiently. Successful women could have their pick of admirers.

All the same, Catriona Redding had to be fifty, if she was a day, and the man who had drawn Jaime’s eyes appeared to be in the prime of his life. Though she couldn’t really tell through the drifting veils of chiffon. It was just an impression she had received from the casual indolence of his stride.

She swallowed uneasily, hoping that, whoever he was, he wouldn’t decide to enter the house through the study’s inviting windows. Could she get up and close them before he noticed? Would he think she’d been spying on him, if he glimpsed her through the glass? She didn’t know why she had such a strong compulsion to avoid a complete stranger, but she breathed a little more freely when he moved away.

Her relief at this escape almost overshadowed the sudden opening of the door. But the reminder of why she was here brought her automatically to her feet, and she was already schooling her features when Catriona Redding turned to face her.

‘Miss Harris?’ The name could mean nothing to her, and the hand she held out to Jaime was as cool and impersonal as she could have expected. Slim fingers, their elegance enhanced by several gold rings—none of them a wedding ring—gripped Jaime’s fingers briefly. ‘Please sit down, Miss Harris,’ she instructed smoothly, seating herself in the grey leather chair across the desk. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’

Jaime struggled to find her tongue. She hadn’t expected to be so affected by this first meeting, and it was galling to feel as nervous as she did. She was an honours graduate, for God’s sake. For the past five years she had been lecturing to students who should have been far more intimidating than one woman. But the fact remained she was tongue-tied, as much by Catriona Redding’s appearance as anything else.

The woman was quite simply stunning. Her silken cap of silvery blonde hair, tinted perhaps, framed a face that showed little evidence of its years. Dark blue eyes, between sooty lashes, were spaced wide above well-marked cheekbones. A delicately shaped nose set off a mouth that was full-lipped without being exactly generous. And her skin was smooth and unblemished, and only lightly touched with a golden tan.

Jaime didn’t quite know what she had expected, or quite why she was as surprised as she was. She’d seen Catriona Redding’s picture on the jackets of her books, so she should have been prepared for this. But the reality was so much more shocking than the image had ever been.

‘Is something wrong?’

Jaime’s hands clenched in her lap. Pull yourself together, she chided herself angrily. Do you want her to think you’re naive as well as stupid?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said hurriedly, hoping she didn’t sound too sycophantic. ‘It’s just such a—a thrill—for me, meeting you in the flesh. I’ve—read all your books, Miss Redding.’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’m a great admirer of your work.’

Was she?

‘You are?’ Apparently the other woman accepted this without question. A wintry smile appeared. ‘Do you have a favourite? I’m always interested to hear which books strike a chord with my readers.’

Jaime swallowed. For a moment her mind went blank, and she couldn’t remember even one of the titles. But then rationality returned, and she found what she was looking for. Even if it was difficult to be objective when she’d read all twenty books in less than a month.

‘I—I think I enjoyed Heartless best,’ she answered, wondering if her choice, which had been made at random, possessed some hidden meaning she was unaware of. After all, her father would probably say the title was appropriate, but she didn’t want to think of Robert Michaels right now.

Thankfully, her answer seemed to satisfy her would-be employer, and she made some deprecatory comment that allowed Jaime a little more time to study her appearance. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed that Catriona Redding was in her late thirties. There was an air of agelessness about her that was deliberately enhanced by the rather severely tailored suit she was wearing.

‘I believe you’ve been living in London, Miss Harris,’ she prompted now, and Jaime endeavoured to keep her mind on why she was supposed to be here. Why she was here, dammit, she reminded herself fiercely. It wouldn’t do to appear too overwhelmed at the prospect of working with the famous author.

‘Um—yes,’ she replied, aware that she was being given a penetrating appraisal in her turn. ‘I—er—I’ve been working as a research assistant at the university.’

‘So I see.’ Catriona consulted the file she had taken from the pile on her desk. ‘Impressive qualifications for someone who wants to work as my secretary.’ She lifted her head. ‘Do you mind telling me why you want this job?’

Jaime drew a breath, and started on the explanation she had devised for just this situation. ‘I’ve been restless for some time,’ she said, which was also true. ‘And, before I got my degree, I took time out to get some secretarial qualifications, and worked for nine months as a secretary in a small publishing house. That—that was what first inspired my interest in your books, Miss Redding. One of the girls I worked with lent me Harvest Moon, and—and I’ve been a fan ever since.’

‘And this—interest in my work encouraged you to give up your position at the university?’

Catriona sounded sceptical, and Jaime couldn’t altogether blame her.

‘Partly,’ she answered carefully. ‘But, as I said before, I was already dissatisfied with my job. Researching ancient languages can become boring, Miss Redding. I was looking for something new, and when I saw your advertisement it seemed like an amazing coincidence.’

‘I see.’

Catriona continued to regard her with that faint air of suspicion, and Jaime had to control the impulse to check that her hair was still neatly confined in its braid or that her lipstick wasn’t smudged. There was no way this woman could know that she had not been employed as a research assistant, she assured herself. Her superior at the college was a friend, and it had only meant twisting his words a little.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ Catriona suggested at last. ‘My agent dealt with your qualifications, and the salary that’s on offer. I want to know a few personal details, Miss Harris. Tell me about your family.’

Jaime moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have a family, Miss Redding.’ Then, taking a chance, she said, ‘My father died a few months ago, and I have no other close relations.’

‘No husband?’ Catriona consulted her notes again. ‘I see from your application that you’re almost thirty, Miss Harris. Aren’t you interested in getting married?’

‘Not at present.’

Jaime wasn’t at all convinced that such a question was warranted. Just because Catriona Redding wrote passionate novels about relationships between the sexes, that did not give her the right to probe the psyches of her employees. If she had been applying for this job in a purely impersonal capacity, she would have resented it. As it was, she put it down to Catriona’s curiosity and nothing else.

‘But you do want to get married one day?’ the woman was asking now, and Jaime wondered what she was implying. Did she want some committed career woman, who wouldn’t waste a second glance on a man? Or was there some other reason for her interest?

‘Maybe,’ she conceded at last. And then, because something more was needed, she added, ‘My work didn’t leave a lot of time for socialising.’

Catriona frowned. ‘I hope you don’t see this job as a sinecure, Miss Harris. That is to say, working for me will not be an easy ride. I tend to work long hours without a break, and my personal deadlines are demanding, to say the least.’

‘I’m not looking for an easy option, Miss Redding,’ Jaime assured her hurriedly. ‘If you suspect that the prospect of working here, in such idyllic surroundings, was the main reason I applied for this job, you couldn’t be more wrong. Of course, it’s more attractive than—than where I used to work, but I’m not overawed by my surroundings. If you give me an opportunity to prove myself, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.’

‘So you haven’t come here looking for a wealthy husband, Miss Harris?’ And before Jaime could voice her indignation she went on, ‘It’s not been unknown. My last assistant made quite a nuisance of herself, and I’m afraid I had to dismiss her.’ She paused. ‘But you look a much more—sensible girl. Kristin was a flirt, and far too concerned with her own appearance.’

Which was as good as saying that she was unattractive, and therefore no competition, thought Jaime drily. How could someone who wrote such sensitive prose be so insensitive herself? She caught her upper lip between her teeth. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start by disliking the woman. This was going to be so much harder than she’d thought.

‘I’m not interested in finding a husband, Miss Redding,’ she assured her firmly. ‘I think I can safely say you will not have to fire me on those terms. I simply want a change of—focus. As I said in my application, I should very much like to work with you.’

The sincerity in her tone was convincing—as well it should be, reflected Jaime, with an inner smile. If Catriona Redding had lived in the wilds of Alaska or the slums of Calcutta, she would have been just as keen to work for her. But even she drew back from admitting that.

‘Very well.’ Catriona rose from her seat, and walked with unhurried grace to the long windows. Drawing the filmy curtain aside, she looked out on the pool area outside. Whatever she saw beyond the windows seemed to please her, for when she turned back to Jaime she was wearing a much more indulgent expression. ‘Very well,’ she said again. ‘As my agent will have informed you, I’m prepared to offer a two-week trial, if that’s agreeable to you. Naturally, you will be given the same privilege.’ Her smile intimated how generous the offer was. ‘We’ll soon find out if we—suit one another.’ She paused. ‘All right?’

She’d done it.

Jaime’s breath left her lungs in a rush. ‘All right,’ she echoed, amazed to hear that her voice sounded so normal. And then, because she felt it was expected of her, she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Good.’ Catriona walked back to her desk and pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Sophie?’ She cast a look at Jaime as she waited. ‘Sophie’s my housekeeper,’ she explained. And then, as the woman answered, she said, ‘Yes, Sophie. I’ve decided to offer Miss—um—Harris the job. She’ll be starting work tomorrow. Can you come and show her to her apartments, please?’

Her rooms were situated in a kind of annexe. It was attached to the main house by means of a vine-hung walkway, which even at this hour of the evening was fragrant with the scent of the pale pink flowers that grew there. The pool she had glimpsed earlier was just visible beyond the white-painted wall of the house, and from a dusk-shaded cupola came the drowsy sound of doves.

Idyllic surroundings indeed, she reflected, still basking in the glow of her success. The only fly in her particular ointment was the housekeeper, Sophie, who still maintained the air of superiority she’d adopted when she’d first shown Jaime into the house.

The door to her apartments had a key, she noticed with some relief, but it wasn’t locked, and Sophie thrust it open without ceremony. ‘I’m sure you’ll find you have everything you need here,’ she declared, using the switch by the door to turn on several lamps. ‘Miss Spencer had no complaints. She was very happy here.’

‘Was she?’

Jaime was beginning to get an inkling as to why Sophie resented her. Evidently, this Miss Spencer was the Kristin Catriona Redding had spoken of so disparagingly, but Sophie clearly considered that she should still have the job.

Deciding there was no point in pursuing the matter, Jaime surveyed the living room they had entered with real pleasure. ‘Did you do this, Sophie?’ she asked, indicating an arrangement of hibiscus and bird of paradise flowers that occupied a prominent position on a low table. Dark green waxy leaves cradled petals of crimson and orange, and it was no effort to admire them as she crossed the Chinese rug. ‘They’re beautiful!’

‘Miss Redding has a standing order with a firm of florists in Hamilton,’ responded Sophie dampeningly. She opened another door to display an adjoining bedroom. ‘Your bathroom is through there.’

‘It’s very nice. Thank you.’

Jaime refused to be daunted, and after another encompassing look about the room Sophie made for the door. ‘Miss Redding will advise you of the eating arrangements tomorrow morning at breakfast,’ she added brusquely. ‘I’ll have Samuel fetch your supper in fifteen minutes.’

Jaime was inclined to say that she didn’t want any supper, thank you, but it would have seemed ungrateful to refuse. Besides, although she was tired, she was doubtful if she’d be able to sleep right away. She was far too excited to relax.

‘My suitcase...’ she ventured instead as Sophie went out the door, and the housekeeper turned back to give her a disdainful look.

‘You’ll find your suitcase in the bedroom,’ she advised crisply. ‘Samuel attended to it earlier. Even if Miss Redding hadn’t decided to employ you, naturally you’d have been offered a bed for the night.’

‘Oh.’ Jaime felt suitably chastened. ‘Thank you.’

‘Miss Redding’s orders,’ declared Sophie, disclaiming all responsibility. ‘Goodnight, Miss Harris. I hope you sleep well.’

Do you?

Jaime closed the door behind the housekeeper with a sense of relief. There was no doubt in her mind that Sophie didn’t hope any such thing. Biting her lip, she turned the key before turning to reappraise her surroundings. Whatever else might happen, she was certainly going to have no complaints about her comfort while she was here.

It was almost dark, the twilight much shorter here than in England. The lamps Sophie had turned on had made the room clearly visible from outside, but before she drew the blinds she took a moment to admire the view.

There was a balcony beyond the windows, with a glass-topped table and a pair of rattan chairs. But it was the sweeping curve of the bay beyond the shrubbery that caught her imagination. And a sea which at this hour of the evening was painted with gold.

The room was even cosier when the curtains were drawn. A pair of rose-patterned sofas faced one another across a marble hearth, with the long low table that held the exotic flower arrangement between. There were several polished cabinets, one of which contained a television, and a single-stemmed mahogany table, and several matching mahogany chairs with velvet seats.

A huge Chinese rug covered most of the floor, but in the bedroom next door a cream shag pile was soft beneath her feet. Kicking off her shoes, she allowed her toes to curl into the carpet, imagining how disappointed her predecessor must have felt to be leaving all this behind.

The bedroom was dominated by a large, colonial-style bed, whose ruched counterpane matched the ruched silk curtains at the bedroom windows. The colour scheme of cream and gold was echoed in pale striped wallpaper, with the dark mahogany armoire and chest of drawers proving an attractive contrast.

Her suitcase was waiting on the padded ottoman at the foot of the bed, and she was releasing the clasps when she heard someone knock at the outer door. Her supper, she guessed ruefully, going to answer it. Whatever faults Sophie had, efficiency wasn’t one of them.