Masquerade

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

Copyright

CHAPTER I

THE letter from England came only one month after the sudden death of her father. Samantha was still living in the shocked daze which had taken a hold on her when she had heard that her father’s car had crashed on the autostrada while she was driving from Milan to Bologna. A sudden puncture of a front tyre had caused the old saloon to skid dangerously, crossing the dividing lanes and colliding with a touring autobus coming from the opposite direction. The passengers on the bus had been shocked but unhurt. John Kingsley was dead.

Samantha was desolate; she had lived here so long in the small Italian fishing village of Perruzio with her father, sharing the villa and sharing his life. They had been so close. Too close, for now he was dead she felt she had no one. Even old Matilde, who had been housekeeper at the villa for as long as she could remember, could not make up for the emptiness she felt inside. She thought she would never feel secure or happy again.

John, she had always called him that, had been to Milan to open his first exhibition of sculptures. For years his talent had gone unrecognized, and then a visiting art enthusiast had been impressed and had arranged for John to have this exhibition in Milan. He had been there two weeks, writing home to tell Samantha of the sucess he was having; the commissions he was hoping to fill. He was driving home when the accident occurred, and Samantha reflected bitterly that it was ironic that he should be cut off from life just when all he had ever worked for was being realized.

The funeral had taken place in Perruzio, with all the villagers turning out to the little church where the Catholic father had said the Requiem Mass. They were all so friendly, so sympathetic, and yet Samantha could hardly bear their kindness. She only wanted to be alone, to grieve in private.

Her father’s affairs were in a sorry state. The villa was rented and although the exhibition was the beginning of his success, as yet there was little to show for all his years of work. He had had a small military pension, but that had died with him, and after the funeral was paid for there was very little left for Samantha. For the time being she was content to stay on at the villa, but she knew it could not last. Soon she would have to do something. Get a job, or alternatively accept the offer she had already been made. Her thoughts shied away from this inevitable conclusion. For, after all, what job was she equipped to perform? She knew some typing and could look after a small house, she could cook a little, but she did not think these attributes amounted to much in a modern world where every girl seemed to provide herself more than adequately to fit any position.

And now, this letter had arrived from England, the country she had never really acknowledged as her birthplace. She had lived in Italy since she was four years old and spoke Italian like a native. This was the only country she really knew although her father had always insisted that they spoke English when they were alone together.

John had told her that her mother had died when she was a baby and that she had no other relatives. He had left his life in England and come to Italy after her mother’s death to enable him to have the time and inspiration for his work. They had never had much money, but what they had had sufficed and life was cheap in the fishing village. Fish was plentiful and easy to obtain and Matilde made all their bread. They grew vegetables in the small garden on the cliff top and Samantha had always been content.

She turned the letter over in her fingers before opening it. It was an expensive envelope, that much she knew and she was doubly intrigued to learn its contents. It could only be from some friend of her father’s in England who had heard only recently of his death.

The letter which emerged from the envelope was written on headed letter paper, with the address: “Daven House, Daven, Wiltshire”, in tiny gold letters.

Frowning, Samantha turned to the end of the letter to read the signature. It was simply “Lucia Davenport”.

With a characteristic shrug of her slim shoulders, Samantha began to read from the beginning.

“My dear Samantha,

Since being informed, a few days ago, of my son-in-law’s tragic death, I have made arrangements for you to return to England. Of course, you must return here. We are your family and we want you. I am your grandmother, and since Barbara still refuses to act as a mother should, I myself will avail you of the facts.

Whatever your father may have told you to the contrary, your mother is very much alive. I suspect you are unaware of this. I will explain more fully when we meet. I am an old, old woman, my dear, and it would give me delight to have you come and live with me at Daven. My existence is now somewhat dull, but I would like to have a young person like yourself around me and I would try to see that you did find enjoyment and entertainment in spite of this.”

Samantha stared at the letter in amazement. Her legs felt as though they would no longer hold her and she sank down weakly on to the arm of a nearby chair, astonishment vying with disbelief. Could it possibly be true? Or was this someone’s idea of a cruel joke. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and read on:

“When your father’s solicitors contacted me, as your father had left instructions that they should if anything should happen to him, I immediately sent instructions for your journey to London. I myself will be in London to meet you, if you will let me know the date and time of your arrival.

Please do not think too much about this until we meet. You cannot possibly understand anything until the full facts are explained to you. Simply rest assured that we will welcome you here.

Yours affectionately,

Lucia Davenport.”

Samantha could not restrain the gasp of pure bewilderment that escaped her. She replaced the letter carefully in its envelope and stared unseeingly into space.

Could it possibly be true? she asked herself again. Had she indeed been living a lie all these years? Was her mother really alive? And if so, why had she never contacted her? And yet, if it was not true, who was there to do such a thing to her?

No, she decided at last. It must be true.

She reached to the carved cigarette box which her father had made, and extracted a cigarette. Lighting it she pondered on the turmoil that had now invaded her brain. Suddenly her empty life was full again. Full of strangers, claiming to be relations. A grandmother; a mother! Could she possibly have any brothers or sisters?

A hundred and one questions buzzed around in her head and she had no satisfactory answers to supply to them. The only way she would ever know would be to go to London as this “grandmother” of hers suggested and find out for herself.

The thought of uprooting herself from all that she had held dear all these years was a terrifying one. How could she leave Matilde? Of course, Matilde did have a sister who lived in Ravenna, not far away from Perruzio, but was it fair to expect her to leave, just like that?

And what if she did not like these strange new relations? After all, they had not cared about her until now. Why had John kept it all such a closely guarded secret? She had thought they had no secrets from one another, while her father was withholding something that could change her whole life!

She shivered although the day was already quite hot. She rose and crossed the polished wooden floor to the French doors which opened on to the verandah which overlooked the almost white sands of the beach, lapped continually by the smooth, creamy surf of the Adriatic. It was all so beautiful that it took her breath away. To leave all this, for some cold, grey English town, where the sun never shone and where people could not go out without their mackintoshes! John had painted a very gloomy picture of the country of her birth, but after all the secrets he had withheld, she wondered now whether London was indeed as bad as he had painted it. If there had been something there which he hated; something he had come to Italy to get away from, might he not see it with very different eyes from hers?

For the time being she felt she could not share her news with anyone. It was too sudden; too difficult to explain, even to Matilde.

Stubbing out her cigarette she turned and re-crossed the room. She walked down the tiled passage to her bedroom and stripped off the old jeans and sweater which were her only attire. She pulled on a diminutive bikini which she had made herself and caught up her long silky hair in a ponytail.

She left the villa, crossing the verandah and descending the sloping cliff to the beach. She ran eagerly into the warm ocean, allowing the cooling water to swirl over her head for a moment, before surfacing and swimming strongly through the waves. She swam almost every day, and in the water she could escape for a while the implications of the fateful letter. Soon she would have to go back, to tell Matilde and ask her advice. But for now, she forgot everything but the warmth of the sun and the sense of well-being the water always gave her. She was not aware that for the first time since her father’s death, she had cast aside her melancholy.

She was a strong swimmer, and looking back towards the shore she realized she had come farther than she had realized. Turning, she saw the stocky figure of a fisherman watching her and she waved, recognizing him. She soon reached the shallows again and waded up out of the water on to the beach.

Benito Angeli stood watching her as she approached him, his eyes warm and desirous. She was so fair, this English girl, with the silky mass of her hair falling wetly about her shoulders. Her green eyes surveyed him smilingly, and as she was a tall girl they were on eye-level terms.

“You are better, eh?” he asked in Italian. Samantha nodded. Although it was unlikely Benito would ever leave his native village, she had been teaching him English and she said now:

“Yes, thank you, Benito,” and he grinned sheepishly.

“It’s no good,” he went on in his own language. “I’ll never learn.”

“You won’t if you don’t try,” she replied in Italian now, and loosening her hair from its restraining band she flung herself down on the sand and stretched luxuriously. “The water is delicious!”

Benito knelt beside her. “You swim too far alone,” he remarked.

“I know.” She sighed and looked suitably chastened.

Benito was puzzled. Since her father’s death Samantha had had no time for idle chatter. But today, she was different.

Samantha, as though reading his thoughts, said: “To be quite honest, I’m a bit bemused. I had a letter from England this morning.”

“England?” Benito frowned. “You know someone in England?”

“Apparently so,” replied Samantha, rolling on to her stomach.

“Someone who knows your father?”

“Yes … at least ‘knows’ is rather an understatement.” She shook her head.

“So? Tell me, who is it from?”

He allowed himself to relax beside her, his fingers straying caressingly over her bare back.

But Samantha was not in the mood for petting and she rolled restlessly away from him and sat up.

“Don’t,” she said, irritatedly. “I’m serious. The letter was from my grandmother. Now do you understand?”

Benito lost his lazy air. “Your grandmother! But your father, he said that you had no relations!”

“I know.” Samantha hunched her shoulders. “But it seems I have. That is, unless someone is having a joke at my expense. And that’s not all. I also have a mother!”

“Madre de Dio!” Benito gasped.

“Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. So you see, I am presented with rather a problem.”

“And that is?”

“My grandmother wants me to go to England.”

“No!” Benito looked angry. “But you are not going?”

Samantha sighed. “I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

Benito leant towards her. “Cara, what about us? You know how I feel about you. I thought … I hoped … that soon now …”

Samantha nodded. “I know.”

She had been left in no doubt as to Benito’s feelings. They had grown up together. They had always been in each other’s company. He had taught her to swim, to handle a boat as well as any boy, to fish. John had not objected, although at times her father had been a little obtuse where Benito was concerned. He had not been able to see what was happening under his very nose. Perhaps, Samantha reflected, he had thought they were too close for anything emotional to come of it, but in Italy, it was the natural thing that children brought up together should marry, and Benito had never made any secret of his feelings. Benito’s family expected the match. Already there was talk of a small cottage becoming vacant in the village which would suit their needs. John Kingsley’s villa had too high a rent for any of the village folk and anyway, Benito would want to remain in the bosom of his family. And Samantha had always enjoyed their company. She adored the children, Benito’s nephews and nieces, but marriage was such a big step and in no time at all she could see herself with a family of her own and no possible chance of ever leaving the village again. Was this what she wanted? she had asked herself time and time again, and had always come up, unsatisfactorily, with the same answer. What other choice had she? Now that John was dead the problem had become daily a more difficult one. This letter had opened new doors, shown new horizons, and although the idea of leaving was frightening, yet she felt sure that this was her opportunity to see something of the world. How could she explain all this to Benito, though? How would he ever understand? He was content to live in Perruzio. He had a good life. He belonged with his family. And so might she belong with hers.

Benito had always taken her acceptance for granted and now to be confronted by this new Samantha was rather disconcerting for him.

“Why have they never come to see you?” he asked suddenly. “Why did your father say your mother was dead?”

“I don’t really know,” she admitted, sighing. “Perhaps as far as he was concerned, they were. But my grandmother was contacted by my father’s solicitors, so he must have decided that should anything happen to him, I was to know the truth. Of course, he would never think that anything would happen so soon. He was only a young man, after all.”

“But what about me?” Benito rose to his feet. “Surely your father knew about us?”

“He knew, and yet he didn’t know,” murmured Samantha. “Benito, I don’t think Father thought that there was anything more than friendship between us.”

Benito turned away. “And you let him think that?”

Samantha rose too now. “Of course not. I told him that we were very fond of one another. …”

“Very fond?” Benito spread wide his hands helplessly. “I adore you.”

Samantha compressed her lips. “I know, I know.”

“But you are going to let this new family of yours take you away from me,” he exclaimed angrily.

Samantha put her hands over her ears. “Don’t! I don’t know yet.”

Benito looked belligerent. “I won’t let you do this to me!”

Samantha turned and ran up the cliff to the villa, without answering him. Benito ran after her, and as he was not tired from swimming caught her easily.

“This is your home, carissima,” he murmured, in another tone.

Samantha looked gently at him. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known,” she whispered.

“And so?”

“I still can’t quite take it in,” she said. “Try and understand, Benito. How would you feel if you suddenly learned that your mother was still alive after you had thought her dead for all these years? I’m twenty-one now. I’ve never known what it’s like to have a mother. Naturally, I’m curious to see her. If only to find out what kind of a woman could desert her child to the extent that my mother has done. It must be at least seventeen years since she saw me.”

She felt a lump in her throat at this thought. Then she looked at Benito. Standing beside her in denim trousers and a rough shirt open at the neck, he looked dear and familiar, and she wondered why she was allowing the letter to come between them. If only it had never arrived! It would have been so simple to marry Benito and have his children. Living in Perruzio there would be no complications in their lives. Just as his parents had lived before them.

She slid her arm through his. “Don’t rush me, darling,” she murmured.

He looked dejected for a moment and then pulled her to him to press his lips to hers, his rough hands encircling her slim throat.

“Si,” he said softly. “I will give you time.”

They walked on up the cliff path until they could see the villa, lying peacefully as ever in the sunlight. But, to their surprise, there was a low black limousine parked at the entrance.

Samantha looked at Benito and raised dark eyebrows. Benito shook his head in reply.

“Are you coming in for some coffee?” she asked.

Benito smiled slightly. “I think I had better. We must find out who your visitors are.”

Matilde was in the hall when they entered the door. An elderly woman, her long black hair twined always into a bun on the nape of her neck, she looked at Samantha with relief in her face.

“You have company,” she said softly in Italian, indicating the door of the lounge where earlier Samantha had read the stupendous news. “From Milano.”

Samantha frowned. The day was gradually taking on the aspects of a dream. First the earth-shattering letter and now some strange company. Her limited existence was widening alarmingly.

Benito waited in the hall while Samantha went to change and put on a dress. She returned only a couple of minutes later, having towelled her hair almost dry and donned a simple shift of yellow cotton, another of her own creations. There had not been much money over to spend on clothes and she had found that buying material in the market and running it up herself left more over for essential commodities.

“Do I look all right?” she whispered to Benito, and he nodded. To his eyes she would look good in anything. Just to look at her sent the blood pounding through his veins, his heart thumping wildly. Soon, oh! soon, she must marry him. He could not wait much longer. He wanted her passionately. With her fair skin and almost white hair she was so different from the dark-haired girls of his own race and too long he had delayed already. Had they already been married when the letter came this morning, she would not have been able to talk to him as she had done. She would have been his wife, his property, and most probably, the mother of a bambino by now.

Together they entered the lounge to find two men seated in opposite armchairs, smoking and drinking the strong coffee which Matilde had brewed for them. They were both much older than the two young people, the younger of the two being about fifty years of age. They rose to their feet politely at Samantha’s entrance and the older man came to greet them.

“Miss Kingsley?” he asked, in heavily accented English.

“Yes.” Samantha shook hands cautiously. They looked all right, so she supposed that as they came from Milan, they must be business associates of her father. Perhaps they had something to do with the exhibition.

“My name is Arturo Cioni,” went on the man, “and this is my brother Giovanni.” He smiled. “We are your father’s solicitors.” He hesitated. “Do you speak Italian, Miss Kingsley?”

Samantha smiled and nodded. “Yes. Do speak in your own language if it is easier for you.”

“Good.” The man continued in Italian. “We have had a communication from your grandmother in England. I understand you have had the same. Yes?”

“That’s right,” Samantha nodded. “It arrived this morning. I must confess I knew nothing at all about having any other relations. My father did not tell me.”

“Yes, I know. But now your grandmother has instructed us to arrange for your flight to England. Was this explained in your letter?”

“Yes. I haven’t got over the initial shock yet.”

“Very understandable,” said the younger man, speaking for the first time. “I always advised your father that you should be made aware of the facts in case such an unfortunate contingency occurred. I think he found it hard to tell you. You had lived so long without this knowledge. I also think he was a little afraid.”