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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.
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
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
JAIME was in a meeting when the call came through, and her secretary, Diane Stephens, was obviously very chary about disturbing her.
‘It’s a Signora di Vaggio, Miss Forster,’ she explained, with evident reluctance. ‘She says she’s an old friend of yours, and it’s imperative that she speaks with you.’
‘Signora di Vaggio?’ With the participants at the meeting waiting impatiently for her to deal with the interruption and return to their discussions, Jaime’s mind was briefly blank. She didn’t know anyone called Signora di Vaggio. Diane must have got it wrong. ‘I’m afraid—–’
‘She sounds very upset, Miss Forster.’ Diane lowered her voice perceptibly. ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you, but I think you ought to take the call. She says she wrote to you and—–’
‘Nicola!’ The name broke from Jaime’s lips as comprehension of what Diane was saying brought a swift understanding. Nicola di Vaggio! She was so used to thinking of her as Nicola Temple, even the use of Rafaello’s name had not immediately registered. After all, it was more than five years since she had heard from her, and the letter which had arrived a week ago was still largely unread.
‘You will speak to her, Miss Forster?’
Diane was gazing anxiously at her, and aware of the growing impatience of her colleagues, Jaime was tempted to refuse. But if Nicola had put a call through from Italy, something serious must be wrong, and in deference to the friendship they had once shared, Jaime rose to her feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ she offered apologetically, and ignoring Graham Aiken’s pointed stare, she followed Diane out of the room.
Her office was just along the corridor, next door to Martin Longman’s, the managing director of Helena Holt Cosmetics. It was the obvious place for the office of his personal assistant to be, and Jaime had fought hard to gain her present position.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Forster,’ said Diane, as Jaime shortened her stride to fit that of her secretary. ‘But she sounded so distressed, I didn’t know what to do.’
‘That’s all right, Diane.’ Jaime smiled to reassure her. ‘You were right to tell me. Signora di Vaggio and I are old friends.’
Diane looked relieved, and when they reached her office she slipped efficiently into her seat, preparing to switch the call through to Jaime’s inner sanctum. With the door closed behind her, Jaime crossed her office with a sudden ripple of apprehension, lifting the cream receiver cautiously before acknowledging her presence.
‘Jaime? Jaime, is that you? Oh, thank heavens!’ The voice at the other end of the line held a distinctly hysterical note. ‘Why didn’t you answer my letter? Why are you never at home when I phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for days!’
‘Nicola? Nicola, calm down.’ Jaime was disturbed by the hysteria in the other girl’s voice. ‘I’m here now—you’re speaking to me. What can be so desperate that you found it necessary to ring me at work?’
‘At work!’ Nicola’s voice sounded suspiciously near to breaking. ‘When are you ever anywhere else? I’ve phoned your apartment four times, and every time that damn housekeeper of yours has answered.’
‘Mrs Purdom?’ Jaime frowned. ‘So it’s you who’s been calling. Why didn’t you give your name? Mrs Purdom was becoming convinced a gang of thieves was planning a robbery, and you were phoning to find out if I was home.’
‘Oh, Jaime!’ Nicola sniffed. ‘I couldn’t give my name—I didn’t want you phoning here and speaking to Raf.’
‘Really?’ Jaime’s fingers tightened round the receiver.
‘Oh, not because of that.’ Nicola made an impatient sound. ‘I’ve got over all that. It’s just—well, I don’t want him to know I’ve called you. At least, not until it’s necessary.’
‘Nicola, what are you talking about?’ Jaime could hear a certain tightness in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Five years was not such a long time, after all, and some things simply couldn’t be forgotten.
‘I want you to come and stay,’ said Nicola, without preamble. ‘Please, Jaime—–’ this as her friend started to speak, ‘don’t say no. Not until you’ve heard my reasons, anyway. I need someone so desperately, and there’s no one else I can talk to.’
‘Nicola, it’s impossible—–’
‘Why is it impossible?’ Nicola spoke urgently. ‘Jaime, you don’t understand. I’m almost going out of my head here. I need you, don’t you understand, I need you. You can’t just say no without listening to what I have to say.’
Jaime sighed. ‘Nicola, if something’s gone wrong with your marriage—–’
‘If something’s gone wrong!’ Nicola uttered a bitter cry. ‘Jaime, everything’s gone wrong, but everything. That’s why I want you to come out here. That’s why I need to talk to you. If I don’t talk to someone soon I’ll—I’ll go mad!’
‘Nicola, your mother—–’
‘You know Mummy and I never could talk to one another.’
‘Your father, then.’
‘Oh, Daddy!’ Nicola was scornful. ‘He’s so wrapped up in the bank, he hardly ever notices I exist!’
‘That’s not true, Nicola. You know he’d do anything to make you happy—–’
‘So long as whatever I want can be bought and paid for,’ exclaimed Nicola unsteadily. ‘Jaime, you know what Daddy’s like. He thinks money can buy anything.’
‘It can buy most things,’ put in Jaime tautly. ‘Nicola, whatever you say, I don’t think I’m the person you need to talk to. Whatever it is, why can’t you talk it over with Rafaello—–’
‘Raf!’ Nicola choked on his name. ‘No, I can’t talk it over with Raf. He won’t even talk about it,’ she declared confusingly. ‘Jaime, please—please! I know we haven’t seen one another for a long time, and I know you were unhappy when I married Raf, but—that’s all in the past now. Surely you can forgive me—–’
‘There was nothing to forgive, Nicola,’ replied Jaime stiffly. ‘You must have known—–’
‘I know we never talked about it, but—well—–’ Nicola hesitated. ‘It can’t have been easy for you when Raf made me his wife.’
Jaime held herself tightly in control. She would not get involved in an argument over Rafaello di Vaggio, she would not. Like Nicola said, it was all in the past now. Even admitting her aversion to getting involved in Nicola’s problems was to invite the suspicion that she still nurtured some resentment over what had happened; and she didn’t; she couldn’t.
‘Look, Nicky,’ she said, using her old pet name for her deliberately, ‘I’m right in the middle of a meeting with a group of sales representatives, and I really don’t have the time for this now. Can I call you back?’
‘No.’ Nicola spoke quickly. ‘I mean—I’ll call you back. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll manage it somehow.’
Jaime hesitated. ‘This evening, then, at the apartment. Say about six-thirty.’
‘Your time or mine?’
‘It’s summertime. They’re both the same,’ replied Jaime shortly, and rang off before Nicola could say any more.
It was difficult returning to the meeting. It was difficult trying to pick up the threads of the discussion she had been having with the sales force, particularly as she knew half of them resented her being there in the first place. But Martin Longman had chosen her out of an estimated one hundred applicants, and his confidence in her ability to handle the job more than made up for the petty jealousies she sensed from her more chauvinistic contemporaries. She knew many of them believed that her appointment owed more to her appearance than to her professionalism, but Jaime had learned to ride the insults that were frequently tossed her way.
‘I suggest we continue this meeting after lunch, gentlemen,’ she said, after re-establishing her position as chair-person. ‘I think we all need a little time to think over the proposals that have been made, and if anyone has any particular point they’d like to make, perhaps they would contact Miss Stephens and she’ll arrange a suitable schedule for this afternoon.’
‘You will be joining us, won’t you, Jaime?’ enquired Graham Aiken, with veiled sarcasm. ‘Or perhaps you have more pressing matters to attend to.’
Jaime’s smile was a triumph of self-possession. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be joining you, Graham,’ she declared smoothly. ‘I have one or two points to put forward myself, and as Mr Longman’s representative I shall expect full reports from all of you concerning the sales figures for your particular areas.’
Graham’s lips thinned. ‘Then I trust we won’t spend half the afternoon waiting while you waste the firm’s time taking personal calls,’ he retorted offensively.
‘Oh, come off it, Aiken!’ Harold Ingram, one of the older representatives, slapped the other man on the back. ‘You’re only jealous because our beautiful assistant to the managing director doesn’t take any personal calls from you.’
‘Perhaps he’s hoping to divert attention from the fact that sales in the south-east have been falling recently,’ put in Hywel Evans sagely. ‘What’s the matter, Aiken? Losing your touch?’
The slightly edged banter continued as they all left the meeting, and although Jaime was grateful that for once she seemed to have come out best in the argument, her thoughts were too absorbed with the conversation she had had with Nicola di Vaggio to enjoy it. She couldn’t imagine what could have gone wrong with Nicola’s marriage to warrant that strange invitation, and while her natural curiosity was aroused, so too was a troubled sense of foreboding. They had not corresponded, they had not kept in touch after Nicola’s precipitate marriage to the wealthy Italian count, whose title she now seemed to have abandoned. Why then should Nicola contact her now, when the most logical people she should confide in were her own mother and father?
In her office, Jaime seated herself at her desk and observed the neat stack of letters Diane had left for her perusal. But she didn’t examine the letters. She didn’t even look at them. Instead, she surveyed the room in which she was sitting, appreciating anew the undiminishing feeling of satisfaction it gave her.
It was a beautiful office, light and spacious, with wide, double-glazed windows overlooking the muted roar of London’s busy streets twenty floors below. The walls were panelled in mahogany, reaching up to a high moulded ceiling that added to the room’s airiness, and the floor was snugly fitted with a dark red carpet. There was a light oak desk, several comfortable leather armchairs, a shelf of books illustrating the different kinds of cosmetics used throughout the ages, and an exquisitely carved cabinet, which served both as an ornament and as a handy container for the refrigerated cupboard that held refreshments for visitors. It was the office of someone of importance, an executive, at least, and Jaime never ceased to marvel at her own good fortune in owning it.
She sighed now, leaning back in her seat and allowing her shoulders to rest against the cool dark leather. But she kept her hands on the desk, as if afraid it might suddenly disappear in this sudden, and unwelcome, rush of memory. Against the cloth, the silvery brilliance of her hair was etched in stark relief, the plain gold earrings that hung from her lobes her only ornamentation. Her suit, a simple design in dark green linen, accentuated the tall slender lines of her figure, but even its severe cut could not disguise the undoubted proof of her femininity. In spite of her determination to compete on equal terms in a man’s world, she was still essentially female, and it was that awareness now that brought the troubled crease to her brow. What was Nicola up to? Why had she brought her problems to Jaime? And more importantly, how was Jaime going to get out of that unwanted invitation?
A tap at her door brought her head up with a start, and she smiled with some relief when she met her secretary’s anxious eyes.
‘I’m going to lunch now, Miss Forster,’ Diane said diffidently. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I leave?’
‘Oh—no, thank you, Diane.’ Jaime shook her head. ‘I’ll just have a sandwich here.’ Her nail nudged the pile of untouched mail. ‘I’ll get around to some of these later.’
‘Very well, Miss Forster.’ Diane was only nineteen and still slightly in awe of her new boss. ‘There’s nothing urgent. Oh—but Mr Longman called. He said to tell you, he’d be in to the office tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine.’ Jaime swung her chair back and forth in a semi-circular motion. ‘I guess I can handle anything that comes up. You go and get your lunch, Diane. I may need you to work over this evening.’
‘This evening?’ Consternation showed in the girl’s face, and Jaime moved forward in the chair to rest her elbows on the desk.
‘You’ve got a problem?’
‘I’ve got a date,’ admitted Diane reluctantly. ‘But I could break it …’
‘You don’t want to, is that it?’ Jaime gave her an understanding look. ‘Okay, Diane, you keep your date. If necessary, you can work over lunch tomorrow, hmm?’
‘Oh, thanks, Miss Forster!’ Diane’s gratitude was fervent. ‘See you later, then.’
‘Later,’ agreed Jaime, nodding her head, and as Diane left the room, she rose to her feet to walk across to the window.
It seemed a long time since she had been like Diane, she reflected ruefully, and then grimaced. It was a long time—almost eight years, to be exact. She had been eighteen when she started to work for Helena Holt Cosmetics, but unlike Diane, she had made her work the whole centre of her existence.
From the very first day, she had been ambitious. Before that—from the time she and her mother had been struggling to keep their heads above water and a cousin of her mother’s had taken pity on her and sent her to a decent school, she had been determined to make a success of her life. Her parents had divorced when she was very young, and as soon as Jaime was off her hands, her mother had retired to the country, to become companion to some elderly spinster. Jaime hadn’t seen her father for years, not since she was at junior school, and the years spent at an exclusive girls’ boarding school had taught her to be self-sufficient.
It had not always been easy. When she first started work, she had to live in dingy rooms and bedsitters, walking to work across town, and eating in cheap snack bars. Every spare penny she had, she had saved, and with it she had paid for an evening course at a commercial college, where she could supplement her knowledge of shorthand and typing with other skills like accountancy and economics. She had been an apt pupil, and when a vacancy had occurred in the progress office, she had applied. Much to the chagrin of some of the male applicants, she was successful, and she left the typing pool for the greener fields of advertising and finance. And yet, even then, she had not been content …
Turning from the window now, Jaime wondered, not for the first time, how much of her success was due to the way she looked. Certainly, her boss in the progress office, Clifford Jacobs, had found her very attractive—so much so that Jaime had had to fend off the accusations of his wife when she came storming into the office one evening to find Jaime and her husband closeted in his office discussing a new promotion. Not that there had been anything for Rebecca Jacobs to get so uptight about. Jaime wasn’t interested in men, she wasn’t interested in sexual relationships; and although her contemporaries might find that hard to believe from her appearance, they soon discovered her reputation was not misplaced. Only one man had succeeded in exploiting the weaknesses she had always subdued, and she had dealt with him as ruthlessly as her father had dealt with her mother. No man was going to control her. No man was going to make her dependent on him, financially or emotionally. There was only one way she knew for a woman to make her own way in the world, and that was by remaining free and unattached—and capable of providing herself with the kind of lifestyle men set so much store by.
It was late when she got home that evening, later than she had expected, due to Diane’s early departure, and Mrs Purdom met her at the door with the news that ‘that woman’ had called again.
Jaime sighed, glancing at her watch to discover it was almost a quarter to seven, and nodded. ‘I know, Mrs Purdom,’ she said, surprising the elderly housekeeper with this knowledge. ‘She called me at work today. It’s someone I used to—go to school with.’
‘Well, really!’ Mrs Purdom was not appeased, and as she helped Jaime off with her jacket she showed her disapproval. ‘Why couldn’t she tell me who she was, instead of refusing to give her name? If you’re old friends …’
‘She doesn’t want her husband to know she’s been calling me,’ replied Jaime drily, smiling at Mrs Purdom’s disbelieving expression. ‘It’s true. Wasn’t there ever a time when you kept something from your husband, Mrs Purdom? Didn’t you have any secrets you wanted to hide?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ retorted Mrs Purdom with indignation, and Jaime kicked off her shoes as she walked into her living room.
‘Well, lucky you,’ she remarked, dropping her briefcase on to the couch and approaching the drinks tray Mrs Purdom had left ready for her. ‘However, it does go to prove how confining that kind of a relationship can be.’
‘If you want to make it so,’ replied Mrs Purdom, watching with some misgivings as Jaime helped herself to a gin and tonic. ‘Well, and what time will you be wanting dinner? It’s a cold meal, so you can please yourself.’
Jaime lounged gracefully on to the couch, curling one of her long legs beneath her. ‘Oh, in about an hour, thank you, Mrs Purdom,’ she answered, putting up a lazy hand to loosen the coil of hair secured at her nape. ‘I think I’ll take a bath before I eat. I’m tired, I may have an early night.’
Mrs Purdom’s somewhat severe features softened. With her hair loose and falling in straight lines about her face, Jaime looked years younger than the elegant business executive who had walked into the apartment, and the housekeeper regarded her anxiously. With her guard down, and the strain of the afternoon’s business meeting showing in her face, Mrs Purdom thought she seemed more weary than usual, and the affection she felt for her employer kindled as she bent to gather up Jaime’s shoes.
‘You look tired,’ she declared, holding the shoes against her, and Jaime sighed.
‘Thanks!’
‘No, you know what I mean,’ exclaimed the housekeeper warmly. ‘You need a holiday, Miss Forster. You didn’t have one last year, and it’s already the end of May and you’ve made no plans for taking one this year either. What you need is a couple of weeks in the sun, away from dusty offices and boardrooms. Mr Longman would let you go, whenever you liked—you know he would. Doesn’t sunbathing on some hot sunny beach appeal to you?’
‘Not particularly.’ Jaime gave the housekeeper a rueful smile. ‘I’m not the lotus-eating kind, Mrs Purdom. Besides, we’re launching the new range in three weeks, and I can’t be away for that. It’s my baby.’
‘If you ask me, you’d be better employed having a real baby, instead of a cosmetic one!’ retorted Mrs Purdom shortly, and Jaime gurgled with laughter.
‘A cosmetic one! That’s good, Mrs Purdom. I must remember that. I may be able to use it in our next promotion.’
The elderly housekeeper sighed. ‘You won’t be serious, will you?’
‘About having a baby? No.’ Jaime gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘I’m not married, Mrs Purdom.’
‘Nor likely to be, judging by the way you behave,’ exclaimed the housekeeper dourly. ‘What happened to that nice Mr Penfold? You had him here to dinner a couple of times, and I thought—–’
‘Robert Penfold is just a good friend, Mrs Purdom,’ replied Jaime firmly, finishing her drink and placing the glass on the low table beside the couch. She rose lithely to her feet. ‘I think I’ll have my bath now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to eat.’
Mrs Purdom shrugged expressively, but she said no more, and Jaime was grateful. Right now, she was in no mood to argue her reasons for not seeing Robert Penfold any more, and the prospect of a long soak in a hot bath was much more to her liking. There was still the problem of what she was going to do about Nicola’s call, and she hoped that a period of relaxation might provide her with sudden illumination.
Leaving the living room, Jaime crossed the narrow hall that separated it from her bedroom. In the beige and gold apartment she had decorated herself, she shed the rest of her clothes with some relief, and walked with feline grace into the adjoining bathroom.
As the water hissed and spurted into the sunken tub, she reflected, as she had done many times since she acquired this apartment two years ago, how lucky she was to have such pleasant surroundings to come home to. The last flat she had had, which had certainly been an improvement on the bedsitters she had previously occupied, had not been much bigger than her living room here, with a tiny bedroom and kitchen, and a bathroom that did not contain a bath, only a shower. One of the first things she had done when she leased this apartment was to spend part of every evening in the tub, luxuriating in its depth and size, and the sybaritic sensuality of the water.