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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.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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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
RUTH noticed him as soon as he entered the room. It wasn't that he was a particularly handsome man, certainly no more so than some of the young men she had been dancing with all evening; but he was older, his eyes were deeper set, there were lines of experience about his eyes and mouth, and compared to the pale skins around her, his tan was quite startling.
He stood just inside the doorway of the lounge with James Stephenson, Julie's father, and Ruth decided that they were merely making a polite inspection of the proceedings. It had been a good party, but definitely not James Stephenson's sort of affair. About the other man, she wouldn't care to speculate.
It seemed as though she had been right, however, when a few minutes later they disappeared again, and feeling an odd sense of disappointment, Ruth left her current partner to push her way through the throng of young people gyrating in the middle of the floor to Julie's side. Edging her friend into a corner, she asked curiously: “Who was that just now – with your father?”
Julie was an attractive brunette, with curling dark hair and unexpectedly blue eyes. She and Ruth had first met at boarding school and had been close friends ever since. Julie used to say they were a foil for one another – she so dark, and Ruth so fair – but in recent years she had had to admit that Ruth required no foil to enhance her Scandinavian blonde beauty.
Now she smiled, and said: “You mean Patrick? Patrick Hardy – Daddy's cousin?”
“If that was who was with your father just now – then yes.” Ruth was half impatient. “Who is he? I haven't seen him before.”
“No, you wouldn't have,” agreed Julie, with gentle complacency. “He's only just got back from Venezuela. He works there. He's some kind of chemist – or physicist, or something. He works for one of the big oil companies. Why?”
Ruth shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all.”
Julie gave her an old-fashioned look. “What's wrong? Has Michael's charm begun to pall already?”
Ruth gave her a reluctant smile. “You know very well that Michael Freeman and I are just friends.” She sighed. “It's nothing like that. He was – well – he was different.”
“And older,” commented Julie wryly. “Heavens, he must be thirty-five, at least!”
Ruth tucked a long strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “That's no great age.”
“To us it is. Ruth, you're only twenty-one. You couldn't possibly be interested in someone as old as that –”
“I didn't say I was.”
“I know, but – but anyway –”
“Anyway, what? Is he married or something?”
“Not as far as I know. I think his work is all that occupies him. He has no home in England now, that's why he's staying with us for a while.”
“I see.” Ruth smiled, liquid green eyes appealing. “Stop looking so concerned, Julie. Can't I even show an interest in the man?”
Julie shook her head. “He's got no money – other than his salary, of course.”
Ruth sighed. “Does that matter?”
“To your father, it might.”
“Lord, Julie, why? I'm not involved with him, am I?”
“No,” Julie conceded. “But I know that look in your eyes. I've seen it before. Don't!“
“Don't what?”
“Just – don't! That's all.”
Julie looked round the room, trying to reassume an interest in the proceedings. The record player was still pounding out beat music at a deafening rate, and their conversation had gone almost unnoticed. Julie wished it had never taken place at all. She liked Ruth so much, she was very fond of her, but she knew of that rebellious streak in her nature which had so often landed her in trouble at school. She had always been a popular girl, popular with staff and pupils alike, but apart from Julie, Ruth would be the first to admit that her closest friends were among members of the opposite sex. Tall and slender, able to look elegant in the most casual of clothes, Ruth attracted men like a magnet.
But Julie blamed Ruth's father for that trace of irresponsibility in her make-up. Joseph Farrell was a self-made millionaire. Ruthlessly he had striven to lift himself out of the obscurity of a back-street shop in Liverpool, to his present position as owner of a string of supermarkets. Money had been his god, and nothing had been too good for his family. When his wife died thirteen years ago, soon after their move to London, he had channelled all his affections towards his only daughter and he had doted on her, giving her anything she had ever wanted.
Strangely enough, Ruth had not been spoiled, at least not by money. She was a warm, generous-hearted girl, and if she grew to expect anything from life it was that people should like her. Invariably, she was right. It was a gift, Julie supposed now, but one which might create difficulties as she grew older.
Julie's own background had been vastly different. Her family had never been wealthy, not in the way Joseph Farrell was wealthy, but she supposed that socially they were more acceptable. And because of this, although she was only a few months older than her friend, Julie often felt an acute sense of responsibility towards Ruth, perhaps because she had no mother of her own to turn to.
Now she turned back to Ruth, and said: “Shall we go and get some supper? I could certainly appreciate a long cool glass of something refreshing.”
“If you like,” Ruth was agreeable, and she tucked her arm through Julie's as they made their way to the buffet tables set out in the adjoining room. “It's been a super party. I'm glad you asked me for the weekend. I don't think Papa would have agreed to me driving home from Wiltshire in the early hours of the morning.”
“Well, not with Michael Freeman, at any rate,” remarked Julie dryly. “By the way, where is he at the moment?”
Ruth looked round. “Mike? Oh, he'll be about somewhere,” she replied vaguely. “He's not driving back to town tonight, you know. He's booked a room at the pub in the village.” She glanced at the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. “I just hope they don't lock their doors at midnight, or poor Mike will have had it!”
Julie chuckled. “He can always bed down on the sofa. I don't suppose Mummy would mind. It's happened before. Are you driving home in the morning, or staying for lunch? If you stay, I thought we might go riding.”
“I'll stay, if I may,” exclaimed Ruth at once. “Who knows, I may even get to be introduced to the Venezuelan oil executive!”
“Oh, Ruth!” Julie stared at her friend in exasperation. “I thought you'd forgotten about Patrick!”
Ruth's mouth quirked appealingly. “Now, how could I do that?” she teased laughingly.
Even so, as she prepared for bed later that night, Ruth pondered the unexpected amount of curiosity she felt towards Julie's father's cousin. Perhaps it was the fact that they had not actually been introduced that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was that alien air about him. The unusual tan, the look of experience that was seldom present in the faces of the young men she normally associated with.
Whatever it was, she looked forward to the morning with increasing expectancy, glad of the diversion to stimulate an otherwise dull Sunday.
She was awake quite early the next morning, and after a swift shower she dressed in a sleeveless ribbed sweater and narrow purple trousers that flared at the ankle. Her hair, thick and straight and shoulder-length, she left loose as usual, scooping it behind her ears with a careless hand.
It was only a little after nine as she descended the stairs to the wide hall below, but already a young maid was busily engaged in the lounge removing dirty ashtrays, and generally tidying up after the party. She answered Ruth's greetings with a polite smile, and then went on with what she was doing as Ruth walked to the long windows and looked out on to the frosty Wiltshire countryside.
Julie's father owned land, and although these days he had to do much of the estate work himself, it was a comfortable existence. This house, for instance, was almost three hundred years old, greatly modernised, of course, but maintaining the aura of the past. A county seat, Ruth supposed it would once have been called, but nowadays such titles meant little or nothing.
She turned to ask the maid about breakfast and found she had disappeared. Sighing, she hunched her shoulders and thrust her hands into the hipster waistband of her trousers. She knew Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook. She supposed she could go and ask her about something to eat.
The decision made, she walked quickly across the empty lounge again, emerging into the hall just as a man was about to enter. They almost collided, and his hands grasped her upper arms to steady her, cool and hard against her warm skin.
“I'm sorry –” she was beginning with an apologetic smile, when she realised who he was.
“I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going,” he assured her quietly, his voice deep and masculine, his breath warm on her face. His hands fell to his sides.
“You're Mr. Hardy, aren't you?” Ruth interjected, her eyes on his lean dark face. “I saw you last night with Julie's father.”
Patrick Hardy frowned. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss – Miss –?”
“Farrell. Ruth Farrell. I'm a friend of Julie's. She invited me for the weekend.”
“I see.” His smile was faintly mocking. “Well, how do you do, Miss Farrell? I'm sorry, but I don't know any of Julie's friends these days. When I went abroad she was still at school.”
“Yes. You work in Venezuela, don't you?” Ruth held his gaze. “Something to do with oil. It sounds very interesting.”
Patrick Hardy's eyes narrowed. “Not for the layman, I can assure you.”
“No, but what you do – I mean, I expect it's very technical, isn't it?”
“Somewhat.” His tone was dry.
“Are you going back there?”
“Indeed, yes. In a few weeks.” He took a step to one side as though to pass her.
“I've never been to South America. Is it very hot?”
“Where I work – very,” he conceded. “And now, if you will excuse me …”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Ruth stepped reluctantly aside. For the moment she couldn't think of anything else to say. He nodded politely and passed her to cross the lounge to the windows as she had done, and stood staring out at the frozen expanse of countryside. It must be vastly different from what he's used to, thought Ruth inconsequently, picturing the steaming rain forests of Central America. Didn't he feel the cold? January was never the most attractive of months.
In dark trousers and waistcoat and a navy blue shirt, his dark brown hair just brushing his collar, he looked lean and muscular, and Ruth found a certain kind of enjoyment in just looking at him.
Then she moved her shoulders impatiently. She was becoming fanciful. Just because he had not shown an immediate interest in her, she was mentally endowing him with attributes he did not possess. Why should she care one way or the other?
Turning on her heel, she walked towards the stairs, intending to go in search of Julie, when the maid she had seen earlier reappeared.
“Oh, Miss Farrell. I've spoken to Cook and she says would you like breakfast serving in the morning room? The other members of the household, those who take breakfast, that is, usually eat in their rooms on Sunday mornings.”
“I see.” Ruth paused at the foot of the stairs. “Did you know Mr. Hardy is in the lounge?”
“No, miss.” The maid looked surprised. “Perhaps I'd better ask him, too.”
“Yes, you do that.” Ruth half smiled, leaning back against the banister.
The maid disappeared into the lounge and emerged a few moments later nodding her head. “Mr. Hardy does want breakfast, miss. Would that be for two?”
“Why not?”
Ruth was amused. If Julie came upon them now, she would imagine Ruth had engineered the whole thing.
The maid went to tell the cook of the arrangements and Ruth decided to wait in the morning room. Picking up one of the morning papers off the hall table, she opened a cream panelled door and entered a sun-filled dining room. This was the morning room where the family usually ate breakfast and lunch, and the table was already laid with a pristine white cloth.
Seating herself at the end nearest the windows, she scanned the headlines desultorily, unconsciously waiting for Patrick Hardy to join her. When he eventually appeared, she pretended not to notice him, assuming an intense interest in the article she was reading.
“May I join you?” he enquired, before seating himself opposite her, and she looked up in feigned surprise.
“Oh! Oh, yes, please do.” She nodded and returned to her newspaper, unaware that a slight smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sat down.
The maid returned to ascertain their individual requirements, but Ruth only wanted fruit juice and toast. Patrick Hardy, however, agreed upon porridge followed by ham and eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ruth, to whom a fried breakfast was slightly abhorrent, sat in silence as he waded through the enormous meal, thinly buttering her toast and drinking several cups of coffee. She was amazed at his capacity, wondering how he could remain so lean and muscular when her father, who really ate very little, sported the thickening waistline of so many of his colleagues.
By the time he had reached the toast and marmalade stage, Ruth was finished, but she remained at the table studying the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of her cup.
“I can't say I care for Marion's choice of coffee,” he remarked unexpectedly, wiping his mouth on a table napkin. “That's one commodity which is not in short supply where I come from. And excellent it is, too.”
Ruth looked up. “There are coffee plantations in Venezuela?”
“Some, yes. But Brazil is virtually on our doorstep, and it's the largest producer of coffee in the world.”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Have you been to Brazil?”
“Several times.” He drew a case of cheroots out of his pocket. “Do you mind? I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigaette.”
“I don't smoke,” replied Ruth, relaxing. “But I don't mind at all. I like the smell of good tobacco.”
He placed one of the long thin cigars between his teeth and lit it with a narrow gold lighter. Then he inhaled deeply, half turning in his seat to rest his elbow on the back of the chair. His eyes, Ruth saw now, were not brown as she had thought, but grey, and his lashes were long and thick. They were disturbingly intent eyes when they chose to be, and she rushed into speech, half afraid of their penetration.
“I suppose you've seen a lot of South America,” she suggested nervously.
“Quite a lot,” he agreed. “But there's still a lot I haven't seen and would like to. There have been so many civilisations – so many cultures. I find the whole history of the area absolutely fascinating.”
“But your work isn't concerned with history, is it?”
He smiled wryly. “Oh, no. My work is very much a contemporary thing. A product of the twentieth century in every sense of the word. But that doesn't stop me from spending every available moment delving into the past.”
“I'm afraid the only thing I remember learning about Venezuela was how it got its name,” confessed Ruth charmingly. “Didn't Christopher Columbus discover the Indians living in huts standing in water and decide it reminded him of Venice?”
Patrick dropped ash from the end of his cigar into the bronze ashtray in the centre of the table. “Well, you've got the facts there, but they're somewhat confused. Columbus did discover Venezuela as you've said, but it was another Spaniard, Alonso de Ojeda, who found Lake Maracaibo and the Indian huts standing in water. He called it Little Venice – Venezuela, as it is today. Did you know that the first Spanish settlement in the whole of South America was on an island off the coast of Venezuela called Cubagua?”
“Cubagua!” Ruth repeated the name slowly. “What a nice sound that has.”
Patrick shrugged. “It's principally a pearling centre now.”
“Do men actually dive for pearls?” she asked, her voice betraying her excitement.
“Well, it's not quite as simple as that,” he replied dryly.
“And where you work – what is it like there? Do you have tropical vegetation and rain forests?” Her eyes were wide.
He drew on his cheroot. “There are rain forests at the southern end of the lake,” he conceded tolerantly. “But they're not the romantic things you seem to imagine them to be. They stand in areas usually with a rainfall in excess of eighty inches with no apparent dry season, and humid temperatures up to ninety degrees.”
Ruth sighed, resting her chin on her knuckles. “But you live there,” she pointed out.
“Well, not actually in the rain forest,” he remarked, with a smile. “Part of the time I work in Maracaibo itself, which is Venezuela's second largest city, and they have skyscrapers and office blocks and the usual kind of traffic problems found the world over.”
“It sounds fascinating!” Ruth was enthralled. For all she had travelled all over the continent and visited the United States with her father, the places Patrick Hardy was talking about belonged to an entirely different kind of civilisation. She felt she could have gone on listening to his attractive voice all day.
Patrick studied her captivated face for several minutes after he had finished speaking, causing Ruth no small sense of consternation at the upheaval inside her he could so unknowingly provoke, and then he rose abruptly to his feet and leant across the table to press out the stub of his cheroot.
“You live in London, Miss Farrell?”
Ruth dropped her hands into her lap. “Yes, that's right.”
“And will you be leaving today?”
“After lunch, I expect. Julie and I are supposed to be going riding this morning. Do you ride, Mr. Hardy?”
“I have done,” he agreed, flexing his back muscles.
“Then why don't you join us?” she asked, pushing back her chair and standing up.
Although she was a tall girl, he was quite a bit taller than she was and consequently she had to look up to his face. He seemed to be considering what she had said quite seriously, and a ripple of anticipation slid down her spine.
“I don't somehow think Julie would second your suggestion,” he remarked at last, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Does that matter?” Ruth tipped her head on one side in a purely provocative gesture.
“I think it might,” he commented dryly, turning aside from her. “Tell me: has the winter been very hard so far? I was looking forward to snow-swept fields and frozen rivers. You've no idea how appealing such things can be in a tropical climate.”
Ruth clenched her fists. He had the unconscious knack of making her feel terribly youthful and inexperienced. She couldn't understand why. The men she knew, young and old alike, had all seemed to find her attention something to be desired, whereas Patrick Hardy treated her with complete indifference. Why? Had his years in Venezuela affected him to such an extent that he no longer required any form of feminine companionship? Julie had said he was devoted to his work. Was she right? Or was there some woman back in – where was it he said he worked? – Maracaibo? – waiting for him? Ruth realised she found that idea totally unacceptable …
Hooking her thumbs into the low belt of her trousers, she scuffed her heels impatiently and he turned back to her.
“What's wrong? Are you offended because I refused your invitation?”
Ruth's dark lashes lifted. “And if I was?”
He tugged absently at his ear. “Then I should apologise, of course.”
She still had the distinct impression he was mocking her, and it was infuriating. But before she had chance to reply the maid returned to clear the table. Turning to her, Ruth said: “Do you know if Miss Julie is up yet? We're going riding.”
The maid put her tray down on the table. “I took Miss Julie's breakfast in to her half an hour ago, miss, but she wasn't at all well. She said she had a terrible headache after the party last evening. I'm sure I don't know whether she'll be fit to go riding.”
Ruth sighed in exasperation, and without a backward glance she marched out of the morning room and took the stairs two at a time. At Julie's door she composed herself for a moment before tapping lightly on the panels, and at Julie's: “Come in!” she entered, closing the door behind her.