Melting Fire

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

LONDON AIRPORT was crammed with holidaymakers trying to get out of the city, a circumstance which was not improved by striking baggage-handlers, refusing to load and offload luggage. Frustrated matrons, trailing fractious children, struggled after their burdened husbands, and the general chaos which ensued rivalled Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day.

Olivia, weighted down by her own two cases, was glad she was not going in the opposite direction. Her flight had landed without delay, and only a handful of passengers had been obliged to sort out their belongings. It didn’t make her suitcases any less heavy, but it had saved time. The rather handsome young man who had been sitting across from her in the plane had offered to help, but he had had cases of his own, plus an assortment of sporting equipment which labelled him a tennis pro, and she had smilingly declined. Besides, she had expected Richard to be here to meet her, and had looked forward to the young man’s speculation when her stepbrother appeared on the scene. He had watched Jules kiss her a lingering goodbye in Paris, and she anticipated his reactions to the man meeting her in London with pleasurable amusement. But Richard had not appeared, and as her arms began to ache, and she began to sweat, irritation overtook all other emotions. Richard should have been here, she thought frustratedly. It was the least he could do when it was more than eight months since she had seen him. His trip to New York at Christmas had coincided with her homecoming, and at Easter she had stayed in Paris with a girl friend because he had been in South America. Surely he could have made an effort to be in London at the end of July.

She emerged from the Customs hall to find Alex Bishop, her brother’s personal assistant, waiting for her. The sight of him only added to her annoyance, knowing as she did that had Richard troubled to come himself he could have pulled strings and met her off the aircraft. Alex Bishop, on the other hand, would never do a thing like that. He was quite content to wait in the lounge, realising that sooner or later she would come through.

‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her politely now, taking the cases from her unresisting fingers. ‘Did you have a pleasant flight?’

Olivia pursed her lips for a moment, and then allowed a sigh of resignation to escape her. What was the point of railing at one of Richard’s bright young men? It wasn’t Alex’s fault that her stepbrother wasn’t here, and if she wanted to sustain Richard’s good humour, it wouldn’t be politic to be rude to Alex Bishop.

‘Very pleasant, thank you,’ she responded now, as they crossed the rubber flooring to the automatic doors. ‘Apart from having to carry my own cases.’ She paused. ‘How are you? How’s Richard?’

Alex Bishop allowed her to precede him through the sliding doors, and they emerged into the dusty sunlight of the terminal area. The smell of oil and diesel permeated the air, but the sight of Richard’s dark blue Mercedes was a welcome relief. The sleek limousine nudged the kerb, impervious to the double yellow lines that signified ‘No Waiting’, and Olivia settled herself in the front passenger seat as Alex stowed her cases in the boot.

He came to join her a few moments later, folding his lanky length behind the wheel, and casting a shy, admiring glance in her direction. ‘You look well,’ he commented, inserting the key in the ignition, and Olivia stifled her annoyance at his avoidance of answering her question.

The next few minutes were taken up with negotiating the traffic building up outside Terminal 1. Chartered buses, unable to depart on schedule because their passengers were still sorting out their luggage, clogged the departure lanes, and there was much heavy braking and honking of horns as impatient motorists sought to escape the worst holdups of peak hour traffic.

‘It doesn’t get any better,’ observed Alex apologetically, his thin face mirroring his regret. ‘I think we’ll have to copy the Americans and use helicopters to get from place to place.’

Olivia surveyed the scene with a jaundiced eye. ‘I’m sure if helicopters are the answer, Richard will get one,’ she retorted dryly, deliberately bringing her stepbrother’s name into the conversation again. ‘You didn’t tell me. How is he?’

Alex flushed, and without his answering, Olivia didn’t have to be told that her stepbrother was in the best of health. It was a continual source of embarrassment to Alex that he should be the one who met her from boarding school, or handed over her allowance, or wrote to her when some change in the arrangements was being made. He knew, as well as she did, that Richard made use of him this way, and he was the one who always had to withstand Olivia’s disappointments.

But not this time, she decided shortly. If Richard couldn’t be bothered to come and meet her when they hadn’t seen or spoken to one another for so long, why should she get upset? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any longer, and he was no longer the axis on which her world revolved.

She allowed her gaze to rest on Alex’s features, as he sought to find a suitable reply. How old was he? she speculated. Thirty-two? Thirty-three, maybe. He had worked for Richard for at least the last twelve years, and as his personal assistant for perhaps five years of that time. He had witnessed Olivia’s transformation from a tunic-clad schoolgirl of seven or eight to the expensively turned-out product of the academy she was today, but he had never lost the shyness he always exhibited in her presence. Why? she wondered. She had been a tearful baby, going away to school for the first time, when he joined Richard’s staff. She ought to have been in awe of him. But it had never worked that way.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said now, as they turned on to the M.4. ‘Richard’s involved in some terrifically important deal, and he sends his apologies for not meeting me, but it was just impossible for him to get away!’

Alex cast an embarrassed look in her direction, and then, allowing the powerful car to gather momentum, he said: ‘As a matter of fact, your stepbrother isn’t in England at the moment, Olivia. He did send his apologies, but he had to fly to Athens on Tuesday——’

‘Athens!’

Olivia’s newly-adopted independence vanished beneath a wave of indignation. The usual spate of recriminations sprang to her lips, and she had to bite them back as she sought to regain her composure. Richard was not at Copley, he was in Athens. And as indifferent to her homecoming as he had ever been.

‘I wrote you about the deal with Kuriakis, didn’t I?’ Alex was saying hurriedly. ‘You know what Greeks are like—very sociable people. When Aristotle phoned, Rich had no choice but to accept his invitation. Not that it’s wholly sociable, of course,’ he added, the colour deepening in his normally pale face. ‘There’s more business done across the dinner table than in the office, if you see what I mean …’

Olivia’s slender fingers separated across her knees. She would not get upset, she told herself fiercely. She was a grown woman now, intelligent and mature enough to accept her graduation from St. Helena’s without requiring congratulations or a welcome home party. Richard had sent her to Paris, not only to finish her education, but to gain assurance and self-possession, and if he returned to tears and resentment he would never believe she was old enough to govern her own life.

‘I’m sorry.’ Alex, unaware of the mental battle going on inside her, gazed at her anxiously. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow, or Sunday at the very latest. I know he’s disappointed to miss your homecoming——’

‘Don’t give me sympathy, Alex!’ Olivia could no longer suppress the need for self-expression. ‘We both know that all Richard cares about is the company, and not being at Copley when I get back means less than nothing to him!’

‘Oh, I don’t think——’

‘Well, I do,’ she interrupted him shortly. ‘Please, Alex, spare me the excuses. If Richard had had to go to—to Alice Springs or—Timbuktu, to further his own ends, he’d have done it.’

Alex’s bony fingers tightened on the steering wheel, but he made no further attempt to argue with her. He didn’t like her talking about her stepbrother like that, and she knew it. Richard’s employees were intensely loyal, which said something for him, she supposed grudgingly, but no one could deny that Richard enjoyed the power his position afforded. She supposed he deserved the success which had come to him, she conceded, pleating the fine silk jersey of the dress she had worn specially to impress him. Since his father died he had built the small processing plant he had left into one of the largest chemical corporations in the world, but in so doing he had lost touch with the minor details, like her homecoming, for example. She didn’t need Alex to tell her that he employed a lot of people, that whole families depended on him for their livelihood, that it wasn’t reasonable for her to expect him to throw his responsibilities aside just because the girl he had cared for since their parents were killed fifteen years ago was returning from her finishing school in France. She just wished for once that she might have figured first in his list of commitments, instead of coming last, as always.

Now she took a deep breath, and changing the subject completely asked: ‘How is Bella? She’s at home, isn’t she? I can’t wait to see her again. I’ve missed her so much.’

Alex visibly relaxed. ‘Miss Ponsonby is very well,’ he assured her. ‘I know she’s looking forward to your arrival. She’s talked of little else for the past three weeks.’

Olivia sighed, a small smile of satisfaction curving her lips. Dear Bella, she thought reminiscently, what would they have done without her?

Miss Isabella Ponsonby had been Richard’s nanny many years ago, long before Olivia’s own father had died, and Mrs Ross had married Matthew Jenner. Miss Ponsonby had stayed on after the wedding, continuing to run the household as she had done since Richard’s mother had run away with an American banker she had met at a party in London five years before. The second Mrs Jenner was not a robust character, and she had been glad to delegate her responsibilities to the capable hands of a housekeeper, but during a holiday abroad, the Jenners were killed in a car crash, and Bella had become mother as well as nanny to the infant Olivia. She had cared for the child with all the devotion she had once lavished on Richard, and apart from her stepbrother, had become the most important person in Olivia’s small world. The tragedy had been easier for Richard to bear. He was already a man, twenty-two, and graduating after a year at the Harvard Business School …

Olivia deliberately turned her head to stare out at the undulating Berkshire countryside. She would not think of Richard now, she decided impatiently. She would think of Paris, and Jules, and the exciting news she had to impart to Bella. Her lips parted in anticipation of the astonishment Bella would display. She had always refused to accept that Olivia was growing up, but when she learned about Jules, she would have to revise her opinion. Jules Merignac, she mused dreamily. The Jules Merignac, and he had singled her out for attention. She tilted her head critically, surreptitiously studying her reflection in the mirror secured to the sun visor. He had said he was in love with her, he had asked her to delay her departure for London; and when she had insisted she had to go home, he had told her he would follow her to England. Certainly his kiss of farewell at Charles de Gaulle airport had been more intimate than any kiss she had experienced so far, and little shivers of excitement had run along her spine at the prospect of sharing more than kisses with him.

Some of the girls at the Academy already had lovers, knew all there was to know about having a relationship with a man, but so far Olivia felt herself to be irritatingly innocent. In England, Richard deterred all the boys she met at the golf and tennis clubs, and the overtures she had had were more than a little daunted by her stepbrother’s power and position. They didn’t seem to understand that she had never really felt herself part of the Jenner corporation, that her mother’s marriage to Matthew Jenner had been months rather than years old when they were killed, and she herself was very much the poor relation. Not that she had ever been treated that way. The schools she had attended, the clothes she had worn, had all been the best that money could buy. But it was Richard’s money, not hers, and their relationship was a tenuous thing at best. She loved him, of course, and she thought that he was genuinely fond of her, but he was not really her brother, and she sometimes wished she wasn’t so dependent upon him.

‘Have you heard of Jules Merignac?’ she asked Alex now, and was gratified when he told her that he had.

‘He’s a French pop singer, isn’t he?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from the road. ‘He plays the guitar, too, doesn’t he? I’ve seen him a couple of times on television. Why?’ He chanced a look at her. ‘Did you meet him?’

‘Yes.’ Olivia enjoyed the feeling of power saying so gave her. ‘I met him. Several times, in fact.’

It was only three actually, but there was no need to tell Alex that. However, his: ‘Really!’ was irritatingly unimpressed, and she said rashly:

‘He asked me to have dinner with him, and I did. He saw me off at the airport this afternoon actually.’ She tugged a strand of red-gold hair and twined it round her finger. ‘All the other girls were madly jealous.’

‘Indeed.’

Alex’s tone was dry now, and she was tempted to say something that would really shock him. But the knowledge that their conversation would no doubt be relayed to Richard, verbatim, encouraged her to guard her tongue.

Instead, she half turned towards him, giving him the full benefit of her exquisite profile, and rested her bare elbow on the back of his seat, beside his shoulder. It might be fun to see if the things she had learned had any effect on Alex, she considered wickedly, but again the thought of her stepbrother’s reaction was an effective deterrent.

‘Tell me, Alex,’ she murmured reflectively, ‘haven’t you ever wanted to get married? Working for Richard is a demanding occupation, I know, but you must have a life of your own.’

Alex shifted a little uncomfortably, and she sensed his awareness of her firm breasts surging against the low round bodice of her dress. It was tantalising to know she could disturb him in this way, and she deliberately lifted her arm to remove the weight of her hair from her nape, allowing the fragrant perfume she used to drift about him. It occurred to her that he was as innocent as she was, more so probably, she decided wryly, for with her new-found knowledge she was at least aware of her own sexuality.

‘I don’t think about it,’ Alex confessed now, accelerating to overtake a lumbering pantechnicon. ‘I’m afraid I’d make very poor husband material.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she protested, but the glance he cast her way was only reproving.

‘Oughtn’t you to fasten your safety belt, Olivia?’ he suggested dampeningly. ‘We’re travelling at approximately sixty miles an hour, and if we should hit a vehicle travelling at a similar speed——’

‘—we’d both be killed!’ retorted Olivia, but she twisted round in her seat and obediently clipped the seat belt into place. What was the point of baiting him? He was far too conscious of provoking Richard’s disfavour to respond to her, and besides, Richard would never believe she could be serious about Jules if Alex related that she had been attempting to flirt with him.

She settled back to enjoy what remained of the journey. It was pleasant in the Mercedes, with the open roof fanning her forehead, and the breeze blowing across them from the open windows. There was nowhere like England on a hot summer’s day, she thought reluctantly, though Richard’s absence still had the power to sour her mood.

Copley lay on the borders of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. It was a small estate which Richard had bought eight years ago, and from the first Olivia had loved it. She had tried not to, telling herself it was only her home so long as Richard remained a bachelor, and that being his stepsister gave her no rights to organise his house. But it hadn’t worked that way. Because Richard spent so much time abroad, her visits to Copley often encompassed weeks when she had the place to herself, excluding the staff and dear Bella, of course, and as a matter of course, they all deferred to her as Richard’s deputy.

Alex had turned off the motorway towards Wallingford, and just inside the Oxfordshire border he swung on to the narrow country road which led to the village of West Cross. Copley lay a couple of miles beyond the village, and Olivia couldn’t prevent the glow of excitement she felt as they left the narrow streets of the village behind and approached the gates of her home.

The estate comprised some fifteen acres of orchard and parkland, and the area immediately surrounding the house provided tennis courts and a swimming pool, as well as cultivated gardens and a pergola-hung patio. Richard kept horses, too, but for stud purposes mostly, although he had several hunters which he ran at point-to-point meetings.

The house itself was of traditional design, with gabled windows, and ivy-hung walls. Parts of it were said to date from the eighteenth century, but the main building had been largely restored, and boasted no particular period. It was just a very attractive country house, Olivia had stated, when her love affair with the place first began, and Richard had agreed that it served the purpose.

Miss Ponsonby appeared long before Alex had circled the courtyard that fronted the house and brought the limousine to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Small and bustling, she fretted impatiently as he parked the powerful car, and then tugged open Olivia’s door herself. Olivia scrambled out and was immediately enfolded in the nursemaid’s warm embrace, inhaling again the fragrance of Devonshire violets she always associated with Miss Ponsonby.

‘It’s so good to see you!’ the older woman exclaimed, half annoyed at the tears that moistened her eyes. ‘All these months, and never a visit! How could you treat your old Bella so?’

Olivia sighed as she extricated herself, smoothing her tumbled hair with a careless hand. ‘Oh, Bella, I wanted to see you!’ she protested smilingly, ‘but Michelle invited me to stay with them at Easter and as Richard was away …’

‘I know. You didn’t give a thought to me, here on my own,’ retorted Bella reprovingly, but there was no censure in the words. ‘Come along, then. I’ve got tea waiting, and while we have it you can tell me all your news.’

‘Yes,’ Olivia murmured, as Alex extracted her cases from the boot and carried them up the steps and into the house, but now that she was actually here, she felt a certain reluctance to expose her feelings for Jules to the cold light of day. Richard would be scathing, she expected that, but she didn’t think she could bear it if Bella was not enthusiastic. She felt too unsure of herself, too vulnerable, to withstand anyone’s criticism, and she had a ridiculous desire to keep her secret just a little longer.

The hall of Copley was cool after the dusty heat outside. The drone of a distant tractor was muted within its maple panelling, dark and polished, reflecting the colours of a vase of asters and lupins that occupied the antique table in the curve of the stairs. A warm gold and blue carpet was soft to the feet, and Jess, Richard’s Irish wolfhound, came yawning across it to greet her. Fondling the bitch’s grey head, Olivia chided her for the lazy animal she was, pushing the probing tongue away and informing her that she didn’t earn her keep.

Alex had apparently carried her cases upstairs, and Olivia followed Bella into the sitting room, flopping down lazily on to the squashy cushions of the velvet sofa. Looking about her, she was struck anew by the beauty of this room that was so lived-in, and yet retained its air of casual elegance. Its pale walls were hung with some of Richard’s collection of miniatures, and in the window embrasure a baby grand piano supported a bowl of cream roses. Occasionally Richard could be persuaded to play to them in the evenings, but mostly he spent his time closeted in his study across the hall, and woe betide anyone who dared to interrupt him when he was working.