Forbidden Flame

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

PEERING through the fly-spotted window of the hotel in Las Estadas, Caroline thought she must have been slightly mad to agree to come here. Whatever had possessed her to apply for this job? Why on earth had she imagined it would be exciting, a challenge, something to divert her from the sudden emptiness of her life in England? What did she, a university graduate, with honours in English and history, know of teaching an eight-year-old child, and why had she been chosen when there had obviously been others more suitable?

Of course, the advertisement she had read would have interested anyone with a spark of adventure in their blood. The chance to work in Mexico—the land of the Aztecs, steeped in history, and peopled by the ancestors of Montezuma and Cortez—but Caroline wondered now how many of those other applicants had baulked when they were expected to travel to a remote village north of Yucatan. She had spoken with several of the other girls, waiting in the drawing room of the hotel suite in London, and almost all of them had gained the opinion that they were to work in Mexico City.

But even when Caroline had learned where the job was she had not been discouraged. She knew a little about Mexico, or so she had imagined, and the idea of living within driving distance of the Mayan city of Chichen Itza had been a glowing inducement. Only now, waiting in the seedy surroundings of the Hotel Hermosa, a misnomer surely, did the full realisation of what she was committed to occur to her, and if there had been some way she could return to Merida without anyone’s knowledge, she would have surely done so.

Outside, a drenching downpour had turned the street into a muddy river, and given a grey aspect to buildings already dirt-daubed and ramshackle. This was not the Mexico she had imagined, the colourful blending of past and present in a kaleidoscope of rich mosaics and even richer architecture. This was poverty and squalor, and the simple struggle for survival against enormous odds. Las Estadas had not yet felt the impact of the oil boom that was supposedly going to transform Mexico’s economy. Here life was still held cheaply and governed by the whims of weather, and a seemingly unkind fate. To Caroline, used to the social and cultural advantages of a Western civilisation, the sight of so much deprivation was doubly shocking, and she was uncomfortably aware that she would have much preferred not to have seen what she had.

Turning away from the window, she viewed the sordid little room behind her without liking. A rag mat beside the narrow iron-railed bedspread was all the covering the floor possessed, and the water in the chipped jug on the washstand was the graveyard for the assortment of insects who had drowned there during the night. The bed itself had been lumpy and not particularly clean, but the night before Caroline had been so tired she felt she could have slept on the floor. This morning, however, she had experienced a shudder of revulsion when she saw the grubby sheets in daylight, and the breakfast of hot tortillas and strong-smelling coffee still stood on the rickety table where the obsequious hotel proprietor had left it.

A knock at her door brought an automatic stiffening of her spine, and she straightened away from the window to stand rather apprehensively in the middle of the floor. ‘Who is it?’ she called, clasping her slim fingers tightly together, and then mentally sagged again when Señor Allende put his head round the door.

‘El desayuno, señorita—it was okay?’

The hotel proprietor was enormously fat, and as he eased his way into the room, Caroline couldn’t help wondering how many of those people she had seen could have lived on what he ate. His girth was disgusting, and he brought with him an odour of sweat and sour tequila that caused her empty stomach to heave.

‘Ah—but you have not eaten!’ he exclaimed now, observing the untouched tray. ‘It is not to your liking, señorita? You want I should have Maria make you something else?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Caroline shook her head firmly. ‘I—er—I’m not hungry. Could you tell me again, what time did Señor Montejo say he would be here?’

‘Don Esteban say he will come before noon,’ responded the fat little Mexican thoughtfully, stroking his black moustaches, and viewing Caroline’s slim figure with an irritatingly speculative eye. ‘Mas, por cierto, el tiempo—the weather, you understand? It may cause—how you say—the delay, no?’

Caroline’s spirits sank even further. ‘You mean the roads may be impassable?’ she suggested, and Señor Allende nodded.

‘Is possible,’ he agreed. Then he smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Mas, no worry, señorita. Jose,’ he pointed to himself, ‘Jose take good care of you, till Don Esteban come.’

‘Yes.’

Caroline forced a faint smile of acknowledgement, but she was not enthusiastic. She would not welcome having to spend another night between those dubious sheets, and Señor Allende’s attitude grew increasingly proprietorial. He was looking at her now, as if he had some prior claim to her loyalties, while she felt she would have preferred any other hotel to this. But Señor Montejo had made the arrangements, and she could only assume that this was the best Las Estadas had to offer.

‘So—–’ Señor Allende drew a fat cigar out of his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end and spat it repulsively on to the floor. ‘Why do you not come downstairs and wait in my office, no? I have a little bottle of something there to—how do you say it?—make the day sunny, hm?’

He pronounced little as ‘leetle’, and it was all Caroline could do not to grimace outright. Did he really imagine she might find his company appealing? If she had not felt so absurdly vulnerable, she could have laughed at the predictability of it all. As it was, she took a backward step and shook her head politely but firmly.

‘I don’t think so, thank you,’ she replied crisply. ‘I’ll stay here. I can watch the street from my window, and I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Is no trouble,’ exclaimed Señor Allende, spreading his hands in typically Latin fashion. ‘Come—–’ He stretched out one podgy hand. ‘Is much nicer downstairs.’

‘No!’ Caroline was very definite this time. ‘Please—I prefer to be alone. If you’ll excuse me—–’

Señor Allende shrugged, and then his small eyes narrowed between the folds of flesh. ‘Okay, okay, is no big deal,’ he retorted. ‘Como quiere usted!’ And with another shrug of his shoulders, he left her, closing the door behind him with heavy definition.

Caroline ran a relieved hand over the crown of her head and down to her nape, resting her head back against the support, expelling the tension that had briefly gripped her. The last thing she needed was complications of that sort, and she let her shoulders droop as she walked wearily back to the window. Where was Señor Montejo? Surely a night’s rain was not sufficient to cut all communications!

Pressing her palms together, she put her thumbs against her lips and gazed thoughtfully down at the verandah opposite. For the first time she questioned her own expectations of her destination. What would the Montejo house be like? What would Señor Montejo be like? And how could she have been foolish enough to commit herself to a whole month’s probation, when she might conceivably want to leave after only one day?

Somehow things had seemed so different in London. No one meeting Señora Garcia, who had conducted the interviews, could have had any doubts that anyone associated with her—and she was the child’s grandmother—could live in anything other than exemplary surroundings. She had exuded an aura of wealth and sophistication, in keeping with the Dior suit and Cartier pearls she was wearing, and Caroline had naturally assumed her son-in-law and his daughter would be the same. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Señora Garcia’s daughter had married beneath her. Perhaps Señor Montejo would turn out to be more like Señor Allende …

At noon, the buxom cook, Maria, brought her a bowl of greasy stew and some corn bread. Caroline suffered herself to eat a little of the stew and all of the bread, realising it would be foolish to starve herself in this climate, and then returned to her seat by the window, wondering idly if the road to Merida was still open.

The afternoon dragged on, and Caroline grew increasingly anxious. What if, as seemed likely, Señor Montejo did not come? How many days might she be expected to stay in this awful place?

Her eyes wandered restlessly up and down the street, watching the struggle an ancient truck was having trying to gain purchase on the slippery road, silently sympathising as its churning wheels threw a shower of mud over an elderly woman passing by. An ox-cart made better progress, though the rain was no less heavy, and she turned away, sighing, just as the door to her room burst open.

It was late afternoon, and the low-hanging clouds had left the room in partial shadow, but the hotel proprietor’s bulk was unmistakable. He stood swaying on the threshold, an opened bottle of tequila clutched in his hand, and Caroline had no need to wonder how he had spent the day.

‘Holà, señorita!’ he greeted her unsteadily, raising the bottle to his mouth and taking a greedy draught. ‘Perhaps you like Jose’s com-company now, hm? You share a little drink with Jose, si?’

Caroline knew she mustn’t panic. She was not exactly afraid, but she was alarmed, and although she felt reasonably capable of defending herself, should the need arise, she dreaded to think where she might go if he threw her out.

‘I don’t drink, Señor Allende,’ she said now, facing him bravely. At five feet six inches, she was almost half a head taller than he was, and infinitely fitter, if his size was anything to go by.

‘Do-don’t drink!’ he echoed, stumbling a little over his words. ‘Por cierto, you take a little tequila. Tequila is good, very good. You try some—here—here—–’

He came towards her heavily, holding out the bottle, urging her to take a mouthful. Caroline’s stomach lurched as she stepped aside. The idea of putting her lips where his greasy mouth had been caused the lumpy stew to rise into the back of her throat like bile, and she swallowed it back nauseously, shifting to avoid his reaching fingers.

‘Señor Allende, please! I don’t want to try any,’ she protested, moving round the bed, but he only came after her, like some lumbering buffalo, panting as his thoughts accelerated beyond the pursuit.

‘You try, you try,’ he said, over and over again, licking his lips in anticipation, and Caroline realised it was going to be impossible to get out of this without a struggle.

She was backed into a corner of the room, with the bed on one side, and the wall of the room, with its tiny crucifix, on the other, and her eyes turned despairingly from the religious image. No immortal being could help her now, and with sudden inspiration she sprang on to the bed, blessing her corded jeans that provided no swirling skirts for the man to grasp. But the proprietor was more agile than she thought, or perhaps desperation lent him speed. Whatever the truth of the matter, his plump fingers reached surely for her ankle, and his brutal jerk brought her down on the bed, the unyielding mattress almost knocking the breath from her body. In those first stunned moments, she felt him clambering on to the bed beside her, and now she really did panic. With a strength she hardly knew she possessed, she twisted on to her back, drawing up her knee in one swift motion, bringing it to the fleshy underside of his body with purposeful effect. His agonised groan was audible, and she scrambled out from beneath him, reaching the door just as another man was about to enter. She collided helplessly with his hard body, and he had to grasp her shoulders to save himself. In the grip of panic, Caroline had no thought to his identity, imagining this might be some colleague of Señor Allende come to join the fun, but as she lifted her foot to deliver a similar blow, he swung her about, imprisoning her arms by her side.

‘Basta, basta!’ he exclaimed, half angrily, then lifted his eyes to the figure just endeavouring to climb off the bed. With Caroline still struggling in his arms, he stared grimly at the obese hotel proprietor, and then, speaking in English for her benefit, he said: ‘What has been going on here, Allende? Did you get a little more than you had expected?’

The cultured voice, accented though it was, brought Caroline to her senses. His words, and the contemptuous way he said them, made her instantly aware that this was no coarse drinking partner of the sweating little proprietor. Even without Señor Allende’s air of subdued discomfort, she would have known that this was someone to be reckoned with, and her struggles stilled as he politely released her.

‘I—I’m sorry if I hurt you—–’ she began, turning with some gratitude to her rescuer, then her speech died away beneath the hooded grey eyes of the man confronting her.

Señor Montejo, if it was indeed he, was like nothing she had imagined. He was younger, for one thing, certainly no more than thirty, and taller than most of the men she had seen since she arrived in Mexico. He was very dark, dark-haired and olive-skinned, but his features possessed all the unconscious hauteur of his Spanish forebears. He was not handsome in the accepted sense of the word. His brows were too strongly marked, his cheek-bones too hard, his mouth too thin—but he was devastatingly attractive, and the dark linen jacket and pants he was wearing, over a darker brown fine wool shirt, hugged his wide shoulders and muscular thighs like a second skin. Caroline had never met anyone who exuded such an aura of raw masculinity, and for a moment she faltered, at once confused and embarrassed.

‘Señor, señor—–’ Taking advantage of Caroline’s discomfort, the hotel proprietor was attempting to defend himself. ‘You misunderstand, señor—–’

‘I think not.’ Señor Montejo’s voice was deep and attractive. ‘I find you, Allende, in a position of some—shall we say, discomfort, on Señorita Leyton’s bed, and the señorita herself evidently in some distress—–’

‘Unnecessarily, I assure you, señor!’ protested Señor Allende dramatically. ‘I have—I admit it—had a little too much to drink.’ He shrugged expressively. ‘So I rest for un momento on the señorita’s bed. Que he hecho?’

‘What were you doing in the señorita’s room?’ enquired Montejo pleasantly, but Caroline could hear the underlying core of steel in his voice.

‘Perhaps—it was a misunderstanding,’ she murmured unhappily, unwilling to make enemies within twenty-four hours of her arrival. ‘I—I don’t think Señor Allende meant any harm—–’

Montejo’s dark face assumed an ironic expression. ‘Do you not?’ He tilted his head in Allende’s direction. ‘You are fortunate that Miss Leyton is not vindictive, my friend. I do not think my brother would be so generous.’

Señor Allende spread his hands. ‘You will not tell Don Esteban, señor. This posada is all I have—–’

The man made an indifferent gesture and said something else in their own language, but Caroline was not paying any attention. Something else, something Señor Allende had said, caused her to revise her first opinion, and she realised with sudden perception that this man was not her employer. Yet he knew her name, and he had mentioned his brother. But who was he? Señora Garcia had mentioned no brother. Only that her son-in-law was a widower, living alone with his daughter and an elderly aunt, on the family’s estates at San Luis de Merced.

As if becoming aware of her doubts and confusion, the man turned back to her now, performing a slight bow, and saying politely: ‘Forgive me, Miss Leyton. I have not introduced myself. My name is Montejo, Luis Vincente de Montejo, brother to Don Esteban, and uncle to your charge, Doña Emilia.’

‘I see.’ Caroline gathered herself quickly. ‘You are—you are here to meet me?’

‘Of course.’ Long dark lashes narrowed the steel grey eyes. ‘My brother is—indisposed. He asked me to bring you to San Luis.’

Caroline drew a somewhat unsteady breath and nodded. ‘I’ll get my things.’

‘Permit me.’

He was there before her, hefting her two cases effortlessly, indicating that she should preceded him from the room. The fat little hotel proprietor watched them with a mixture of relief and brooding resentment, and Caroline, meeting his cold gaze, shivered. In spite of the ingratiating smile he immediately adopted, she would not trust him an inch, and she hoped she never had to throw herself on his mercy.

Downstairs, a group of men were gathered in the hall, and from their attitude Caroline suspected they had been hoping for a fight. She guessed they had known what Allende was about, and as they stepped back with evident respect to let them pass, she felt an increasing surge of gratitude towards Señor Montejo. Without his intervention she could have expected no help from this quarter, and she pressed her arms tightly against her sides to avoid any kind of contact.

Outside, the downpour had eased somewhat, but it was still raining. Water drained in douches from the eaves above their heads as they crossed the muddy street to where a scarcely-identifiable Range Rover was parked, and the shoulders of Caroline’s shirt felt damp as she scrambled with more haste than elegance into the front seat. Her companion thrust her cases into the back, then came round the bonnet to get in beside her, removing his jacket as he did so, and tossing it into the back along with her luggage.

He didn’t say anything as he inserted the keys into the ignition and started the engine, and Caroline endeavoured to recover her composure. It wasn’t easy, with the memory of what had almost happened still sharply etched in her mind, but as her breathing slowed she managed to get it into some kind of perspective. In retrospect, it seemed almost ludicrous to imagine herself tumbling across the bed, but at the time she had known definite fear.

‘A baptism of fire, would you say?’ Señor Montejo enquired, as the vehicle reached the end of the village street, and Caroline glanced sideways at him. Ahead was only jungle, vine-infested and menacing in the fading grey light, and although Las Estadas was scarcely civilised, compared to what was beyond, the lights of the village seemed infinitely comforting. What more did she know of this man, after all? she pondered. Only what he had told her. And Señor Allende’s behaviour, which had spoken of fear, as well as respect. But fear of what, and of whom, she had yet to find out.

‘How—how far is it to San Luis de Merced?’ she ventured, not answering him, and his mouth drew down at the corners.

‘Not far,’ he replied evenly. ‘Between twenty and twenty-five miles. Why?’ He was perceptive. ‘Are you afraid you cannot trust me either?’

Caroline moistened her lips. ‘Can I?’

He inclined his head. ‘Of a surety, señorita.’ He paused. ‘Believe me, you have nothing to fear from me.’

It was dark long before they reached their destination. It came quickly, shrouding the surrounding trees in a cloak of shadows, hiding the primitive landscape, concealing the sparse settlements, much like Las Estadas, if not in size, then certainly in appearance. Caroline wondered how these people lived in such conditions, where they worked, how they supported themselves, what kind of education their children had. There seemed such a gulf between the man beside her and these poor peasants, but she was loath to voice it when he did not.

The road did improve for some distance, when they joined an interstate highway, but after a while they left it again to bounce heavily along a rutted track, liberally spread with potholes. Caroline gripped her seat very tightly, to prevent herself from being thrown against the man beside her, and she felt, rather than saw, him look her way.

‘Are you regretting coming, señorita?’ he asked, again surprising her by his perception. ‘Do not be discouraged by the weather. It is not always like this. Tomorrow, the sun will shine, and you will see beauty as well as ugliness.’