Tender Assault

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

THE Cessna had been waiting for him when he landed at Nassau. He hadn’t been sure it would be, but when he walked through Customs an unfamiliar face was waiting, holding a strip of cardboard with his name on it. He wondered why Sam Nevis hadn’t come to meet him. The pilot his father had employed for the past twenty years was surely not old enough to be retired. But he knew nothing about his father’s affairs any more, he reminded himself. And Sam Nevis, like everyone else, was just a name culled from the past.

The plane was unfamiliar, too, he found. The old single-engined turbo-prop had been replaced by a sleek, twin-engined jet, with all the comforts expected of such a sophisticated machine. Of course, it was the guests’ first taste of the luxuries they could expect on Pelican Island, he conceded, and as such it had to be updated to meet an increasingly demanding clientele.

Or so he assumed, as he settled into one of the velvet armchairs that passed for aircraft seats. But, having read the island’s publicity handouts in places as far apart as London and Sydney, New York and Tokyo, it was a fairly educated assumption. He had even felt a reluctant admiration for his father’s enterprise, although he had suspected that Adele had been the driving force.

His lips twisted. How ironic, then, that all she had worked for should now be in jeopardy. How must she be feeling, knowing that the man she had tried to destroy was now capable of destroying her world? It was the ultimate humiliation. And, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why his father should have done such a thing. Unless …

But it was useless speculating. He had enough on his plate as it was without trying to second-guess something that might, just conceivably, turn out to be a mistake. It was always possible that his father had made another will. And where did India feature in this crazy scheme of things?

God! He ran a weary hand through the unruly darkness of his hair. And, because he had repeated this action frequently on the flight from New York, he wasn’t surprised to find it was a mess. Besides, it needed cutting—had needed cutting since before his last trip to England. No wonder the Cessna’s pilot had given him such a studied look when he’d turned up at the airport. In a worn Oxford shirt and jeans, and scuffed trainers, he was hardly the usual kind of guest welcomed at Kittrick’s Hotel.

His palm scraped over his unshaven chin, and he grimaced. He supposed he should have waited, grabbed a night’s sleep and a make-over, before presenting himself to his stepmother and his stepsister. He could have done it. His father was dead, for God’s sake! The knowledge still pained him, but he ignored it. There was no earthly need for him to catch the next flight to the Bahamas, as if some almighty ruling was waiting on his arrival. He had all the time in the world to claim an inheritance he still couldn’t believe was his. But when he had got back from Canada and found the cable waiting, giving himself time to think had not been on his agenda.

He gazed out of the window, wondering why it was that even after all these years he still felt such a knee-jerk reaction whenever he thought of home. It wasn’t as if it had been his home for the past eight years. His father had kicked him out, for God’s sake! He shouldn’t forget that. And India had believed every word her mother had said. So why should he feel any emotion about going back? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to do it, not deep down inside him.

But—and it was a big but—the present circumstances demanded that he at least should show his face. After all, it wasn’t every day he had a multi-million-dollar holiday resort dropped in his lap. Forget the fact that there were probably lawyers and accountants, public relations consultants and managers to handle all the day-to-day problems of the hotel and island complex. This had been his father’s creation. And, until he was twenty-one, he had shared it with him …

He grimaced. The tragedy was that he had never even known his father was ill. And he had been out of the country—and out of reach—when the news of the old man’s death had been reported. In spite of everything, he would have liked to attend the funeral. And he would had done it, too, with or without Adele’s and India’s consent.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t believe him. Or Adele might, but she’d make damn sure India didn’t. Right now, she was doubtless poisoning his stepsister’s mind with her version of why he was coming to the island. He hadn’t bothered to come before, she’d say. But now, when there was money involved—an immense amount of money, if the publicity was to be believed—he was coming to collect, like the vulture he was.

A bitter smile tugged at the comers of his mouth. Well, in that respect, he could disabuse them—if he chose. He might have left the island without a penny, but he wasn’t coming back that way. He had his own money now, his own thriving organisation, which he continued to control simply because he wanted to do so. He was no longer the cocky teenager he had been when his father had married for the second time. He was a man who knew the meaning of survival.

And that was what he had learned to do, in those first three years after he had left the island. He had joined the army, and any lingering traces of the boy he had once been had been sweated out of him in the jungles and rivers of Central America. But it had been a good training; it had instilled in him a respect of self-discipline that had given him the will, and the energy, to work for what he wanted.

When he left the army, he had had only the germ of an idea of what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. So he had gone to work at a summer camp, and in the variety of activities offered to the children he had seen the way to realise his ambitions.

He had decided to create a camp for adults, women as well as men, where, added to the usual fitness regime, he would offer the kind of experience previously only found within a military framework. Oh, he’d known it had to be provided within a comfortable ambience. The iron fist in the velvet glove. He had needed spa baths and saunas, expert masseurs to ease away the rigours of the day, and all the usual luxuries of hydrotherapy. His dream had been to create a kind of club where every physical need could be catered for. Somewhere where wives could learn tennis, and indulge in the most sinful forms of face and body massage, while their husbands climbed rocks, or white-water rafted, or battered their soft bodies into submission in some other macho pursuit.

Of course, he had known there would be women who wanted to go rock-climbing and men who wanted to play racket sports and be pampered, but he’d been prepared for all of that. The lodges he’d envisaged his guests staying in would be so comfortable that they’d be totally asexual. It would be a total resort, and sufficiently expensive so that only truly committed health freaks would come.

He had used the pay he had accumulated during his three years in the army to open his first camp. Most of his fellow rookies had spent their pay on beer and women, not necessarily in that order, but, apart from an initial phase of drunkenness, he had studiously saved his money. Besides, he had never had to pay for a woman in his life. Something about his heavy-lidded eyes and sun-burned features attracted females like a magnet. But it wasn’t something he was proud of. Experience had taught him it was safer to stay away from the opposite sex.

Nevertheless, it had been a gamble, using every penny he had, plus a sizeable chunk of the bank’s money, to buy a run-down fruit farm in Florida. And it had taken months of work to get the place anything like ready for his guests. But, because he had initially concentrated on the less usual activities offered by his establishment, he had attracted the media’s attention, and in no time at all he was inundated by men desperate to escape from the confines of offices and boardrooms.

It was around this time that he had run into Greg Sanders again. Sanders had been his old drill sergeant, and in his early days at Fort Cleary he had hated the seemingly ruthless black officer. Sanders had picked on him relentlessly, and he had spent more time on the parade ground and worn out more boots than any of his fellow recruits.

Yet, in time, a genuine respect had grown between the two men, and, if in those early days they had never become friends, they had at least come to understand one another. And he knew that without Sanders’s training he might never have survived those months in the jungle. He had been soft; he could admit it now. Being Aaron Kittrick’s son had not prepared him for any other kind of life.

Consequently, when he learned that Sanders had retired from the army and was looking for work, he had been more than willing to offer the man a job. If anyone could lick his visitors into shape, Sanders could, and it was good to have someone working with him who was more than just an employee.

Sullivan’s Spas took off. He had used his mother’s maiden name, instead of his father’s, so that no one could accuse him of trading on his father’s reputation. Besides, it also gave him the anonymity he craved, and enabled him to move freely, without fear of recognition.

No one, least of all himself, could have imagined the spas’ success. From that small beginning, they had mushroomed all across the United States. And, because most health clubs were in urban areas, and he had concentrated on creating his resorts in less civilised surroundings, there was the added novelty of communing with nature, of seeing birds and animals in their natural habitat.

Besides, he knew that his spas were in some of the most beautiful country in the world: Southern California; Colorado; South Dakota; New Mexico; not to mention the pioneer resort in Florida, and other establishments all along the eastern seaboard. He had been lucky, in that land in the places he wanted to expand was not expensive. In consequence, he could afford to build low and consider the environment.

Over the years, Greg Sanders had trained a score of instructors, who now worked under him. He no longer worked in the field himself, although they both spent periodic sabbaticals at each and every spa, making sure they were running smoothly, and that their guests were happy. On Greg’s fiftieth birthday, he had actually given him a quarter share of the business, making him the chief shareholder, aside from himself.

And it was because of his company that he had been out of the country—and out of reach—when his father died. He had been in a mountainous district of British Columbia, researching the possibilities of opening a new resort in that most remote part of Canada. The only way in had been by float-plane and canoe, and it had teased his interest speculating the incongruity of creating an oasis of luxury in such primitive surroundings. Of course, it would have to be carefully planned, as such projects always were. He could now afford to employ the best brains in the world, and if another Sullivan Spa was built it would blend expertly into the scenery. Log cabins, he thought, raw on the outside, but offering every conceivable luxury within. And pools fed by filtered lake-water, icy cold or steaming …

The short flight was almost over. The stewardess, who had offered him a drink after boarding, now appeared to ask him to fasten his seatbelt for landing. Like the pilot, she had looked at him with enquiry in her eyes. But, unlike the pilot, there had been speculation in them, too.

He wondered whose idea it had been to have a stewardess on a flight that lasted less than half an hour. No doubt her short skirt and trim figure was much appreciated by any male visitors. But was the bodice of her scarlet tunic usually unbuttoned, so that the dusky hollow of her cleavage was distinctly visible as she bent to take his empty glass? And did she usually circle her glistening lips with her tongue as she removed the monogrammed coaster?

He decided not to theorise, though his expression was faintly cynical as he turned back to the small window. Maybe it was Adele’s way of reminding him that she hadn’t forgotten—or forgiven him, for not wanting her. Perhaps it was intended to arouse his libido, to taunt him with memories of what he had rejected.

Or maybe he was just too sensitive, he reflected wryly. And sensitivity, in any form, was not what was needed here. Incredible as it seemed, his father had made him his only heir. Kittrick’s Hotel, Pelican Island; it was all his now. And, however, Adele chose to play it, he was in command.

The small jet was making its approach to the island now, and, dismissing his thoughts, he took a concentrated look at the place that had been his home for more than fifteen years. His father had bought Pelican Island with the idea of creating a private resort for deep-sea fishermen, yachtsmen and the like, and by the time he was sixteen it had become a thriving little business. Guests shared rooms in the sprawling plantation house that had been their home in those days, and, although the accommodation was fairly basic, no one seemed to mind. He remembered his schooldays as being long days spent crewing the thirty-foot schooner his father charted out to would-be anglers, and hot nights on the beach, eating barbecued grouper, and talking about the big marlin or barracuda that just got away.

Until Adele came on the scene, he brooded. Adele and her seven-year-old daughter, India. Adele, with her big ideas about building a proper hotel and expanding the facilities they could offer. Adele, who had met his father on one of his infrequent trips to London to visit his late wife’s mother, and who had seen in Aaron Kittrick the promise of a financially secure future.

His long fingers combed impatiently through his hair again. His assessment of Adele’s motives was harsh, and he knew it. But it was also accurate. From the very beginning, he had seen right through the girlish façade she had adopted for his father’s benefit. The wonder was that his father hadn’t been able to see through it, too. But, from being a mild-mannered man who had always had time for his son—even when that son had tried his patience considerably—he had changed into a lovesick schoolboy with little or no interest in anything his son had to say. He had been infatuated with Adele, bewitched by her doll-like beauty, flattered that a woman with such obvious sex appeal should be attracted to a man undoubtedly past the emotive watershed of middle age.

The only advantage he had gained from this unlikely pairing was India. Although he hadn’t realised it at first. At fifteen, he had had little time for the skinny kid who dogged his footsteps. She was a nuisance, and he’d lost no time in telling her so.

But India hadn’t taken offence. And, as time went by, and she had showed no signs of taking advantage of her position, he had softened. Besides, it had actually been quite a novelty, having a stepsister. He had always been an only child, and in the years between his father’s marriage to Adele and his graduation he and India had become good friends.

In some ways she had been old for her years—due in part to Adele’s neglect, he reflected—and she had been quite content to sit for hours, listening to him expound on every subject under the sun. She had been good for his ego, he acknowledged, and, as Adele had persuaded Aaron to invest in building a new hotel, and he and his father had become more and more alienated, India had been the recipient of all his boyish frustrations.

On the more positive side, he had taught her to swim and snorkel. He’d taken her to explore the wonders of the reef that lay to the east of Pelican Island. He’d shown her how to dive for clams, and given her a guided tour of all the secret coves he had discovered throughout the lonely years of his childhood. During his holidays they had been inseparable, and he had started treating her as an equal, as well as a friend.

Until Adele had intervened. She had never liked their relationship. Looking back, he wondered if she had been jealous, but even now that interpretation of her behaviour stuck in his throat. What possible reason could she have had to be jealous of a schoolgirl?

Whatever, she had ultimately succeeded in parting them. That final summer vacation, when matters had come to a head, she had successfully driven a wedge between them. She had told India, in his and his father’s hearing, that she had to stop bothering him. She had said he had told her he was sick of India, that for the past six years he had put up with her, but now it had to stop, that he was a man, not a boy, and the last thing he needed was some overweight, spotty teenager like her cramping his style.

Of course, he had denied it, but he had seen the uncertainty in India’s face. And, when his father had asked him outright if he was calling Adele a liar, he had backed down. It had been a cowardly thing to do, he knew, and he had played right into Adele’s hands. But in a choice between rowing with his father or hurting India, there had been no contest. And he had still been young enough—and naïve enough—to believe the alienation from his father was not already irrevocable …

The Cessna banked steeply, and he looked out on the palm-strewn beaches of his youth. A curving sweep of coral sand fringed an ocean that paled from deepest blue to the clearest turquoise, with banks of seaweed submerged and moving in the current. Pelican Island, he thought, was no longer just an angler’s paradise, but one of the most exclusive resorts in the world.

The landing-strip seemed to come rushing up to meet them, and the powerful little jet squealed across the concrete. Windermere Bay; Cat Point; Abalone Cove; all the names he had once known so well came surging back to greet him. For the first time in more than eight years, he was coming home.

He wondered who they would send to meet him. It was nearly three miles from the airport at Green Turtle Hill to the hotel at Abaco Beach. In his day, guests had been transported over the last few miles of their journey in one of the minibuses that had been used as well for tours around the island. But that was before Kittrick’s Hotel had received its five-star status. These days, they probably used Rolls-Royces or Cadillacs to ferry their guests around.

The plane had stopped next to a white-painted building that served as both immigration area and traffic control. All guests were registered as they arrived on the island, and he was relieved to see that, apart from a coat of paint, the place looked little different from what he remembered.

‘I hope you enjoyed the trip, Mr Kittrick,’ the stewardess said, after the door of the aircraft had been opened, and the flight of steps unfolded. ‘Have a nice day!’

‘Thanks.’

But as he shook hands with the pilot, he noticed her tunic was now sedately buttoned. Perhaps she had been acting on her own behalf, her reflected drily. They all must know that he was the new owner of Pelican Island. And it was his own fault for dressing so casually, and maybe allowing her to think he might be flattered by a little healthy provocation. New owners sometimes meant new staff, and it was incredible to think he had the last word on her employment. He could almost feel sympathy for the core of her dilemma.

But experience had taught him that nothing came for free, and, hefting his overnight bag, he descended the steps without looking back. God, the sun was hot, he thought, feeling the tight jeans sticking to him like a second skin. He should have changed on the plane. He had some shorts in his bag. But he had been too pre-occupied with his thoughts to give any real consideration to the climate.

He stood for a moment at the foot of the aircraft’s steps, gazing about him. There was always a breeze on the island, which moderated the heat and made the temperature so delightful. And it was particularly evident here on Green Turtle Hill, a warm breeze that lifted his hair from his sweat-dampened neck and plastered his shirt against his body.

‘Nathan.’

He hadn’t been aware of anyone’s approach. He had been staring at the sun-bleached air-strip, at the fluttering tops of the flame-trees and at the lush vegetation that sloped away towards the beach. His eyes had settled on the ocean cresting like lace upon the sand, and his ears had been filled with its muted thunder as it splintered on the reef.

But now his gaze was drawn to the young woman standing patiently beside him, a tall, slim, striking woman, with cool, sculptured features and long straight hair that was presently caught back with an elastic band. Her eyes were blue, her nose was straight, and her mouth was full and generous. But it was the brilliance of her hair that gave her away, the glorious fall of bright red silk, and the delicate pale skin that went with it.