Alien Wife

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.

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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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

LUKE pushed the Lamborghini up to a hundred on the brief straight, impatience making him grind the gears as yet another corner confronted him, forcing him to slow to a saner sixty. Since leaving Fort Augustus, the scenery had grown progressively more rugged and wilder, the road narrow and winding between reed-edged lochs and purple banks of heather. After the motorways of the south, the powerful car baulked at these primitive highways where long-horned Highland cattle seemed to have right of way. He had already had to make one detour to avoid a lumbering stock wagon, and wondered how long it took to develop the kind of temperament that took all these obstacles in its stride.

Glancing at the plain gold watch on his wrist, he saw that it was only a little after three o’clock, and taking into account the fact that he had stopped for a superb lunch of locally caught salmon and out-of-season strawberries, rounded off by strong black coffee and brandy, he was making quite good time. Ardnalui should not be much further and with luck he would have time before dusk to study the general layout of the place so that when he rang Scott later, he could give him an honest opinion.

A few spots of rain landed on the windscreen, as if to mock his intentions, and he looked up at the low clouds hanging over the mountains that had dogged his progress. It was so remote, thought Luke irritably. How could they possibly bring a film crew out here? And not even an airstrip within fifty miles.

The road swung round a steep curve and there ahead of him lay the village, a cluster of whitewashed dwellings bordering the shores of the loch. A long narrow inlet of water, Loch Ifor ran into the Sound of Sleat, and a collection of fishing vessels nudging a stone jetty indicated the livelihood of many of the villagers. As he drove slowly between the cottages, he had to concede that Scott had been right in his belief that Ardnalui was the ideal setting for Luke’s novel. But then Scott had been born here. Luke, born and bred in Liverpool, had seldom been far from the concrete trappings of his kind of civilisation.

He wondered what his host, Daniel McGregor, would be like. The fact that Scott had been closely acquainted with the parish priest did nothing for Luke himself, who on the whole preferred to make his own arrangements. But Ardnalui did not possess a hotel, and the inn he passed on his way through the village did not look as if it had room for boarders. Besides, Scott had arranged that he should stay with McGregor, and it was only for a couple of nights anyway. It would be amusing to tell Ella he had been to her birthplace when she got back from Rome. Somehow he sensed she would not altogether approve. She was not proud of her humble beginnings, while he had no compunction about telling people how his mother had struggled to bring up his three sisters, four brothers and himself after their father lost his life in an engine explosion at sea.

Several children turned to stare at the car, and Luke felt his normally good humour returning. He liked children, and had several nephews and nieces who benefited from his weakness. Now that he was here, he could forget about the tortuous journey, and concentrate on the job in hand.

He passed the grey stone church of St Cecilia and there, exactly as Scott had described it, was the presbytery. Grey stone, like the church it served, with small leaded panes and a sturdy wooden door. A cobbled yard fronted the building, and Luke parked the Lamborghini here before sliding out to stretch his legs.

He was a tall man, easily six feet, with a lean muscular frame. Used to an active life, since his writing success, he had kept himself fit with a twice weekly workout at a gym not far away from his London apartment, playing squash and badminton whenever he had the time. He was tanned, from a recent holiday in the Bahamas, and his hair was silvery fair, bleached even whiter by the sun. It was smooth, thick hair, overlapping his collar at the back, but it needed no hairdressing and always looked clean and vital to the touch. He was not a handsome man, but he was attractive to women, a fact he had not lived until thirty-eight years without appreciating.

The air was sharp for April, or perhaps he was soft from the milder London climate, he thought dryly, breathing deeply. And it was so quiet here. He doubted he’d be able to sleep. Looking about him, he wondered where Ella used to live. One of these cottages? Some transition to a May-fair apartment and a villa in the South of France. What a pity she had no relatives to share her success.

A huge lion’s head knocker resounded noisily throughout the presbytery, and he stood, his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, waiting to be admitted. He had never expected to stay at a priest’s house, but at least he had been baptised into the Faith.

The door was opened by an elderly woman in a long black dress and a white apron, a lace mob cap set on her grey hair. Good God, thought Luke in astonishment, do servants like this really exist outside of novels?

Smiling disarmingly, however, he said. ‘I’m Luke Jordan. I believe Father McGregor is expecting me.’

‘That he is,’ agreed the woman politely. ‘Will you come in, sir?’

Luke stepped inside, his eyes taking in the polished floor with its single rug, the dark wood panelling and angled staircase. The doors opening into the hall were all closed, but even as he registered this, one of them opened to an elderly man, leaning on a cane, whose sharply alert eyes belied any diminishing faculties of his advanced years.

‘Is it Mr Jordan?’ he asked, staring at Luke appraisingly.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Luke nodded. ‘How do you do?’

‘I’m well.’ The man smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Jordan.’

‘Luke will do,’ responded the younger man easily, taking an immediate liking to his host.

‘You’re not a Scotsman, Luke,’ observed the priest, leading the way back into the room he had just left.

‘No,’ Luke agreed. ‘I came from Liverpool, actually, although I live in London now.’

‘Ah!’ McGregor nodded. ‘Well, let us make ourselves comfortable, shall we? It’s a chill day, and you’re no doubt feeling the cold after all that central heating you have in the south. No such refinements here, I’m afraid. A fire is all we have. But it’s cosy, and it keeps you warm.’

The room they entered was a comfortable study, pleasantly illuminated by the fire burning in the grate, and lined with shelves of books. There was the scent of pine logs and pipe tobacco, and indicating that Luke should take the armchair at the opposite side of the fire from his own, McGregor issued the hovering housekeeper with orders for afternoon tea.

‘Unless you’d like something stronger?’ he queried, raising his eyebrows, but Luke said tea would be fine.

After they were seated, Luke added: ‘It’s very good of you to accommodate me like this. I mean, Scott tends to expect everyone to jump to his bidding at the studio, and I guess he lets the feeling carry him away.’

‘Any friend of Scott Anderson’s is a friend of mine,’ McGregor assured him warmly. ‘And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I enjoy a bit of company, and there’s a little enough goes on here at the best of times. Tell me, do you play chess, by any chance?’

Luke looked apologetic. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, well. That’s a pity.’ McGregor reached for his pipe. ‘And you’re here to consider making a film of Ardnalui?’ He lit a spill from the fire. ‘Scott told me that you are a writer. Should I know your name?’

Luke grinned. ‘It’s possible. It depends what kind of literature you read. My books are not masterpieces, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of them filmed, and now they’re wanting to make a television series about the third. That’s why I’m here. Scott commissioned the book, you see.’

McGregor chewed thoughtfully away at his pipe. ‘Do you know Scotland at all?’

‘No.’ Luke was honest. ‘This is my first visit.’

‘And yet you wrote about it.’

‘It’s not difficult, sir. I have been to Austria, and the scenery is not too dissimilar. And people are people, the world over.’

‘I doubt the people here would agree with you,’ remarked McGregor dryly. ‘But I know what you’re trying to say.’

‘Inverleven—the imaginary place in my book—isn’t intended to be Ardnalui,’ Luke explained quietly. ‘But I used Scott’s descriptions of the place, and it was his idea that I should come to see it for myself.’

‘With a view to filming here.’

Luke shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. It’s too far off the beaten track, I’m afraid. I think Scott just wanted me to see this place—where he was born.’

The priest nodded. ‘I can’t deny you’ve somewhat reassured me. I don’t know that I like the idea of Ardnalui being overrun with film people.’

He made them sound like a different species, and Luke smiled. He had had similar reservations when his first book was bought for the screen. But he had met a lot of decent people in his association with the industry, and they offset the seamier side.

‘Are you a married man, Luke?’

McGregor had a priest’s healthy interest in the personal lives of his acquaintances, and Luke shook his head. ‘Not now. I was. I got married when I was about—eighteen. It didn’t work. We were divorced twelve years ago.’

‘Divorced!’ The priest looked regretful. ‘There is no divorce in the eyes of God, my son.’

Luke shrugged. He had expected that. ‘Jennifer’s dead now,’ he said flatly. ‘She married again, but she and her husband were killed in a car crash five years ago.’

The housekeeper returned with a tray of tea and some delicious-smelling scones and sandwiches. While McGregor took charge of the teacups, Luke looked round the room with interest. His host’s interest in chess was evident in the exquisite set of chessmen, set upon a board table to one side of the fireplace, but he obviously enjoyed fishing, too, for there were rods and a creel basket, and several boxes of flies.

While they ate, McGregor described the village. He was interested in its history, and mentioned how the Jacobite cause had been strongly supported in these parts. He talked about Prestonpans and the bloody defeat of Culloden, and it was with reluctance that Luke eventually pulled himself up out of his chair and explained his desire to take a walk around the village before supper.

‘Can it not wait till the morning?’ suggested McGregor hopefully, and Luke guessed the old priest was trying to prolong his stay. After the lazy relaxation of the last hour, Luke was not so averse to that as he might have been. His life in London was inclined to be hectic, and it had been good to loosen up and let time take care of itself for a change. And after all, he had nothing to hurry back to town for.

‘Well …’ he began, and guessing he was weakening, McGregor added: ‘You could take a walk down to the loch. Then tomorrow, I’ll accompany you on a tour of Ardnalui.’

‘All right,’ Luke nodded. ‘But I promised to phone Scott later.’

‘You can use the phone in here,’ said McGregor at once. ‘Now, I expect you’d like to see your room before you take your walk. I’ll have Mrs Tully show you.’

Luke collected his overnight case from the car, secured its doors and windows, and then followed the ample proportions of the housekeeper upstairs. The panelling of the staircase was continued along the landing. There were several doors, and a half frosted glass one which Mrs Tully explained was the bathroom.

‘There’s a wash basin in your room, sir,’ she said, opening one of the bedroom doors and preceding him inside, ‘but I’m afraid we only have the one bath.’

Luke assured her that he didn’t mind, and after she had departed, he walked to the low windows which overlooked the loch. It was quite a view, and he turned back to face the room with resignation. It was reasonably large, but chilly after the warmth of his apartment, and although the bedroom suite was large and old-fashioned, the bed was a modern divan, and singularly ungenerous in its proportions.

He left his room and used the bathroom, amused at its antiquated fitments. The bath had claw feet, and the cistern made peculiar noises when one turned on the taps. Back in his room again, he washed his face and hands, ran a rueful finger over his roughening jawline, and then deciding that shaving could wait until later, he went downstairs.

He let himself out of the house, and stood for a moment, bracing himself against the cold evening air. Perhaps he should have put on his overcoat. The leather jacket was little protection against the mist that was now rising from the loch. Still, he wouldn’t stay out long, he decided briskly, and ran lightly down the steps.

As he did so, a figure straightened from the far side of the Lamborghini, and used to the ever-present menace of car thieves in London, Luke checked and turned about, reaching the youth before he could get away. ‘What do you think you—– Good God! Ella!’

The girl turned to face him and he saw at once he had made a mistake. This girl was tall but slimmer than Ella, and her long silky black hair had none of the chestnut lights he was used to. Her eyes were different, too—dark, instead of blue, her mouth wider and more generous. Besides, she was casually dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a red wool sweater, the kind of attire Ella would never dream of assuming. Nevertheless, there was more than a resemblance.

She frowned at his recognition, and said flatly: ‘My name is Abby Rodriguez. Should I know you?’

Luke stared at her helplessly, and then shook his head. ‘I’m—sorry. I thought you were someone else. You have a definite—look of someone I know. But I realise now, you’re younger than she is.’

And more attractive, he realised incredulously, his senses stirring. How Ella would dislike the knowledge that there was someone else with her particular brand of beauty, someone with youth and innocence on her side.

The girl’s face cleared. ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘You must be Mr Jordan. You—know my aunt.’

‘Your—aunt?’ Luke was confused.

‘Yes. Aunt Ella—Ella McKay.’

‘Ella McKay is your aunt?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had a niece?’

‘I—why, no.’ Luke could not have been more astounded. Why hadn’t Ella ever mentioned the girl?

‘I was admiring your car,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s beautiful! How fast can it go? Over a hundred?’

Luke endeavoured to grasp his thoughts. ‘Well over a hundred,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Do you drive, Miss Rodriguez?’

‘Call me Abby, everyone does. And yes, I can drive. Uncle Daniel taught me.’ Her expression was rueful. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink. I think Uncle Daniel has some fire-water, as well as the sherry he keeps for his parishioners. Shall we go inside?’

Luke was perplexed. ‘Daniel McGregor is your uncle?’

‘My adopted uncle,’ she amended quietly. ‘My parents are—dead. Uncle Daniel made himself responsible for me.’ She paused. ‘Aunt Ella didn’t tell you, did she?’ Luke shook his head, and she went on: ‘I’m not really surprised. A film star with a sex image doesn’t want a twenty-year-old niece hanging around, does she?’

Luke supported himself against the bonnet of the car. ‘I didn’t even know Ella had a sister.’

Abby shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Oh, well …’ She smiled again. ‘I must say, you’re not what I expected either. Uncle Daniel told me you were coming, but I expected someone old—forty-five or fifty, at least.’

‘Thank you.’ Luke half smiled. ‘I am nearing forty, and strange as it may seem to you, I don’t consider that old!’

She laughed, revealing even white teeth. ‘Well, you don’t look it,’ she conceded lightly. ‘Are you staying long?’

‘Two—maybe three days.’

‘Is that all? Uncle Daniel will be disappointed. He expected you to stay a week, at least.’

Luke straightened. ‘We’ll see.’

She put her foot on the bottom step. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Actually, I was going to walk down to the loch,’ he replied, although that idea was not so attractive as it had been.

‘Shall I come with you?’ she suggested. ‘I can point out our famous landmarks.’

‘All right.’

Luke was willing, although he wondered that she didn’t feel the cold in her thin sweater. She walked easily beside him, matching her steps to his long strides, exchanging a smile of shared enjoyment.

‘Do you live in London, Mr Jordan?’ she asked, as they climbed over a low wooden fence and crunched across the shingle to the water’s edge.

Luke nodded. ‘Have you been there?’

Abby shook her head. ‘I’ve only been away from Ardnalui once, and that was on a holiday to Madrid. My grandparents used to live there, but they’re dead now, too.’

Luke was amazed. ‘So you’re half Spanish?’

‘Mmm.’ She laughed softly. ‘Not so like Aunt Ella after all.’

‘But how did your parents meet?’

‘My father was working in a hotel in Glasgow. He used to come up here for holidays.’

‘I see.’ But Luke was curious. She was very young to be an orphan. ‘Did your parents have an accident?’

A flicker of pain crossed her face and he realised how tactless he had been. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Don’t answer that. I had no right to ask. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘That’s all right.’ She had herself in control again. ‘No, they didn’t die together, if that’s what you mean. My father—went away with another woman. It broke my mother’s heart. Later, when she learned he had died, she just didn’t want to go on living.’

From anyone else, the words might have sounded over-dramatic, but she spoke quietly, without emphasis, relating the events as they had happened.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It must be very painful for you to talk about it.’

‘It used to be. But it’s five years since my mother died. I’ve got over the worst.’

‘And now you—live with Daniel McGregor?’

She nodded. ‘He’s been like a second father to me.’

Luke wondered how much of this Scott Anderson had known. He must have known Ella had a sister, of course, yet he had never mentioned it. Why? And even when he had arranged for Luke to stay at the presbytery, he had not said a word about its other occupant. Scott and Ella only tolerated one another, Luke knew that, but had it some other deeper significance that the conflict of artistic temperaments Luke had imagined?

‘Do you see that mountain across the loch—the one that’s almost obscured by the mist? That’s our most famous landmark—Ben Lui. And the one beside it, the smaller peak—that’s Ben Ifor.’

Realising that Abby was speaking again, Luke tried to pick up the threads of her conversation. But it was difficult when his mind was filled with questions he was reluctant to voice, and presently she shivered, and suggested they walked back.

On their way up to the house, he said: ‘What do you do all day? There can’t be much work for a girl like you here.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she smiled. ‘I work at the inn.’

‘The inn!’ Luke was surprised.

‘Why?’ she teased him. ‘You’re not teetotal, are you?’

‘No, but …’

Luke made a helpless gesture, and she chuckled. ‘But you don’t think it’s a suitable occupation for someone who lives in the presbytery, is that it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed ruefully.

She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to concern yourself. I’m not the local barmaid. I look after the Dalrymples’ three children. The Dalrymples keep the inn,’ she explained.

Luke nodded. ‘I see.’

The wind was beginning to rise as they entered the house, and Abby hunched her shoulders expressively. Mrs Tully was in the hall, and she viewed the girl with impatience.

‘You’ll be having pneumonia, miss,’ she announced, with a sharp familiarity. ‘Away upstairs and take a bath before supper.’

The girl took her scolding with an affectionate grimace, and Mrs Tully shook her head at Luke as she ran upstairs. ‘I never thought,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps you would have liked a bath, sir.’

‘A shave will do,’ remarked Luke easily. ‘Er—Father McGregor said I might use his phone …’