A Savage Beauty

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.

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was foggy, with one of those fogs that blanketed down suddenly, without warning, and soaked one through with a kind of heavy mist which was much more chilling than actual rain.

It was a night for hugging firesides, thought Emma wearily, pushing her loosened damp hair back from her face for the umpteenth time, and glancing back fearfully along the road behind her as though afraid that something might come hurtling out of the gloom towards her, demolishing her in seconds. She would not have believed she could be within a thirty mile radius of London and yet still find a road which as yet had not a sign of habitation. It was ludicrous really, doubly so when she thought of the annoyance of losing her way in the fog, which, combined with a body-shaking skirmish in a ditch, had left the car temporarily helpless. Added to that she had the ignominy of knowing that she might not easily be able to find the car again, even in daylight, for she hadn't the slightest idea where she was. She had been on the main Guildford to London road, but a roundabout had confused her and when she realized where she was her efforts to turn the car had resulted in her present predicament.

Victor would be furious. He had not wanted her to go to Guildford in the first place, and he had refused to accompany her because he had said she was foolish to go anywhere on such a cold and unpleasant evening. Possibly she had been foolish, she acceded now, but truth to tell, when she had set away from her London home it had only been raining, and no one could have foreseen with any certainty that the evening would turn out the way it had.

But she had gone to Stafford's every year on his birthday, and as he was her godfather and was in his eighties already, there would not be so many birthdays left for her to visit him. Victor said it was a duty visit, but it wasn't. Stafford Lawson might be old in years, but his mind was as active as ever, and Emma had always enjoyed her visits. It was fortunate, however, that Stafford was also partially blind, or he would never have allowed her to leave after the fog came down.

But Emma had wanted to get home. She had wanted to prove to Victor that she was perfectly capable of driving to Guildford without his escort, in spite of the weather. And now, here she was, lost and alone, without even the benefit of her car. Victor would be bound to find out. Tomorrow he would want to know where her car was and then…

She sighed. There was no point in worrying about what Victor might say yet. Her most pressing problem was to find some method of reaching a telephone so that she might summon a taxi and gain the comfort of her father's house in Kensington. What on earth would she do if she didn't come upon some form of habitation soon? And who might she find, she wondered uneasily, out here, miles from anywhere? There were so many stories of young women being lost without trace and her agile mind pondered the possibility of whether any of these disappearances had been in this area.

Angrily, she squashed these ideas. What on earth was she thinking of, allowing her imagination such dramatic rein? In a few minutes she would come upon a cluster of houses or a farm, and when she did so there would be people and lights and telephones, and offers of assistance.

But then another thought struck her. It had been quite late when she left Stafford's, now it must be nearing midnight, and who might be abroad or even awake at such a time? Farmers were early risers, and most probably that was why she had seen no lights. Everyone was in bed!

She shivered. She felt wet and cold and miserable, and this time she was unable to quell the feeling of unease that rose inside her. Whatever was she going to do?

And then, with scarcely a sound except the powerful hiss of heavy tyres on the wet road, she saw a car coming towards her, its yellow fog lamps gradually lifting a little of the gloom around her.

Emma was nonplussed. This was a contingency she had not considered. Who might be driving this car? After her uneasy thoughts of a few moments ago, she was quite prepared to believe that the car's occupant, or occupants, might be wholly undesirable. What ought she to do? What could she do? Stop the car and trust that the driver would be an understanding type, or hide until it had passed and hope nobody would notice her white leather coat? Left to herself, she might possibly have decided on the former, but Victor had influenced her life for so long that she automatically turned towards the hedge at the side of the road in an effort to conceal herself because she knew that that was what Victor would have expected her to do. And after all, it was late to expect many decent people to stop.

But although she was wearing boots, their soles were damp and slippery and when they encountered the greasy surface of the turf they caused her to slip and lose her balance. For a moment she remained poised between safety and disaster, desperately trying to right herself, and then, as there was nothing to grab on to and save herself, she fell backwards, awkwardly, into the path of the oncoming automobile.

There was the instant scream of brakes as whoever was driving applied them efficiently, but on the wet road the car still skidded a little before coming to a halt barely inches from Emma herself. Any moment, she expected to feel the crunch of those powerful tyres on her inert body, but the uncanny silence which had fallen following the braking of the car was broken only by the sound of its door opening and being slammed again with obvious impatience. Emma took a shuddering breath. The fall had stunned her, and the realization of how close she had come to death was sufficient to paralyse her. She lay there helplessly, unable to will life into her limbs.

But before she could begin to co-ordinate her thoughts, strong hard hands hauled her unceremoniously to her feet and a stream of harsh vituperative Spanish rang in her ears. Then the man, for no woman could speak so violently, seemed to realize she could not possibly understand and reverting to English, snapped: ‘Crazy fool! Throwing yourself into the road like that! Are you in the habit of trying to kill yourself?'

To Emma his anger was the last straw and she felt the hot burning of tears behind her eyes. But she drew herself up to her full height of five feet six inches and faced him bravely. Even so, she had to look up at him, and she blinked rapidly as the dampness misted on her lashes.

‘If you think for one moment my action was deliberate then you must be the fool!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I slipped and I fell!'

The man was looking down at her, but it was too gloomy to distinguish his expression. ‘Then please to tell me what you are doing climbing around ditches at this hour of the night on a private road!'

Emma's eyes widened. ‘This is a private road? So that explains it!'

‘Explains what?’ The man was clearly impatient. ‘Look, I am getting wet and cold. Where are you bound for? To see Gregory?'

‘Gregory?’ Emma was vague, and then realizing that this man had no idea of her circumstances, explained: ‘No – I was going to London, but I'm afraid I lost my way.’ It was no use pretending otherwise. At this hour of the night her motives for being on this man Gregory's private road might be misconstrued unless she was honest.

The man hesitated for a moment and glanced back up the road behind him. ‘I see.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you in the habit of walking long distances in such weather?’ There was sarcasm in his voice now.

Emma grimaced, and then shivered, and her companion seemed to realize that their conversation could be conducted so much more easily in the warmth of his car.

‘Come!’ he said. ‘I am going to London myself. I will take you there provided you can offer me some reasonable explanation as to why you should be wandering about Paul Gregory's private road at this hour of the night.'

Emma had, perforce, to follow him to his car, but she did so without enthusiasm. Although he had agreed to take her back to town and this knowledge should have filled her with relief, it did not. She had not yet seen his face, she would not have been able to identify him again, and yet she was aware of an air of leashed strength and ruthlessness about him that disturbed her a little. Afterwards she was never quite sure how she had instinctively felt this about him. She only knew that she was reluctant to put herself, however tenuously, into his hands.

The car he was driving, she saw, was a sleek Jensen sports saloon, and inside there was a warm smell of expensive leather and cigars, and what possibly might have been brandy. She glanced across the bonnet at the man as he indicated that she should get into the car and hoped she was not about to make the biggest mistake of her life. What if he had been drinking? She had not smelled alcohol on his breath, but then she had been too disturbed to notice. She sighed, inwardly berating herself. He had stopped expertly enough when she had fallen across his path. That was hardly the reaction of someone who was bemused with drink.

She got slowly into the soft bucket seat and slammed her door and he did likewise, flicking a switch as he did so which illuminated the interior of the vehicle. Emma blinked again, and put up an involuntary hand to her hair. What a mess she must look, she thought, and knew that had Victor seen her like this he would have been horrified. He was always so conscious of appearances.

Her companion turned to regard her with chilling appraisal, his eyes narrowed, calculating. ‘It is interesting to see you in the light, señorita,’ he observed mockingly, and to her annoyance Emma felt herself colouring, a thing she had not done for years.

But really, he was one of the most disturbing men she had ever encountered. Thick dark hair grew low on his neck, brushing the collar of his dark blue suede jacket in a way which would have caused Victor to twist his lips contemptuously. He abhorred the way men today allowed their hair to grow unchecked, and although he acceded to neatly trimmed sideburns, this was his only concession to modern trends.

This man's sideburns were longer and darkened his already darkly tanned cheekbones, while his eyes were almost black between the longest lashes Emma had ever seen on a man. His features were not regular; his face was thin, his nose decidedly bent, and there were hollows beneath his cheekbones. His mouth was thin, too, and yet it had a sensual curve to it which, added to the arrogant, alien attractiveness of him, caused Emma to feel a disquieting ripple of apprehension along her spine. His intent appraisal was disquieting, too, and as she was unaccustomed to being treated in this way she drummed up a feeling of resentment.

‘I can assure you my reasons for being here are entirely respectable,’ she said.

His eyes flickered. ‘Yes, I am sure they are,’ he conceded lazily. ‘However, you will forgive me if I choose to make my own assessment of the situation. I should hate to discover to my cost that you were some female decoy waiting to disable me the minute I set the car moving.'

Emma gasped. ‘If I were going to do that, I should hardly wait until the car was moving, would I? Whatever would I do with you slumped over the wheel?'

‘A pleasant thought,’ he agreed, with a wry twist to his mouth, and Emma looked abruptly away. She couldn't encounter that lazy mocking gaze of his, and in any case, the way he looked at her made her feel uncomfortable. He was obviously used to dealing with members of her sex, and from his attitude she guessed he was probably aware of his own attractions. He was young, too, only about thirty or thirty-two, and although she knew she had never met him before, there was something vaguely familiar about him. She quelled her curiosity. This would never do. So long as he sat there looking at her, making her aware of every inch of her own body, they would not get back to London.

As though realizing her discomfort, he raised his hand and flicked out the light, leaning forward to start the powerful engine. ‘Very well,’ he said, as the car's wheels began to roll forward, ‘now tell me: why are you wandering about in the fog? He glanced her way speculatively. ‘Trouble with a man, perhaps?'

Emma, who had been relaxing, stiffened. ‘Of course not,’ she denied sharply.

‘Why – of course not? It's a reasonable supposition. From the look of you, I'd say you'd been grappling with more than just the weather!'

Emma moved awkwardly, putting up a hand to her hair. Of course, she must look a mess. Her hair, which had begun the evening in its usual sleek pleat, hung in untidy strands down her back, while her face was devoid of all make-up.

‘I went to see a friend in Guildford,’ she explained in controlled tones. ‘But coming back I lost my way in the fog, and when I discovered I was on the wrong road and tried to turn the car, it ended up in a ditch.'

‘Another ditch?’ There was a trace of amusement in his voice.

‘Yes, another ditch,’ she answered abruptly.

‘And you came all the way from London in these conditions to see this friend? A man, without a doubt, señorita.'

‘Not in the way you mean,’ retorted Emma annoyedly.

‘What way do I mean?’ he inquired innocently, and Emma had to bite her lips to prevent herself from making some angry reply. He was deliberately baiting her, amusing himself at her expense, and while he was obviously used to this kind of verbal thrust and parrying, she was not. Victor didn't go in for playing with words.

‘I don't think my reasons for going to Guildford are any concern of yours,’ she stated coldly. ‘I shall be very grateful if you could simply take me to the nearest taxi rank. I can easily get a cab.'

‘Don't be so quick to take offence, señorita,’ he advised her dryly. ‘For someone who until a few minutes ago was lost, cold and bedraggled, you show a definite lack of appreciation.'

Emma felt a sense of contrition at this words. She was indebted to him, and she was allowing his attitude to influence hers. Endeavouring to speak naturally, she said: ‘I'm sorry. I know I must sound ungrateful, but I'm not really. It's simply that I'm not used to coping with this kind of a situation.’ She made a deprecatory movement towards her hair. ‘I must look a terrible mess!'

He glanced briefly in her direction and then returned his attention to the shrouded road ahead. ‘I shouldn't alarm yourself. A beautiful woman usually manages to look good whatever the circumstances.'

Emma caught her breath. ‘Beautiful?’ she echoed, her lips moving uncertainly. And then the colour in her cheeks deepened as she thought she saw a faint twisted smile on his lips. ‘You're very polite!’ There was sarcasm in her voice now.

‘Polite? Why should you think that? You are beautiful, and I'm quite sure you're aware of the fact, so why deny it?'

Emma gasped. ‘No one has ever described me that way before,’ she asserted dryly.

‘No? Well, I've always thought Englishmen lacked perception.’ His long fingers slid expertly round the steering wheel. ‘Among other things,’ he added mockingly.

Emma forced herself to take note of her surroundings. For the last few moments she had been so intent on what her companion had been saying that she had half forgotten her reasons for being in his car in the first place.

Amber lights burning ahead of them signified the roundabout on the main Guildford to London road and she sighed with relief. At last she knew where she was again.

She paused to wonder whether if she contacted a garage in the morning they would send someone out to locate her car. No doubt if Victor contacted them it would carry more weight, but she was not looking forward to explaining the details of her homeward journey to him, particularly after he had advised her not to go. She sighed. If she had heeded his advice she would not now be installed in this sleek, luxurious automobile with a man who, apart from his obvious material attributes, possessed a strong sexual attraction that disturbed Emma's normally placid disposition. Her eyes drifted continually in his direction, to that lean dark profile, sliding over the soft expensive suede of his suit to the strong hands gripping the wheel.

A moment later he startled her by leaning forward, flicking open the glove compartment and extracting a slim gold case. ‘Cigarette?’ he offered.

Emma swallowed quickly. ‘I – I'm trying to give them up,’ she answered automatically. It was true; Victor had been trying to persuade her to do so for weeks. But even as she said the words she wished she could retract them. Right now, a cigarette was what she needed to calm her nerves.

The man shrugged, dropping the case on to the parcel shelf, and drew a narrow cigar out of his pocket, putting it between his lips and flicking a lighter. The exhalation of smoke was intoxicating to Emma. She sighed, almost unconsciously, and he glanced at her again.

‘You want a cigarette? Have one. They're not marijuana.'

‘I never thought they were,’ she exclaimed indignantly.

‘But I am right, aren't I? You would like a cigarette.'

She bent her head. ‘Yes.'

‘Then have one, for God's sake!’ He leant forward and lifting the slim gold case dropped it into her lap. ‘Here. Help yourself.'

Emma opened the case and put one of the long American cigarettes between her lips. But when she would have searched in her handbag for a light he flicked the lighter he had used and she leant forward to apply the tip of her cigarette to the flame. She steadied his hand with hers, conscious of his hard skin beneath her fingers. She was conscious of him, too, and she was almost sure he knew it. She drew back abruptly when her cigarette was lit, breathing deeply.

‘Is it good?’ he asked, and she nodded.

‘Marvellous! I needed it.'

He drew on his own cigar and concentrated on the lights of a solitary vehicle ahead of them and Emma relaxed a little. They would be approaching the outskirts of the city soon and then it would not be long before she was home. If Mrs. Cook was still up she would be worried about her. Emma only hoped the housekeeper had not had the idea of phoning Victor when she was so late. While her father was away Mrs. Cook felt a strong sense of responsibility for Emma.

As they neared the suburbs, traffic became a little more frequent even though it was so late, and there were one or two people making their way home from parties and such like. They crossed Putney Bridge, but when they stopped at some traffic lights, Emma said:

‘I can take a cab from here.'

The lights changed and the powerful Jensen rolled forward without letting her out. ‘If you tell me where you live, I'll drive you home. But you will have to direct me. My knowledge of London is limited to its main thoroughfares.'

‘That's not necessary, thank you,’ replied Emma quickly. ‘I wouldn't dream of taking you out of your way.'

The street lights were casting some illumination into the car now and she could see the faint mockery about his mouth. ‘You are perhaps afraid your husband may see us together?'

Emma's eyes widened. ‘Of course not.'

‘There is no husband?’ He frowned.

‘No.’ She felt herself colouring again.

‘Hombre! I am surprised. Are not most English girls of your age married?'

Emma resented his tone of voice. ‘I am twenty-five, señor, that's all. Why should you imagine I should necessarily be married?'

He raised dark eyebrows. ‘In my country, it is much different. At eighteen a girl is already a wife and mother.'

Emma speculated what country that might be. Although he was obviously Spanish, or at least of Spanish descent, she somehow doubted he came from Spain itself. There was a vaguely American inflection in his English and she thought he might come from one of the South American republics.

‘Strange as it may seem, señor, I have no particular desire to become a mother yet.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you do not say – a wife and mother. I take it the one is more desirable to you than the other.'

Emma felt impatient. ‘If you insist on taking me home, señor, I live in Kensington. We turn left at the next junction.'

It was comparatively easy to reach Emma's father's house in Dudley Gardens from Warwick Road, and as the fog was so much less dense here she knew he would have no difficulty in finding his way back to the main road again. When the car halted smoothly at the gates to the short drive, Emma turned to him politely.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, hoping she sounded less nervous than she felt. ‘I don't know how I should have got home without your assistance.'