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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
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
JULIE MADE her way down through the trees, her sandalled feet sliding on the needled slope. The smell of pine and juniper was all around her, mingling with the earthy scents of the forest, and although there were occasional scufflings in the underbrush, she was no longer alarmed. After making this particular descent every morning since her arrival, she was used to the shy retreat of the small animals that lived in these woods, and she had no real fear of meeting any human intruder. Pam and David’s cabin-style hotel was situated way off the beaten path, and she doubted any intrepid motorist would risk the forest track. Their visitors came by yacht or canoe or motor launch, and just occasionally on foot, but as no one new had arrived within the last couple of days, Julie felt safe in assuming she would not be disturbed.
At this hour of the morning, and it was only a little after six o’clock, the lake held no appeal for their predominantly middle-aged clientele, and Julie had grown accustomed to considering it her private time of the day. Soon enough, the vast reaches of Lake Huron would be invaded by speedboats towing sun-bronzed water-skiers, and paddle steamers giving their passengers a glimpse of some of the thirty thousand islands for which the lake was famous. But right now, it was quiet, as quiet as in the winter, when the lake was frozen over to a depth of several feet. Then, the animals had it all their own way, and the summer settlers returned to their centrally-heated homes, and dreamed about the long sunny days at the lake.
Georgian Bay—even the names had a special sound, Julie thought. Beausoleil Island, Waubanoka, Penetang Rock, the Giant’s Tomb—she had visited them all in the three weeks since her arrival, and she loved their natural beauty and the timeless sense of space. She was grateful to Adam for giving her these weeks, weeks to recover from the terrible shock of her father’s suicide, and she was grateful to the Galloways, too, for making this holiday possible.
She heard the splashing in the water long before she reached the rocky shoreline. It wasn’t the usual sucking sound the water made as it fell back from washing against the numerous rocks, but a definite cleaving of the lake’s surface, followed by a corresponding in-surge of rippling waves right to the edge of the incline.
Julie frowned as she emerged from the trees and saw the dark head in the water. She had half suspected it, of course, and yet she was still disappointed, the more so when she saw the heap of clothes lying on the rocks at her feet. They looked like a man’s clothes, but these days who could be sure? Jeans were asexual, and the denim shirt could have belonged to anyone.
Her brain flicked swiftly through a mental catalogue of the guests at present staying at the hotel. Perhaps it was one of them, and yet none of them seemed the type to take an early morning dip. There were the Fair-leys, but he was fat and middle-aged, and unlikely to shed his clothes in anything less than a sauna, and she was simply not the type. The Meades? Again she dismissed the idea. They were much younger, but they seldom appeared before noon, and Pam had already speculated on their being a honeymoon couple. So who? Only the Edens were left, and a Mrs and Miss Peters, but she couldn’t imagine Richard Eden being allowed to go anywhere without his wife and their two whining children, and neither Geraldine Peters nor her mother would wear anything so inelegant as jeans.
A feeling of intense irritation gripped her. This man, and she was pretty sure he was male, had ruined her day, and she felt vaguely resentful. She was in the annoying position of not knowing what she ought to do, and while it would obviously be simpler to turn and go back to her cabin, she didn’t see why she should behave as if she didn’t have the right to be there. She probably had more right than he had, even if no one had troubled to put up signs saying it was private land.
She was still standing there, gazing rather morosely in his direction, when he turned and saw her. There was no mistaking his sudden reaction, or the fact that he was now swimming strongly towards her. It made her unaccountably nervous, but she stood her ground as he got nearer. It was only as he got near enough for her to see his face that she realised his appraisal was coolly insolent, and her denim shorts seemed unsuitable apparel for someone who wanted to appear distant.
‘Hi!’
To her astonishment she realised he was addressing her, and indignation at his audacity made her gulp a sudden intake of breath. He was obviously under the delusion that she had been watching him out of curiosity, and perhaps he thought she was interested in him.
Ignoring him, she deliberately turned her head, shading her eyes, and making a display of gazing out across the water. Perhaps if she showed him she wasn’t interested, he would take his clothes and go away, and she could enjoy the solitary swim she had looked forward to.
‘Hi— you !’
The masculine tones were faintly mocking now, the familiar salutation suffixed by an equally annoying pronoun. Just who did he think he was? she thought indignantly, and turned glacial green eyes in his direction.
He was treading water a few feet from the shore, making no apparent effort to get out. The lake bed shelved quite rapidly, and he was still out of his depth, but she could see how brown his skin was, and how long the slick wet hair that clung below his nape.
‘Will you please stop bothering me?’ she exclaimed, unhappily aware that the skimpy halter bra of her bikini was hardly the kind of attire to afford any degree of dignity, and his crooked grin seemed to echo her uneasy suspicions.
‘Those are my clothes on the rock beside you,’ he called, and she was momentarily struck by the familiarity of his accent. Was he English? Was it possible to meet another English person in this very Canadian neck of the woods, or was it simply his accent didn’t match that of the Galloways or any of the other residents staying at the hotel? Whatever, she quickly disposed of her curiosity, and in her most frigid tones, she retorted:
‘I can see that. Now will you please put them on and get out of here?’
‘I will—put them on, I mean, if you’ll be a good girl and go away,’ he replied, allowing his mocking gaze to move over her in admiring appraisal. ‘Unless you’d like to join me?’
‘No, thank you.’ Julie was not amused by his invitation. ‘And why should I go away? This land belongs to the Kawana Point Hotel. You’re trespassing!’
‘The lake belongs to everyone,’ he retorted, pushing back his hair with long fingers. ‘Now will you let me get out of here? It’s pretty damn cold.’
‘I’m not stopping you,’ Julie responded coldly, flicking the towel she carried against her legs. ‘And no one asked you to swim.’
‘No, they surely didn’t,’ he agreed, his accent sounding distinctly southern at that moment. ‘But I don’t have no swimsuit, little lady, so unless you have no objections—’
Julie turned away before he had finished speaking, her features burning with indignant colour. How dare he go swimming without a pair of trunks? It was disgusting, it was indecent!
‘Okay, you can look now.’
The mocking voice was nevertheless disturbing, and she glanced round half apprehensively to find he had put on the denim jeans and was presently shouldering his way into the matching shirt. He had obviously not brought a towel either, and the pants clung in places Julie would rather not look, emphasising his lean hips and the powerful muscles of his thighs. He was tall, easily six feet, with a lean but not angular build, and he carried his height easily, moving with a lithe and supple fluidity as he crossed the rocks towards her.
Julie took a backward step. Somehow he had seemed less aggressive in the water, but now he was all male, all forceful energy, and evidently sure of himself in a way Adam could never be. But then Adam was older, more mature, and infinitely less dangerous, although how she knew this she couldn’t imagine.
‘Hi,’ he said again, holding out his hand. ‘My name’s Dan Prescott. What’s yours?’
Julie was taken aback. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she exclaimed, in faintly shocked tones, making no attempt to return his gesture. ‘I—er—how did you get here?’
‘Motorbike,’ he said laconically, bending down to push navy canvas shoes on to his feet. ‘It’s parked up there.’ He nodded towards the trees. ‘How about you?’
Julie debated whether to answer him, and then decided it would be easier if she could prove her right to be here. ‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ she declared distantly. ‘As I told you, this land—’
‘—belongs to the Kawana Point Hotel,’ he finished lazily. ‘Okay, so I’m trespassing. What are you going to do about it?’
Julie had no answer to that. Glancing up at him, she was intensely conscious of his size and his strength, and she didn’t think she altogether trusted him. Perhaps she had been a fool to challenge him. After all, she was at least a quarter of a mile from the hotel. What could she do if he suddenly decided to attack her? No one was likely to be about at this hour of the morning.
‘If—if you’ll just leave, we’ll say no more about it,’ she said, with what she hoped sounded like calm assurance, and long thick lashes came to shade eyes that were the colour of the lake on a stormy day.
‘And if I don’t?’ he countered, half amused, and Julie realised she had as much chance of controlling him as she did one of the wild cats that occasionally roamed down to the cabins in search of food.
With a helpless gesture she turned aside. His accent was confusing her again. Sometimes he sounded almost English, but at others he had a definite transatlantic drawl. She couldn’t make him out, and she was infuriatingly aware that he was getting the better of the discussion.
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ he asked, regarding her intently. ‘Are you on holiday? Or do you work at the hotel?’
‘You really don’t give up, do you?’ she flared, giving him an angry look. ‘Why don’t you just go back to wherever you came from and leave me alone?’
‘I’m curious.’ He shrugged. ‘As to where I came from—I’m staying along there …’ He indicated the curve of the lake.
‘I didn’t ask,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I really don’t care who you are or where you’re staying.’
‘No?’ He tipped his head on one side, drops of water from his hair sliding from his jawline to the strong column of his neck. ‘That’s a pity, because you interest me. Besides,’ the grey eyes danced, ‘we’re almost fellow countrymen. My mother is English, too.’
‘How interesting!’ Julie’s tone was full of sweet acid. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr—er—’
‘Dan,’ he supplied softly. ‘Dan Prescott. You never did tell me your name.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Julie forced a faintly supercilious smile. ‘Now, do you mind …’
‘You want to swim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.’
The inclination of his head was mocking, and Julie was infuriated. Did he really expect her to step into the water under his insolent gaze? She had no intention of giving him that advantage, and the glare she cast in his direction was venomous.
‘What’s the matter?’ he probed. ‘Afraid I may decide to join you?’
Julie tapped her foot. ‘Even you wouldn’t risk that. I might decide to run off with your clothes. Then what would you do?’
He grinned. ‘You have a point.’
Julie sighed. ‘Will you go away now?’
‘Aren’t you afraid I might steal your clothes?’
‘I don’t swim without them,’ she returned sweetly.
‘You should.’ His lazy gaze dropped down the length of her body. ‘Try it some time. There’s nothing like it.’
‘You’re insulting!’ she exclaimed.
‘And you’re over-reacting,’ he retorted. ‘Where have you been these last ten years? In a convent?’
Julie turned away, and began to scramble up the slope towards the trees. He could not know how accurate his guess had been, but it hurt all the same. Besides, it was obvious she was not going to be allowed to enjoy her swim this morning, and his particular kind of verbal fencing was alien to her.
‘Wait …’
She heard his feet crunching the shingle behind her, but she didn’t turn, and when his hands suddenly caught her she panicked. No one, not even Adam, had gripped her thighs, and those hard hands encircling the flesh at the tops of her legs seemed disturbingly familiar.
‘Let me go!’ she cried, struggling so hard that she overbalanced both of them, his feet sliding away on the loosely packed surface, and pulling her down on top of him.
‘Crazy!’ he muttered, as they slid the few feet down the slope to the rocks, and Julie, trapped by the encircling pressure of his arm, was inclined to agree with him.
‘If you hadn’t grabbed me—!’ she declared frustratedly, supremely aware of the hard muscles of his chest beneath her shoulder blades, and felt the helpless intake of breath that heralded his laughter.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, as she scrambled to her feet, lying there looking up at her. ‘It was a crazy thing to do. But—hell, what did I do to make you so mad at me?’
Julie pursed her lips. ‘I’m not mad at you, Mr Prescott. I—I have no feelings in the matter whatsoever. I wish you’d go.’
‘All right.’
With an indifferent shrug he came up beside her, and she smelt the clean male odour of his body, still damp and faintly musky. His nearness disturbed her, not least because he was barely half dressed, his shirt hanging open, his jeans low on his hips, and she could remember how he had looked in the water. He was certainly attractive, she thought, unwillingly wondering who he was. He didn’t look like the guests at the hotel, who on the whole had that look of comfortable affluence, and to be riding a motorcycle in a country where everyone drove cars … She frowned, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in her stomach, and to combat this awareness she said:
‘Goodbye, then.’
He nodded, pushing the ends of his shirt into the belt of his pants, and she waited apprehensively for him to finish. But when he did, he didn’t immediately move away from her. Instead he looked down at her, at the nervous twitching of her lips and lower to the unknowingly provocative rise and fall of her breasts.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, and before she could prevent him, he slipped one hand around her nape and bent his mouth to hers.
Her hand came out instinctively, but encountering the taut muscles of his stomach was quickly withdrawn. She made a protesting sound deep in her throat, but he ignored it, increasing the pressure and forcing her lips apart. She felt almost giddy as her senses swam beneath his experienced caress, and then to her horror she found herself responding.
‘No!’
With a cry of dismay she tore herself away from him, turning aside and scrubbing her lips with the back of her hand. She felt cheap and degraded, and appalled that just for a moment she had wanted him to go on.
‘See you,’ he remarked, behind her, but she didn’t turn, and presently she heard his footsteps crunching up the slope to where he said he had left his motorbike.
She waited until she heard the sound of a powerful engine before venturing to look round, and then expelled her breath on a shaky sigh as she saw she was alone. He had gone, the receding roar of the motorcycle’s engine indicating that he had taken the route around the lake.
Feeling slightly unsteady, Julie flopped down on to a smooth rock nearby, stretching her bare legs out to the sun. Not surprisingly, she no longer felt like going for a swim, and she wondered if she would ever come here again without remembering what had happened.
Shading her eyes, she tried to calm herself by surveying the outline of an island some distance away across the water. Everything was just the same, she told herself severely. Just because a strange man had erupted into her life and briefly disorganised it, it did not mean that she need feel any sense of guilt because of it. He had taken advantage of the situation—he was that kind of man. He was probably camping in the woods with a crowd of similarly-minded youths, all with motorcycles, and egos the size of their helmets.
With a sigh she got to her feet, picked up her towel, and scrambled back up the slope. She would swim later, she decided. Maybe she would persuade Pam’s twelve-year-old son to join her. At least that way she could be reasonably sure of not being bothered.
The hotel was set on a ridge overlooking the sweep of the bay. It was a collection of log cabins, each with its own bedroom and bathroom, private suites, with meals taken in the main building close by. Backing on to the forest, with a variety of wildlife on its doorstep, it was a popular haunt for summer visitors, who moored their craft in the small marina below and climbed the stone steps to the front of the hotel. The only other approach was through the forest, but the trails were not easily defined unless one knew the way, and only occasionally did they attract visitors this way.
Pam Galloway’s mother had been a friend of Mrs Osbourne, Julie’s mother, and the two girls had known one another since they were children. But Pam was eight years older than Julie, and in 1969, when Julie was only ten years old, she had married a Canadian she had met on holiday in Germany, and come to live in this most beautiful part of Ontario.
Julie had missed her, but they had maintained a warm if infrequent correspondence, and when tragedy struck three months ago Pam had been first to offer her a chance to get away for a while. Canada in early summer was an enchanting place, and its distance had seemed remote from all the horrors of those weeks after her father’s death. Her friends in England, her real friends, that was, had urged her to go, and with Adam’s willing, if melancholy, approval, she had accepted. That had been almost a month ago now, and she knew that soon she would have to think about going back. But she didn’t want to. Somehow, living here had widened her perspective, and she could no longer delude herself that everything her father had done had been for her. Returning to England would mean returning to the emptiness she had discovered her life to be, and not even Adam could make up for all those years she had lived in ignorance. She had thought her mother’s death when she was twelve had unhinged him. Now she knew that only Adam’s money had kept the firm together, and her father’s whole existence had been a sham.
Pam and her husband, David, had their apartments in the main building. It was easier that way. It meant they were available at all hours of the day and night, and an intercommunication system connected all the cabins to the small exchange behind the desk. The reception area was already a hive of activity when Julie came in, and Pam herself hailed her from the doorway leading to the spacious dining room.
‘Hi,’ she exclaimed. It was the usual mode of greeting on this side of the Atlantic, and Julie was getting used to using it herself.
‘Hi,’ she responded, swinging her towel in her hand. ‘Is that coffee I can smell brewing?’
‘It sure is.’ Pam wrinkled her brow as the younger girl approached her. ‘You’re back early. No swim?’
‘No swim,’ agreed Julie, not really wanting to go into details, but Pam was too inquisitive to let that go.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘You’re not feeling sick or anything, are you? ‘Cos if you are, I’ll phone Doc Brewster right away.’
‘No, I’m not sick.’ Julie forced a smile. ‘As a matter of fact, the lake was already occupied, and as I didn’t feel like company …’ Her voice trailed away, and passing Pam’s more generous proportions with a sideways step, she walked across the restaurant to take her usual table by the window.
The dining room was empty, but the waitresses were already about, and one of them, Penny, came to ask what she would like.
‘Just toast and coffee,’ Julie assured her firmly, aware of Pam’s enquiring face in the background, and the girl knew better than to offer the steak or eggs or maple syrup pancakes that so many of their visitors seemed to enjoy.
‘Well?’ Pam prompted, coming to stand with plump arms folded, looking down at her young friend. She had put on weight since her marriage to David, and having sampled the meals served at the Kawana Point Hotel, Julie wasn’t really surprised. Steaks tended to weigh at least half a pound, with matching helpings of baked potatoes or french fries to go with them, while the desserts of cream-filled pastries or mouthwatering American cheesecake simply added inches just looking at them. Julie felt sure she, too, would burst at the seams if she enjoyed their hospitality for much longer, although her own level of metabolism seemed to dispute this anxiety.