Night Heat

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SARA hadn’t felt much like going to the party. In fact, after what had happened that afternoon, it was probably the last place she would have chosen to go. But Vicki had been determined that she should, when she had hinted as much to her, and perhaps it was sensible, as Vicki said, not to stay at home and mope.

All the same, it wasn’t going to be easy to put on a cheerful face, when what she really felt like doing was crying her eyes out. It was so unfair, she thought, for the umpteenth time since Doctor Walters had given her the news. All those years of work for nothing. A slip on the stairs, and her whole life was ruined. Or the most important part of it, she amended, not being given to lying, even to herself.

It didn’t help to know that it could have been worse, that she could have been left with a permanent limp, or, heaven forbid! callipers on her leg. And it was little consolation at this time that she had a job which was not dependent on her being able to effect an arabesque or perform a pirouette. But all her life she had wanted to dance, ever since she was able to walk, and to know now that her dancing days were over was a bitter pill to swallow.

Her earliest memories were of tottering round on wobbly legs, to the delight and admiration of her parents. She had loved to perform for friends and relations alike, and when other children had been playing with dolls or acting out their fantasies, she had been content to practise at the barre.

But now the dream she had had, that one day she might become more than just a member of a chorus line, was over. The ankle she had thought only strained had, in fact, been broken, and in spite of a belated plaster cast and weeks of therapy, she was never going to regain the strength that had been there.

Of course, if she was brutally honest with herself, she would accept that the chances of her ever becoming really famous had been slim. It was true that when she was ten years old, she had been the star pupil at her ballet class. But her parents’ deaths in a multi-car pile-up, and a subsequent move to live with her aunt and uncle in Warwickshire, had done much to retard the modest success she had had. Her aunt, who was her father’s older sister, did not regard becoming a dancer as either a suitable or a sensible career, and not until Sara was eighteen and old enough to make her own decisions was she able to devote all her time to her art.

Much against her aunt’s and uncle’s wishes, she had used the small legacy her parents had left her to move to London and enrol at a dance academy. But after two years of attending auditions and tramping from agency to agency in the hope that someone might be willing to give her a chance to prove herself, she had had to admit defeat. A temporary office job had provided funds to take a course in shorthand and typing, and in spite of her misgivings, she discovered an unexpected aptitude for secretarial work. Her speeds at both shorthand and typing assured her of regular employment, and the comforting rise in salary enabled her to move from the tiny bed-sitter, which had been all she could afford. She had answered an advertisement asking for someone to share the rent of a two-bedroomed flat, and that was how she met Vicki Hammond.

It was later that Vicki had explained she had chosen Sara because she was a Libran. ‘Librans are compatible with Geminis,’ she said, revealing her reasons for asking Sara’s date of birth, and whatever the truth of it, they had become good friends.

Vicki was a photographic model, though she was quick to point out that she did not take all her clothes off. ‘Mostly layouts for catalogues, that sort of thing,’ she explained, when Sara asked what she did. ‘I get an occasional trip to Europe, and once we went to Florida, which was exciting. But mostly we work in a studio in Shepherd’s Bush. It’s not very glamorous, but the money’s good.’

She had tried to get Sara interested in modelling. ‘With those eyes and that hair, you’d be a natural!’ she exclaimed, viewing Sara’s slender figure with some envy. ‘And you’re tall, too, and that’s always an advantage. I’m sure if I spoke to Tony, he’d be willing to give you a try.’

But Sara had refused, flattered, but not attracted by the world of fashion. She had still not given up hope of becoming a professional dancer, and she had exercised continually, keeping her limbs loose and supple.

Curiously enough, when her break did come, it was quite by accident. It had happened at a party she had attended with Vicki—much like tonight’s, she reflected ruefully. A young man had invited her to dance, and discovering her ability to follow his every move, he had put on a display for the other guests. The music was all guitars and drums, a primitive rhythm that demanded a primitive response. And Sara, who had always considered herself a classical dancer, found her vocation in the disco beat.

It turned out that the young man was himself a dancer, one of a group famous for their television appearances. To Sara’s delight and amazement, he told her that their choreographer was always on the lookout for new young talent, and in spite of her initial scepticism, an audition had been arranged.

That had been exactly ten days before Sara slipped on the stairs in the apartment building and hurt her ankle. It had been bruised and stiff, it was true, but she had never dreamt it might anything more serious than a sprain. It had been such a little slip, but, a week later, the pain had driven her to seek medical treatment. That was when the tiny splintered bone had been discovered, not too serious in itself, but compounded by the fact that she had used the foot without support.

Of course, the television audition had had to be cancelled, and as if that wasn’t enough, six weeks later she had been told that the bone was not mending correctly. Further treatment had been arranged, more weeks of rest and frustration, before the cast had finally been removed and therapy could begin.

And now, today, when she had been sure her ankle was almost cured, when she had convinced herself it would soon be as strong as it had ever been. Doctor Walters had broken the news that she should never dance again—not professionally, anyway. ‘The ankle simply wouldn’t stand it,’ he told her regretfully. ‘Haven’t you found already that even standing for long periods makes it ache?’

Of course Sara had, but she had believed that sooner or later the strength would return. To learn that that was not going to happen had been a bitter blow, and she had left the hospital in a daze. She remembered dragging herself to Regent’s Park, and sitting in the gardens there for over an hour, trying to come to terms with what this would mean. The future she had planned for herself was never going to materialise. All her hopes and dreams were shattered. She was condemned to working in an office for the rest of her life. Anything less sedentary was not recommended.

As usual, Vicki had been philosophical. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she had said, when she had come in from an assignment to find her friend slumped on the sofa. ‘It could be worse. You could have been scarred for life. As it is, you’ll simply go on as before. There’s more to living than working, you know.’

‘I know.’

Sara had tried to equal the other girl’s stoicism. So far as Vicki was concerned, working was merely a means to earn money, and her affairs with the opposite sex were legion. Sara, on the other hand, had never had a steady boyfriend, and her experience of men was therefore limited. Besides, she had always been too single-minded in her ambitions to regard men as anything more than a passing diversion. She had never been in love, and if she had ever thought of getting married, it had been at some far distant time, when she was too old to continue her career.

‘Well, at least you’re not out of work,’ Vicki had commented, referring to the part-time secretarial post Sara had been obliged to take, while waiting for the results of the therapy. The long weeks of wearing a cast had curtailed her mobility, and she had had to leave the permanent job she had had as personal assistant to a solicitor in Gray’s Inn. But her finances were not so healthy that she could afford not to work at all, and her present place of employment was only a few yards from the apartment.

Her response to Vicki’s attempts at encouragement had not been enthusiastic, and that was when the party had been mentioned. It was being held to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of one of Vicki’s fellow models, and was exactly what she needed to take her mind off her problems—or so Vicki said.

‘Come,’ she said wheedlingly, ‘You’ll have fun! You can’t stay here on your own—not tonight!’

Even so, Sara was still undecided as she followed her friend into the apartment where the party was being held. The tears she had shed before Vicki got back had left her with a dull headache, and although she had taken some aspirin before leaving home, she could still feel it.

The noise in the apartment was terrific, and the room was full of people talking and laughing and having fun. Judging by the amount of empty glasses strewn around, alcohol was flowing freely, and as if to emphasise this assumption, a glass was thrust into her hand as she came through the door.

An hour later, Sara was wishing she had stuck to her original intention of having an early night. The noise had not abated, indeed it had been supplemented by music from a sophisticated hi-fi system, and in the lulls between the records, someone could be heard strumming an electric guitar. Two glasses of fairly cheap champagne had not assisted her headache, and although food of a kind was on offer, it mainly consisted of nuts and crackers and tiny stuffed olives.

At least no one would notice her white face here, she reflected. White faces were quite fashionable among this crowd, and compared to some of the outrageous costumes she had seen, they were reasonably conservative. Her own beige silk flying suit looked almost unbearably plain, she felt, and with the lustre of her hair confined in a single braid, she was unlikely to attract anyone’s attention.

She was wondering if she could make good her escape without Vicki’s noticing when one of the men she had not discouraged with a freezing glance came to sit beside her. She had noticed him watching her earlier with a faintly speculative stare, and now he came to sit on the arm of her chair, apparently immune to her cool indifference.

‘You’re Sara, aren’t you?’ he remarked, and she glanced round instinctively, expecting to see Vicki close at hand. But her friend was not in sight, and she turned back to the casual stranger with faint resignation.

‘She told you, I suppose,’ she declared, noticing he was older than most of the other guests. His light brown hair, which she suspected owed its curl to a bottle rather than to nature, showed evidence of tinting at the roots, and his dissipated face spoke of years of experience.

‘No, I guessed,’ he said now, offering to refill her glass from the bottle he was carrying, but she covered the rim with her palm. ‘Vicki described you to me, and she’s generally accurate. You are beautiful, and you have a certain—touch-me-not air, which isn’t very common in this company.’

Sara sighed. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said cynically, wishing he would just go away. She was not in the mood for compliments, no matter how well meant, and his presence was preventing her from making an anonymous exist.

‘I’m not kind at all. I’m honest,’ he retorted, running his hand over the knee of his pants before offering it to her. ‘Tony Korda,’ he added, when she reluctantly responded. ‘Your friend Vicki works for me.’

‘The photographer!’ Sara was scarcely flattering in her description of him, and he winced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, with a rueful smile. ‘But you do take marvellous photographs!’

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to photograph you some time.’

‘Oh no!’ She held up a regretful hand. ‘I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested in modelling. Besides——’ She broke off at that point, silencing the involuntary desire to confess her impediment. The disability she had suffered would not interest him, and so long as she was seated, he could not observe the way she still favoured her right foot.

‘Besides?’ he prompted, but she shook her head, and as if sensing her anguish, he said gently: ‘Vicki told me about the accident. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll quite understand. But I wondered if you’d made any plans—you know: what you’re going to do now that that particular avenue is barred to you.’

Sara drew in her breath. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you, Mr Korda?’

‘Tony. And no; not if I don’t consider it necessary.’

‘And you don’t?’

He shook his head. ‘There are other things in life besides dancing.’

Her lips twisted. ‘You have been talking to Vicki,’ she conceded ironically.

Tony Korda shrugged. ‘As I said a few moments ago, Sara, you’re a beautiful girl. Perhaps you weren’t meant to waste your life in hot theatres and even hotter studios.’

‘That’s your assessment of it, is it?’ Sara was trying very hard to be as detached as he was, but his ruthless candour was tearing her to pieces.

‘I think you’re allowing emotion to colour your judgement, yes,’ he said frankly. ‘So—you had an audition coming up. So what? You could have fluffed it!’

Sara bent her head, angry with herself for allowing him to upset her. ‘Do you mind going away?’ she exclaimed huskily, groping for a tissue from her bag. ‘I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, but I can do without your amateur psychology.’

‘I’m no amateur psychologist,’ he asserted flatly. ‘I’m just trying to make you see that——’

‘—there are more things in life than dancing. I know. You already said that.’

‘That wasn’t what I was going to say, actually,’ he retorted, without heat. ‘I was going to tell you that sitting here feeling sorry for yourself is a form of self-indulgence. There are people much worse off than you are, believe me!’

Sara felt the warm, revealing colour fill her cheeks. ‘I’m sure there are …’

‘And I don’t just mean the millions who die every year from disease and malnutrition,’ he continued, his tone hardening. ‘You hurt your ankle, and it’s going to limit your career. But how would you have felt if you’d been completely immobilised?’

She held up her head, forcing herself to listen to him. ‘You said that with some feeling,’ she ventured at last. ‘Is there a reason?’

Tony Korda studied the amber liquid in his glass. ‘Yes,’ he admitted eventually. ‘Yes, there is a reason. My nephew had a car accident six months ago. He was only eighteen at the time. Now he’s paralysed from the waist down. It looks like he’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’

Sara caught her breath. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘Yes. So’s Jeff.’ Tony sounded bitter. ‘Unfortunately, being sorry doesn’t help at all.’

She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean——’

‘I know, I know.’ Tony was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was blaming you. I was only trying to show you how futile a situation like that can seem to a boy of Jeff’s age.’

Sara nodded. ‘I’m sure it must.’

Tony sighed, his face taking on a brooding expression as he refilled his glass. There was silence for a pause, and then, as if compelled to go on, he added: ‘It doesn’t help that Link and Michelle—that is, my brother and his wife—seem to ignore his existence.’ He grimaced. ‘I guess your parents want you to go back home, eh? Didn’t Vicki say you came from up north somewhere?

‘I lived in Warwickshire for a number of years,’ admitted Sara, after a moment. ‘But my parents are dead. They died in a car crash when I was eight.’

‘Aw, hell!’ Tony swallowed the contents of his glass at a gulp. ‘Trust me to put my foot in it yet again! You’re going to have to forgive me. I guess I’ve had more of this stuff than I can handle.

‘It’s all right.’ And Sara meant it. Curiously enough, Tony had achieved his objective. Right now, she was more intrigued with his story than with her own. She wanted to ask him to go on, to explain what he had meant about his brother and sister-in-law ignoring their son’s existence, but of course she couldn’t. Nevertheless, his words had stirred a sympathetic chord inside her, and she felt for the youth whose future had been laid waste.

‘I didn’t mean to depress you, you know,’ Tony muttered now, filling his glass again. ‘God, I’m such a clumsy bastard!’

‘You haven’t depressed me,’ Sara assured him swiftly. ‘As a matter of fact …’ She hesitated before continuing, but then silencing her conscience, she added, ‘I’m interested.’

‘In Jeff?’ He blinked.

‘Well, in the reasons why you think his parents don’t care about him.’

‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘I don’t say they don’t care about him. I guess they do. They must, mustn’t they? But Michelle has her—commitments, and Link—well, I guess he’s too busy making money to care that his son’s bleeding to death!’

‘Bleeding to death?’ Sara exclaimed, appalled.

‘Emotionally, I mean,’ Tony explained himself. ‘The kid’s neglected! Left alone in that big house, week after week, with only the paid help for company—I’m surprised he doesn’t go round the bend!’

She moistened her lips. ‘Your brother lives out of London, then.’

‘Out of London?’ Tony blinked. ‘Hell, yes. He lives in New York.’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt you do.’ He took another mouthful from his glass. ‘My brother married an American, Sara. He’s lived in the States for almost twenty years. Jeff was born there.’

Sara frowned. ‘But your nephew lives in England, now——’

‘No! Jeff lives in Florida,’ amended Tony impatiently. ‘My brother owns a property there. A place called Orchid Key, about twenty-five miles north of Miami.’

‘Oh …’

Sara was beginning to understand, but before she could say anything more, Vicki’s faintly-intoxicated tones broke into their conversation. ‘You two seem to be hitting it off,’ she declared, leaning over the back of Sara’s chair and regarding the pair of them with evident satisfaction. ‘I thought you would. When are you going to come and work with us, Sara? Don’t tell me Tony hasn’t asked you, because I won’t believe it.’

Sara sighed, turning to survey her friend with some regret. Vicki’s intervention had terminated Tony’s narration, and she guessed from the way he greeted the other girl that he was not averse to the interruption. He was probably already regretting the fact that he had confided personal details to someone he barely knew, and she suspected that without his liberal intake of alcohol, he would never have spoken so frankly. As if to confirm that fact, Tony excused himself a few moments later, and Sara was left with the unpleasant feeling that she was to blame.

Even so, she could not resist the temptation later that night to quiz Vicki about her boss’s nephew. Having persuaded the other girl that she was tired. Sara offered to make a cup of hot chocolate when they got back to the flat, carrying it into Vicki’s room as she was creaming off her make-up.

‘Did—er—did you know Tony Korda’s nephew had been injured in a car accident?’ she asked casually, perching on the end of Vicki’s bed, her cup cradled in her hands. ‘He was talking about it tonight.’

‘Was he?’ Vicki had sobered considerably since encountering the cool October air, and her brows arched inquisitively at Sara’s well-schooled expression. ‘Yes, I knew.’

Sara’s lids fell defensively. ‘You didn’t mention it.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Vicki hesitated. ‘I thought it might upset you. Your parents, and so on.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sara’s head lifted. ‘That was sweet of you, but honestly, it is more than ten years since the accident. And I’m not a child any more.’

‘No.’ Vicki grimaced. ‘Oh, well …’ She picked up another pad of cotton wool. ‘So what was Tony saying? Did he tell you the boy is only a teenager?’

‘Mmm,’ Sara nodded. ‘It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’

‘It’s very sad,’ conceded Vicki slowly. ‘But I can think of worse fates.’