Dangerous Rhapsody

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE offices of Thorne Chemicals stood in a mews off Cromwell Road. A tall, imposing building of concrete and glass, its many floors reached greedily towards the sky, as though proclaiming by its height its undoubted individuality and prosperity. A uniformed commissionaire patrolled the flight of shallow steps which led up to the wide expanse of glass panelling in which were set the swing doors giving on to the entrance hall. Emma felt sure this worthy individual considered her a more likely candidate for the staff entrance just around the corner, but she gathered together all her small store of confidence, and mounting the steps she pushed open the swing doors and entered the building.

She was immediately conscious of the pile carpet into which her shoes sank luxuriously, and looked across its jade green width to a low, dark reception desk, behind which a striking blonde was seated. Her skilfully darkened eyebrows rose at Emma's entrance, and she seemed surprised at the intrusion. Emma swallowed hard, and crossed the carpet to the desk.

‘I have an appointment with Mr. Thorne, for eleven o'clock,’ she said.

The blonde consulted her appointments book. ‘You are Miss Harding?'

Emma nodded. Now that she was actually here, her knees were starting to feel weak again, and she hoped they would not give out on her. Oh, lord, she thought wildly, why had Johnny had to get her into this awful situation?

The blonde was using the inter-communication telephone on the desk, and Emma, coming back to awareness of the present, heard her speaking to Damon Thorne's secretary. There was the usual inter-change of names and appointment times and then the blonde replaced her receiver and turned to Emma.

‘Mr. Thorne's secretary is sending someone down to take you up to his suite,’ she said, in cool, aloof tones. ‘Sit down for a moment, won't you?'

She waved a careless hand in the direction of several comfortable chairs, placed at intervals, and then returned to her perusal of a sheaf of papers which had presumably been her occupation before Emma's arrival.

Emma seated herself nervously on the edge of one of the red and white armchairs, and drew off her gloves meticulously, wondering however she was going to find words to conduct this interview. It was all very well for Johnny, staying blithely out of the way and leaving all the dirty work to her, but even he could have had no idea of the desperate torment of the situation into which he had thrust her, or surely he would have thought before asking her help in so doing shifting the burden of his guilt on to her shoulders.

In his simple reasoning, the fact that Emma had been on more than friendly terms with Damon Thorne several years ago was sufficient to warrant her intervention on his behalf. But neither Johnny, nor in fact anyone else, had ever known the whole story so far as she and Damon Thorne were concerned, and therefore could not know that she was the last person Damon Thorne was likely to grant favours to.

Emma, now, looked round the luxurious entrance hall, saw the line of electrically operated lifts, and wished that whoever Damon Thorne's secretary was sending to, so to speak, ‘collect’ her, would hurry up and do so. Waiting was agony for her nerves, and she had been terribly nervous to begin with. Why, oh, why had Johnny been stupid enough to get himself into this mess?

She glanced at her watch. She had been waiting a little over ten minutes already. However long was he going to keep her waiting? She looked hopefully towards the receptionist, but she seemed unaware of her existence, and had now transferred her attentions to buffing her nails with an instrument from her manicure case.

Emma sighed. Was this a tactical attempt on Damon Thorne's part to intimidate her? Although he could not be aware of the reasons for her request to see him, had he guessed her appeal was not of an impersonal nature?

The whirring of the lift heralded the arrival of a tall, slim youth, who looked expectantly round the entrance hall, his eyes lighting on Emma's small figure. He advanced towards her, smiling.

‘Miss Harding?’ he asked, and when Emma nodded and rose hastily to her feet, he said: ‘Won't you come this way, please?'

The lift elevated them smoothly to the top floor of the building, where Damon Thorne's suite of offices was situated. In addition to the usual business premises, he had a furnished penthouse apartment on this floor, which he used for the informal entertaining of guests. Emma knew this. She had once been in his apartment, although then she had used the private lift which gave access to the hall of his apartment.

Today, the lift gates opened revealing a long, red-carpeted hall-way, with many doors opening from its wide expanses, and the steady hum of electric typewriters in a nearby room indicated that this was the business side of the floor.

The young man, who had introduced himself in the lift as Jeremy Martin, led Emma along the corridor to the far end, well away from any discordant sounds, and into the comfortable office occupied by Damon Thorne's private secretary, Jennifer Weldon. She had been Damon Thorne's secretary in the London office for over ten years and Emma felt sure she must have recognized her name, as she could not have been unaware of their relationship almost eight years ago when Emma had been given free use of his private line.

‘This is Miss Harding,’ said Jeremy Martin, as he ushered Emma into the room.

‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ said Jennifer Weldon, giving the young man a wintry smile, and then, as he withdrew, she rose from behind her desk, and looked carefully at Emma.

‘Good morning, Miss Harding,’ she said coolly. ‘Mr. Thorne will see you now, but I should warn you that he is an extremely busy man while he is in London, and his next appointment is at eleven-fifteen.'

Emma retained a little of her composure. She would not allow this elegant female who was Damon Thorne's secretary to intimidate her as she was obviously trying to do.

‘My business with Mr. Thorne should not take very long,’ she replied, almost as coolly as the other woman. ‘Shall I go in?'

Jennifer Weldon gave a sleek bow of her head, and Emma knocked with trembling fingers on the heavy door leading to Damon Thorne's office.

His deep voice called: ‘Come', and Emma went in, and firmly closed the door in the secretary's face.

She was in a large, businesslike room, with dark blue carpeting, and heavy blue drapes at the wide windows which gave a panoramic view of the city. Set square in the centre of the carpet was a massive mahogany desk, littered with papers and several telephones. A tray of drinks was on a side table, while the walls of the room were lined with bookshelves packed with books, mostly scientific and technical tomes, with polished hide covers and gold lettering.

But it was the man behind the desk, who rose politely at her entrance, to whom Emma's eyes were drawn, as she tried in those first few minutes to assess any changes in his appearance. Seven and a half years was a long time, and she had only seen occasional pictures of him in the papers which did not do him justice.

Damon Thorne was a man in his early forties who looked younger. He was a big man, broad and thick set, with very black hair which was only slightly tinged with grey. His face was strong, rather than handsome, with deep set green eyes, and a full, almost-sensual mouth. Yet he was a man whom women found attractive, without the added allure of his undoubted wealth and position in society.

His eyes had narrowed at her entrance, and his thick blackes lashes veiled the expression hidden in their depths, but his smile was rather cynical and his tone was mocking, as he said:

‘Well, well, Emma. It's been a long time.'

Emma twisted her gloves together, and attempted to walk, with some dignity, across the floor towards the desk. To her, he had changed little, and as always she found his personality electrifying.

‘Good morning,’ she said, omitting to give him a name. She did not really know whether she ought to call him Mr. Thorne, or Damon as she had used to do.

Damon Thorne walked round his desk, and drew out the chair opposite his own, and indicated that she should sit down. Emma did so, afraid that if she did not, her legs might give out under her.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked, and when she shook her head: ‘Coffee, perhaps?'

‘No, thank you. I … er … you must be wondering why I'm here.’ She studied the ovals of her nails intently.

Damon Thorne returned to his seat, but instead of sitting down he reached for a cigar from the box on his desk, and lit it, watching her speculatively as he did so.

‘Yes,’ he said, at last, when his cigar was lighted and giving off a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco, ‘I must admit I am rather curious.'

Emma forced herself to look up at him. ‘It's Johnny,’ she said flatly. ‘He seems rather to have got himself into a mess.'

Damon Thorne seated himself and lay back lazily in his seat, surveying her sardonically. ‘Is that so? You mean your brother Johnny, of course.'

‘Of course.’ Emma nodded.

‘Go on.'

Emma sought about for words. To say what she had to say blankly would a complete admission of Johnny's guilt, whereas in actual fact he had been the victim of his own driving compulsion. But how could she convey that to this apparently unsympathetic business tycoon? Damon Thorne, whose companies occupied premises in many of the larger countries of the world, and who had always worked ruthlessly for anything he wished to achieve? He would never understand or condone weakness in any of his staff, and her brother, who worked in the accounts department of this very building, had found his salary inadequate to cover the demands his losses at gambling made.

But this was not the whole pathetic story. Johnny had found a way to borrow money from the company, and for the past six months had supplemented his salary by this method, always hoping for that elusive big win to put things straight. Once embarked upon this course, he had not dared tell his sister, and she would not have known now had it not been for the fact that there was to be an unexpected mid-year audit of the books, and even supposing Johnny had had the money to return, which he had not, there was no time to adjust the accounts to hide his embezzling.

So he had appealed to Emma, and she, knowing that unless something could be done her brother faced a heavy fine or imprisonment, or both, and dismissal from his job, had been forced to agree to speak to Damon Thorne on his behalf.

Her hesitation had not gone unnoticed, and Damon Thorne leaned forward now, and said: ‘I suppose your brother's difficulties have nothing to do with the fact that the mid-year audit begins next week.'

Emma's head shot up, and she looked at him squarely, seeing the mockingly amused expression on his dark-tanned face. There was something about his remark that caused Emma to stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. There was no surprise on his face, no look of dismay or concern. It was almost as though he knew more about it than she did.

She put a hand up nervously to the swathe of heavy black hair, which curved confidently in towards her neck at shoulder length, and then withdrawing her hand, she looked unseeingly at one of the cream-coloured telephones. Her long lashes veiled her eyes, as she pondered his acute perspicacity, or previous knowledge.

She was aware of him rising from his seat, and crossing to a side table where a percolator of coffee bubbled invitingly. He poured her a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and then brought it across to her, setting it down on the desk in front of her.

‘Here,’ he said unceremoniously. ‘You'd better have that, after all. You look as though you could use some.'

‘Thank you.’ Emma's voice was stiltedly polite. She lifted the coffee cup almost automatically, and sipped some of the delicious liquid.

Damon Thorne seated himself on the edge of his desk quite near her, looking down at her thoughtfully. Then he shrugged, and said:

‘All right, Emma. I'll make it easy for you. I know all about brother John's discrepancies in the books.'

Emma's cup clattered into its saucer, ‘You do!' she gasped. ‘And you've let me sit here in agony, wondering how on earth I was going to tell you!’ Her earlier nervousness was temporarily banished by the wave of pure anger which swept over her.

He smiled derisively. ‘Come, come, Emma,’ he said smoothly. ‘You couldn't blame me for that. After all, whether I know or not is immaterial. The situation remains unchanged.'

He was right, of course, Emma thought wearily. She ought to have guessed that Damon Thorne's senior accountants were hardly likely to have been duped by a very junior member of the staff like Johnny. And rather than tell Johnny, to his face, the discrepancy would be reported higher and higher until Damon Thorne himself heard of it. It must have amused him enormously to have her come here begging for leniency on Johnny's behalf, although as yet she had not mentioned what might happen to her brother.

‘So what now?’ she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. His nearness disconcerted her; when he had been around the other side of the wide desk she had managed to fool herself into believing he was merely Johnny's employer, to whom she had come to ask for help. But now that he was here, only inches away from her, all the unforgotten memories of their association came flooding back to her. Had she really once been able to control this strong, powerful man? Had he once held her in his arms and pressed that now-contemptuous mouth to her willing lips? And had she really spent hours alone with him, wrapped in his arms, loving him?

A wave of hot colour swept up her cheeks, and she bent her head hoping he would not notice. Whether he did or otherwise, he refrained from commenting, but said:

‘I imagine your presence here denotes your desire to save your brother from a public exposal.’ He pressed out the remains of his cigar in the ashtray. ‘Why should you suppose I might help you?'

‘I didn't suppose any such thing,’ said Emma tremulously. ‘Johnny asked me to see you. I … I couldn't refuse. Not when I knew what was at stake.'

‘Of course not.’ He rose to his feet, and paced round his desk. Dressed in a dark business suit, and a white shirt visible above his waistcoat, he looked like a stranger again. Which was just as well, she thought, breathlessly.

‘I should tell you that when I was informed of your brother's embezzlement', Emma winced at the word, ‘I knew at once it would only be a matter of time before you asked to see me. Knowing you as I do, or rather perhaps knowing your character as I do, I guessed you would be coerced into something like this. I also know your brother rather well, and his weakness for gambling has not gone unnoticed. It was on the cards that you would be involved, and as you see, I was right.'

Emma shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I should have known better than to appeal to you,’ she said quietly. ‘After all, you have nothing to thank me for, and I rather think you might enjoy the unpleasantness Johnny is going to have to stand.'

Damon Thorne's fist slammed angrily on the desk. ‘Damn you,’ he swore furiously, aroused by her quiet dismissal of him. ‘You have no cause as yet to make any judgments on me!'

Emma rose to her feet. ‘Why? Are you going to help us, after all?’ She was sure he was going to say no, and now she didn't care what he said to her. She just wanted to get out of the office as quickly as she could, before her minute store of composure deserted her and she burst into tears. She had tried. Johnny couldn't deny that. And she had failed abysmally.

Damon Thorne came back round the desk, and looked down at her piercingly. ‘Yes,’ he said forcefully. ‘I am going to help you, but at a price.'

Emma's legs gave way, and she sank back down into her chair. Her relief was so great, she did not at first take any notice of his qualification. She sought the clasp of her handbag, and opening it she looked inside for her cigarettes. She felt she needed one.

But before she could take out the packet, he lifted an onyx cigarette box off his desk and offered it to her. She took a cigarette gratefully, and allowed him to light it with his gold lighter. When she had inhaled deeply, and allowed her nerves to relax a little, the full implication of his words came flooding back to her. She looked up at him, puzzled, and shook her head.

‘I … I don't understand. Naturally, Johnny will repay every penny of the money he took.'

‘The monetary angle of all this is of concern to the accountants, not to me.’ His voice was curt.

‘But what other price could we pay?’ She was baffled.

‘Not “we”,’ he replied softly. ‘You.'

Emma stared at him. Then she got to her feet shakily, and moved away from him involuntarily. For what possible purpose did Damon Thorne want her? Surely, after all this time, he could not still …

‘No,’ he said harshly, as though reading her thoughts. Don't imagine for one moment that I'm even remotely interested in you sexually!'

He said it contemptuously, his mouth twisted, and Emma felt something inside her curl up and die. His eyes flickered appraisingly over her, insolent in their intensity, as though discounting the unknowingly appealing picture she made in her slim-fitting dark green suit, and white blouse. Although she was not a beautiful girl in the strictest sense of the word, her eyes were huge in her small, piquant face, and her mouth was full and generous. It certainly could be said she was more than pretty, she was attractive.

‘Then what do you want?’ she asked, twisting her gloves. ‘I'm a nurse, not a secretary.'

Just at that moment, a telephone pealed on his desk. Reaching forward, he lifted the receiver and said: ‘Thorne. What is it?'

He spoke for a moment, it was a technical matter, and Emma took little notice, but then as that call ended, the inter-communication system to one side of his desk buzzed. Swearing softly to himself, he pressed down a button. ‘Yes?'

Jennifer Weldon's voice was cool and modulated. ‘The secretary is here from the Ministry, sir,’ she said. ‘His appointment is for eleven-fifteen and it is already eleven-twenty.'

Damon Thorne glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. ‘Tell him I'll be another fifteen minutes yet,’ he said uncompromisingly.

‘But, Mr. Thorne …'

‘Tell him, Miss Weldon.'

‘Yes, sir.'

He flicked up the button again. Emma had composed herself. The initial shock of his decision was wearing off but he still had not told her why he needed her.

He looked across at her. ‘As you were saying,’ he said, smoothly, as though uncaring of the fact that he had just made the minister's secretary wait for personal reasons. ‘You're a nurse, and it's in that capacity that I require your services.'

Emma swallowed hard. ‘I see.’ Although she didn't see at all. Could he possibly be ill? He didn't look ill, but he might be suffering from one of those awful diseases which revealed no noticeable symptoms at the beginning. She felt a trifle sick.

Damon Thorne returned to his own side of the desk and lit another cigar. Then, when Emma refused to sit down again, he said:

‘You must know I've been married.'

Emma nodded. Of course she knew. Had he not married Elizabeth Kingsford only weeks after their separation? And had not the knowledge torn her apart?

‘Well, I have a daughter, Annabel. She's six and a half.’ Emma nodded again. She knew this also. Despite their separation she had sought information about him avidly.

‘Something you may not know, something we have not publicized, is the fact that she's blind.’ He watched the reactions she gave; the widening of her eyes, the compassionate curve of her mouth. ‘When her mother was killed in the car crash, Annabel was with her. Elizabeth was driving too fast, the corner was too sharp, Annabel received a blow on her head, and when she regained consciousness, she couldn't see. It's as simple as that.'

Emma shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said inadequately. ‘Will she ever see again?'

‘Specialists think it may be possible, I haven't their faith.’ He spoke heavily. ‘In any case, it's too early to tell. She's too young for any major surgery to be performed on her. I wouldn't agree to that.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So that's the problem. The nurse-companion who has been with Annabel eighteen months now, since the time of the crash, is leaving to get married. I need a new companion for the child. I dislike strangers in my home; you, at least, would not be that. Is it agreed?'