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.

Cage of Shadows
Anne Mather

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

‘DO it,’ said Evan urgently. ‘What have you got to lose? And more importantly, think what you’ve got to gain.’

‘Yes.’

Joanna pushed her large-framed spectacles up her nose and cupped her chin with one hand. A tall girl, with a curtain of silky dark brown hair that fell about her shoulders, she looked rather pensive at present, the long green eyes, which she privately considered her best feature, opaque now behind their shield of tinted glass.

‘How else are you ever going to afford to go to art college?’ Evan persisted. ‘You told me yourself that Marcia was unlikely to help you.’

‘I know.’

Joanna sighed. It certainly was a temptation. With the kind of money Evan Price was offering, she might even be able to afford her own flat, and to be independent of her stepmother would be worth so much more. Judging by the rumblings recently, Marcia expected her to get out and find herself a job, and just because her father had expected her to go to art school there was no reason to think his widow would sponsor her. On the contrary, Marcia had made it clear, right from the beginning, when Joanna’s father died so suddenly without leaving any provision for his daughter, that she did not consider herself bound to support her.

‘Consider it a holiday,’ Evan was saying persuasively. ‘A month in Florida, in the middle of an English winter! What could be better? Have you any idea how much people pay to enjoy the kind of break I’m offering you for free?’

‘I’m sure it’s a marvellous opportunity,’ Joanna conceded doubtfully, and the florid-faced man sitting across from her raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Joanna, believe me, if it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t be offering this kind of money. But—well, your father was a friend of mine, and I feel I owe something to his memory—–’

‘And the fact that I happened to have a passing acquaintance with Matthew Wilder has nothing to do with it?’ put in Joanna, with unexpected cynicism. ‘Evan, I know what you’re offering, and I know why. I just don’t know if I want to do it, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because—because he obviously wants to avoid the media. Why else would he choose to go and live out in Florida? His work has always been in Europe and Africa.’

‘Who knows why he’s gone out there? Maybe he’s discovered some new drug and he’s trying it out. That’s what I want you to find out. Joanna, Matthew Wilder is still big news. And he’s been out of the public eye for almost three years! Now we know where he is, at least let’s give it a try.’

Joanna pursed her lips. ‘Marcia had no right to give you Daddy’s diaries. They were personal.’

‘They’re also worth a lot of bread,’ declared Evan flatly. ‘And Marcia was never one to shy at the main chance. Besides,’ he tried to reassure her, ‘your father was one of this century’s foremost writers. It was a tragedy he was killed like that, but his diaries belong to his readers. Your father himself would agree with me.’

Joanna bent her head. ‘The private addresses should have been torn out. My father wouldn’t approve of you betraying his confidence.’

‘What the hell!’ exploded Evan noisily. ‘Drew’s been dead all of five months, Joanna. What he would or would not have done isn’t relevant. For three years, Wilder’s lived the life of a recluse. No one knew where he was. Now we have his address—rightly or wrongly. Would you rather I sent a news team out there? Spread the word around Fleet Street, and have every two-bit reporter with a telephoto lens crawling over the island?’

‘No.’ Joanna was sure about that. ‘But what makes you think Uncle Matt will see me? I was eight years old when I last saw him. Eleven years ago! I doubt he’ll even remember me.’

‘You’re Andrew Holland’s daughter. He’ll remember you.’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, make up your mind. I need a decision. I’ve no intention of sitting on this for too long.’

Joanna hesitated. ‘But why is it so urgent? You said yourself, it’s five months since—since my father was killed.’

‘Marcia only handed the diaries over two weeks ago,’ admitted Evan shortly. ‘I don’t think she realised they were of any value until your father’s solicitor suggested the idea.’

‘Howard Rogers?’ Joanna’s lips curled. ‘Oh, yes, it would be Howard who suggested it. My father’s privacy would mean nothing to him.’

Evan frowned. ‘Do I detect a note of bitterness?’

‘No.’ Joanna was indignant, and then she sighed. ‘Well, not really. It’s just that Howard’s been around a lot more since Daddy died. I sometimes wonder exactly what his intentions are.’

‘Yes.’ Evan was thoughtful now. ‘Well, it has to be said, he hasn’t had much success on your behalf, has he? I should have thought that as your father’s solicitor, he would have suggested it was Marcia’s duty to provide you with an allowance, at least.’

Joanna made no comment. She was reluctant to criticise her stepmother’s motives, even to Evan, who had been her father’s publisher for the past fifteen years. But it was hard to justify the mean streak in Marcia, that caused her to ignore her stepdaughter’s feelings, and create the kind of situation where Joanna felt obligated to support herself. It should not have been necessary; her father had died a wealthy man. But such were his feelings for the woman he had married ten years after his wife’s death, he had been blind to the flaws in her character. Joanna had no doubt he had believed Marcia would take care of his daughter should anything happen to him. But she couldn’t help wishing he had not been so unworldly, and left her at least enough to live on.

‘Five thousand pounds, Joanna.’ Evan interrupted her train of thought. ‘Five thousand pounds and expenses. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

Joanna avoided his gaze, glancing round the restaurant where he had brought her for lunch with troubled eyes. It was rather an exclusive restaurant, and on any other occasion she would have appreciated his generosity. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that this was all a deliberate ploy to get her into a frame of mind where she would jump at his proposition, equating the kind of money he was offering with the lifestyle she had grown up to expect.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ she murmured half inaudibly, but he heard her.

‘All right, six, then,’ he declared, ‘but it’s my last word,’ and Joanna felt even worse that he should think she was trying to bargain.

‘I—can I think about it?’ she asked at last, lifting her bespectacled eyes to his. ‘I mean—you do appreciate, I—I have commitments.’

‘What commitments?’

Evan was sceptical, and Joanna assumed an aloof expression. ‘I do have friends, you know,’ she replied, stung by his indifference, and stifling his impatience, Evan acquiesced.

‘Okay,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll give you—forty-eight hours to think it over. If you haven’t contacted me in that time, I’ll consider the offer rejected, right?’

‘Right.’ Joanna spoke less confidently now. It was all very well making proud statements about commitments, but the truth was, if she didn’t take this chance, she would have to take a job—any job—to supplement her dwindling resources.

‘Right.’ Evan lifted a hand and summoned the waiter. ‘You know my number. I’ll be waiting for your call. Just don’t make me wait too long.’

Going home on the bus, Joanna wondered what he would have said if she had challenged his bland bravado. After all, if Matthew Wilder had intentionally cut himself off from his friends and colleagues, what chance might a stranger have of making contact with him? Evan knew this, or he would never have contacted her. He knew that a news team from one of the specialist magazines he published might never stand a chance of seeing Wilder, let alone talking with him, and if she, Joanna, refused to co-operate, he could easily have to abandon the whole idea.

From Matthew Wilder’s point of view, that could only be for the best, she reflected ruefully. The man obviously wanted to remain undisturbed. Was it fair for her, no matter what her connections, to consider invading his privacy? Of course it wasn’t. It was reprehensible, and she knew it. Particularly as Evan’s suggestion had been that she should pretend she was holidaying in the area, and had come upon his house unaware.

Joanna closed her eyes in disgust. It was all so corny! Who would believe it? Least of all a man like Matthew Wilder, who had years of experience in dealing with the media.

Fifteen years ago, when his first book was accepted for publication, Andrew Holland had bought a tall Victorian house, in an unfashionable suburb in north London. Since then, the suburb had become fashionable, and now the house was worth quite a lot of money, but her father had never wanted to move. Joanna couldn’t really remember living anywhere else, but now, as she walked along Ashworth Terrace, she couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Marcia decided to realise this investment too.

There was a car parked at the kerb in front of the house, and Joanna recognised it with a deepening sense of depression. It was Howard Rogers’ car, and the fact that the solicitor was here meant that she and Marcia would have no chance to talk privately. She had decided on the bus to talk to her stepmother, ask her what she thought she should do; but now that Howard was here, any private discussions would have to wait.

Joanna let herself into the house with her key, pausing in the carpeted hall to remove her fur-lined suede jacket. It was a chilly afternoon, and although she had scarcely noticed the temperature as she walked the couple of hundred yards from the bus stop, now that she was indoors, she lifted her shoulders appreciatively in the warmth from the heating system.

She could hear no sound of voices from the library where Marcia generally entertained visitors, and she was about to mount the stairs to her room when the housekeeper, Mrs Morris, appeared from the kitchen.

‘They’re in the library,’ she confided in an undertone, surprising the girl. ‘Or at least they were half an hour ago. I was just going to bring some tea. I’ll put an extra cup on the tray.’

Joanna bit her lip. Mrs Morris’s affection had sustained her during the long months since her father’s death, but even to please her, she couldn’t intrude on her stepmother’s privacy without an invitation.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Morris,’ she said. ‘I’d really rather go up and change. I’ll come down and have a cup of tea with you in the kitchen afterwards, if you don’t mind.’

‘Bless you, you know you’re—–’ began the housekeeper, only to break off abruptly as the door to the right of the hall opened and a burly man of medium height appeared in the aperture. Wearing a city suit, Howard Rogers, as always, was dressed to fit his role as her father’s—and now her stepmother’s—legal adviser, but Joanna uneasily retained the notion that his appearance belied the true measure of his character. She didn’t like him. She never had. And she drew back now, wishing he had not overheard their low-voiced conversation.

‘Joanna!’ he exclaimed heartily. ‘I thought it must be you. Marcia said you’d be out for the rest of the afternoon, but obviously she was wrong. Come in, come in. I’d like to have a word with you.’

Giving Mrs Morris a rueful look, Joanna acknowledged his greeting and stepped past him into the library. The last thing she needed right now was to play gooseberry with him and her stepmother. Marcia would not appreciate it, and most definitely, nor would she.

But to her surprise, the library was unoccupied, and when Howard closed the door behind them she glanced round almost apprehensively. She had never been alone with him before, and although she knew he was old enough to be her father, she felt an unwelcome sense of anxiety at the sudden glitter in his pale eyes.

‘I—where’s Marcia?’ she asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt, and Howard walked across the room to take up his stance before the fireplace. Although the house was centrally heated, her father had always kept an open fire in the library, and the solicitor put his hands behind his back to warm them at the blaze.

‘Marcia is getting changed,’ he replied, after positioning himself to his satisfaction. ‘I’m taking her out to dinner this evening. I thought we’d drive into the country. I know a rather attractive hotel in Sussex, with an extremely good wine cellar.’ He paused, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels and toes. ‘Wine is so important to a meal, don’t you think so, Joanna? Food is a necessity, but wine adds that something extra, the gilding on the gingerbread, so to speak.’

‘Er—what did you want to talk to me about, Mr Rogers?’ enquired Joanna, blinking rather owlishly behind her tortoiseshell rims. She had no wish to prolong this conversation, and she didn’t like the way Howard was acting. As if this was his home, and she was the visitor.

‘There’s no hurry,’ averred Howard smoothly. ‘Marcia will be ages yet—you know what she’s like. It will take her half an hour to decide what dress she’s going to wear.’

Joanna expelled her breath resignedly. ‘Mr Rogers—–’

‘Howard. Why don’t you call me Howard?’ he suggested jovially. ‘After all, we’re friends, aren’t we? And you’re not a little girl any more, Joanna. By no means, no. You’re quite a young lady. How old are you now? Seventeen? Eighteen?’

‘I’m nineteen, and I think you know that, Mr Rogers,’ responded Joanna tautly. ‘Please, get to the point. I—er—I’m going out this evening myself.’

‘Are you?’ Howard’s reddish-grey brows arched. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ retorted Joanna with some heat. ‘Mr Rogers—–’

‘Oh, very well.’ His thin mouth tightened. ‘If you will persist in this childishness, I have no option but to treat you as one. Marcia—Marcia and I—your stepmother and I, that is—–’ Joanna’s nerves jangled, ‘—Marcia and I are going to get married.’

‘To get married!’

If there had been a chair behind her, Joanna would have sank into it, but there wasn’t, and she stood there on legs that threatened any moment to give out on her, staring at him as if he had pointed a gun at her head.

‘Don’t look so horrified.’ Howard shifted a little uncomfortably nevertheless. ‘It shouldn’t come as such a shock to you. You must have realised that Marcia and I were—well, close friends at least?’

Joanna shook her head. She couldn’t speak. She felt as if her throat had closed up, and she stood there like an automaton, frozen in an attitude of dumb disbelief.

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Howard’s initial sense of discomfort gave way to a cajoling impatience. ‘Don’t look like that, Joanna, or I shall begin to think you don’t like me, and I know that’s not true.’ He stepped diffidently across the floor towards her, halting in front of her and looking encouragingly into her pale stunned features. Because he was not a tall man, they were almost on eye-level terms, and she longed to shrink away from that fawning insincerity. ‘Joanna,’ he said, wheedlingly, ‘this isn’t like you. This isn’t like my pretty little girl.’ He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of dark hair back from her forehead. ‘Such a lovely girl,’ he breathed, his voice thickening. ‘If your father had just been a little less besotted—–’

‘Don’t touch me!’ With an abrupt movement, Joanna recoiled from the pudgy hand that lightly grazed her cheek, and Howard’s expression hardened as she shuddered in distaste.

‘There’s no need for that, Joanna,’ he declared harshly. ‘I should watch my step if I were you. It’s only through my good offices that you’re still here, in this house. Marcia would have cast you out long ago. Only I persuaded her that you weren’t ready, that you needed time—–’

‘—that it wouldn’t look good for my father’s widow to throw out his only daughter within weeks of his funeral!’ snapped Joanna in disgust. ‘Don’t pretend you had any real thought for my feelings.’

‘You’re wrong, Joanna.’ Howard clenched his fists angrily. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been working in some shop or café by now, slogging your guts out all day, and dragging yourself home to some sleazy bedsitter! As it is—–’

‘As it is, I’m to be thrown out now, is that it?’

‘No.’ Howard took another step towards her. ‘Not if you play your cards right.’

‘Not if I play my cards right?’ Joanna stood her ground, staring at him distrustfully. ‘What is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about art school, that’s what I’m talking about,’ exclaimed Howard triumphantly. ‘That is what you want to do, isn’t it? Go to art school?’

‘Well—yes—–’

‘Very well, then,’ Howard hesitated a moment, before putting his hot fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face to his. ‘If you stop treating me like a leper, I’ll promise to put in a good word for you. Between us, we should be able to persuade Marcia—–’

Joanna was appalled, but she forced herself to remain motionless as his thumb rubbed insinuatingly along her jawline. Dear Heaven, her thoughts raced, what was he suggesting? That she should allow him to—to—– Her mind baulked at the obvious conclusion, but her spirits rose again at the thought of what Marcia would say when she told her the truth—–

‘I mean,’ Howard was going on, his whisky-scented breath fanning her cheek, ‘you know that if your father had made you his heir—–’

The sound of the handle of the door being turned effected the reaction Joanna was about to make. It caused Howard to step abruptly away from her, and by the time Marcia Holland came into the room, he was back in his position before the fire, apparently conducting a casual exchange with her stepdaughter.

Marcia Holland was small and blonde and petite, the exact antithesis of Joanna. Having seen pictures of her own mother, Joanna had sometimes wondered whether Andrew Holland had married Marcia because she was the absolute opposite of what his first wife had been. Joanna’s mother had been an extremely capable woman. Marcia appeared not. She behaved the way men expected a woman like her to behave. Because she looked so small and frail, she adopted an air of ingenuous fragility, and she always succeeded in getting her own way, because she looked so helpless. Only Joanna knew she wasn’t helpless; anything but. Marcia’s outward appearance was only a façade; underneath she was a very determined woman.

Now, she closed the door and advanced into the room, her gaze flickering briefly over her stepdaughter before moving on to the man by the fire. Holding out her hands towards Howard, she moved into the circle of his arm, and then turned to face Joanna, as if anxious for her approval.

‘Has Howard told you our news?’ she asked, in the little-girl voice she effected whenever any man was within earshot, and Joanna, endeavouring to recover from the two shocks she had received, took a deep breath.

‘He—he’s told me you plan to get married,’ she replied rather huskily. ‘I—I was surprised. I had no idea you had that in mind.’

Marcia’s brittle blue eyes hardened. ‘I don’t have to discuss my affairs with you, Joanna,’ she said, the baby-soft voice belying the pointedness of the words. She glanced up at the man beside her, her diminutive size complementing his height. ‘It happened so quickly, didn’t it, darling? We didn’t have time to discuss it with anyone.’

‘You’re so right,’ applauded Howard warmly, and the duplicity of his behaviour made Joanna feel physically sick. ‘But Joanna knows all about it now. I’ve put her in the picture, so to speak.’ His eyes flicked insolently in the girl’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Joanna?’

Joanna’s lips felt stiff, but she knew she had to speak. She would not—she could not—let him get away with it. ‘I don’t know that Marcia would agree with you,’ she retorted contemptuously. ‘I’m sure she’s totally in the dark about what you have in mind.’

Marcia’s blue eyes darted swiftly up at the man within whose arm she was nestling. ‘Howard?’ she murmured questioningly. ‘What is she talking about? What do you have in mind?’

Later, Joanna realised she had played right into Howard’s hands by accusing him outright. But just then she could only stare at him in outrage as he expertly negotiated this unexpected attack. Instead of rushing to his own defence as Joanna had anticipated, he took a leaf out of Marcia’s book and assumed a rueful expression, answering her reluctantly, as if betraying a confidence.

‘I’m afraid—well, Joanna doesn’t entirely approve of the place I’m taking you for our honeymoon,’ he conceded with a convincing sigh. ‘I suppose—the villa was her father’s, and—–’

‘The villa!’ exclaimed Joanna, doing the unforgivable and losing her temper. ‘The villa wasn’t even mentioned! He made a pass at me, Marcia! He told me that if I’d been Daddy’s heir instead of you—–’

‘That’s enough!’ With a muffled ejaculation Marcia pulled herself away from the solicitor and regarded her stepdaughter with cold loathing. ‘That will do, Joanna. I will not listen to any more. How dare you? How dare you stand there and vilify the man I intend to marry?’

‘It’s the truth,’ protested Joanna wearily. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Marcia, it’s not you he’s interested in, it’s Daddy’s money! He virtually told me—–’

‘Be quiet!’ Marcia’s hand stung across Joanna’s hot cheek, successfully silencing her stepdaughter. ‘I think you’d better leave,’ she went on icily. ‘I’ve known for some time that you hated me, Joanna, that you were jealous of me. But I never thought you’d stoop to telling lies to get even with me—–’

‘I’m not lying.’ Joanna looked at Howard, as if hoping to find some betraying emotion she could reveal to her stepmother, but his face was calm, sympathetic even. He looked as if he could think of no reason for this unwarranted attack, and only his eyes showed any real evidence of his feelings. ‘Marcia, please—–’

‘I want you to leave us,’ repeated her stepmother coldly. ‘I will not put up with your selfishness a moment longer. Get out! And I don’t just mean out of the library. I mean out of this house!’

CHAPTER TWO

JOANNA drove south through miles of open swampland, alert to the danger that some unwary alligator might step into the road in front of her. The man at the car-rental agency in Miami Beach had warned her that alligators were now protected by law, but Joanna suspected his aim was to inspire interest rather than warn of any serious hazard. She rather hoped she would meet an alligator, so long as she was safely inside the car, of course, but all she had seen so far were herons and wild geese, and, once, the long-necked beauty of a stork in flight.

She had spent the last couple of days in Miami Beach recovering from her jet-lag and endeavouring to get her bearings. She bought some maps and spent some time plotting her route to the Keys, but the temptation was to linger, and she was loath to leave the security of the hotel. Her room overlooked the salt-water creek at the front of the hotel, and beyond, the colour-washed villas of some of Miami Beach’s wealthier inhabitants made an ideal backdrop to the luxury yachts that moored at the hotel overnight. At the back of the hotel, a soft sandy beach stretched to the ocean, and Joanna had swum in its translucent green waters, feeling the warmth and relaxation of the sun unloosening the nerves that were wound tight within her.

She didn’t want to think about England. She didn’t want to remember that awful scene she had had with Marcia, or recollect that when she returned to London she would have to find somewhere to live. Mrs Morris had been marvellous, of course, but she couldn’t continue to depend on her help. Nevertheless, she had been grateful when the housekeeper had found her temporary accommodation with her sister and her husband in Fulham, and for the present that was where all her personal belongings were stored.

Evan had been delighted when she had rung him and confirmed that she would accept his offer. She didn’t bore him with her reasons for accepting. She simply let him think she was doing it for the money, which she supposed, if she was honest with herself, she was. But there was more, so much more, to this escape from England. It seemed as if, since her father died, she had been living in limbo, and only now was she beginning to take a hold of her life. For so long she had let things slide, waiting for Marcia to make a move. Well, she had made the move instead, albeit impulsively, and it was up to her now to make a success of her future. She tried not to feel bitter; bitterness was a negative emotion. But even so, it was painful to think of Howard Rogers living in her father’s house, using her father’s things, sleeping in her father’s bed …

Thirty miles south of Homestead, the swamps gave way to the blue waters of Florida Bay, and the highway swept over its first bridge on to the island of Key Largo. Although Joanna was intrigued by the signs indicating the John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, she pressed on, following the highway as it leapfrogged its way over a series of long bridges to other islands with names like Islamorada and Long Key and Bahia Honda.

The cooler morning when she had set off gave way to the heat of noon, and Joanna was glad that the car had air-conditioning. Just now, she would have been sweating, even in the cotton vest and shorts which were her only attire, and although there was usually a breeze to offset the higher temperatures, sitting on a sticky car seat was not the most comfortable way to travel.

It was after one o’clock when she reached Mango Key. The main highway intersected the island at the newer commercial quarter, but having read her guide books well, Joanna took the road that led to the older part of town. Her route took her along streets with a distinctly Spanish air, grilled balconies overhung with vines and bougainvillea, and pastel-tinted walls guarding inner courtyards where fountains played. At this time of the afternoon the streets were quiet, only an occasional horse-drawn vehicle meandering its way between rose-covered pergolas, carrying energetic tourists on a journey round the island. Joanna was able to stop and read the road signs without being harassed by other irate motorists, and she found the Hotel Conchas without too much difficulty.

She parked the car on the forecourt, and leaving her luggage in the trunk, walked the few yards between the parking area and the cool, air-conditioned freshness of the hotel. But even in those few yards she could feel the heat of the sun on her bare shoulders, and was glad her hair was thick enough to protect her head. She was glad, too, she had caught it up in a knot on top of her head. Already the back of her neck felt sticky, and its weight about her shoulders would have been unbearable.

The receptionist was Cuban, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned young man who eyed Joanna’s long slim bare legs with appreciation as she crossed the marble-tiled foyer. Not for the first time since coming to Florida, she was made aware of her own femininity, and she adjusted her spectacles firmly, as if disclaiming any desire to draw attention to herself.

‘I—good afternoon,’ she murmured in a low voice, and then, clearing her throat, went on: ‘My name’s Holland, Joanna Holland. I phoned you from the hotel in Miami.’

‘Ah yes, Miss Holland.’ The young man’s eyes assessed her as he consulted his ledger. ‘You are a visitor from England, am I right? You are booked with us for two weeks.’

‘Provisionally, yes,’ agreed Joanna, moistening her upper lip and concentrating her attention on the entry in the book open on the desk. ‘But I may stay longer. Will that be all right? I mean, you’re not likely to get booked up or anything?’

‘We can always hope,’ remarked the young man humorously. ‘But take it easy. I’m sure we can always accommodate you, Miss Holland.’

Joanna sighed. ‘Er—my suitcases are out in my car. I just parked on the forecourt. Could someone …?’

A bell-boy was summoned and while Joanna filled in the necessary registration form, her luggage was brought in from the car and placed on a trolley, ready for direction.

‘Room 447,’ the receptionist advised at last, handing the keys to the bell-boy, and feeling only slightly less selfconscious, Joanna followed the man into the lift for the trip up to the third floor. She had already learned that Americans regarded the ground floor as the first floor, and consequently the fourth floor was in actual fact only three floors above the ground.

Her room overlooked the swimming pool at the back of the hotel. It was a large comfortable apartment, comprising a twin-bedded room with a balcony and an adjoining bathroom, and after the bell-boy had left her, Joanna walked out into the sunshine. Below her balcony, the water in the pool was alive with sunspots, while beyond the fringe of palms that edged the gardens, a narrow beach was all that separated the hotel from the Gulf of Mexico. It was exotic and it was colourful, and she rested her elbows on the rail and surveyed the activity below with a feeling of satisfation. She was here. She was actually here in Mango Key. All she had to do now was find Matthew Wilder.

All!

Screwing up her eyes against the glare, she acknowledged that it was no small task that Evan had set her. She had not been lying when she said that Uncle Matt might not recognise her. There was little resemblance now between the eight-year-old schoolgirl he had brought beads for and the nineteen-year-old young woman she had become. Indeed, she didn’t remember him all that well. It was only the fact that her father had kept a photograph of Matthew Wilder in his study that had convinced her she might be able to recognise him. He couldn’t have changed that much in eleven years. Her father hadn’t. And after all, Uncle Matt was his contemporary, not hers.

On impulse, she went back into the room behind her and opened up her suitcase. She had brought the photograph with her, for reassurance, and now she drew it out and examined it once again. Marcia had made no bones about her taking any of the photographs out of her father’s study. She had not wanted them, and after her father died, Joanna had gathered all the old snaps together and stuffed them into a holdall ready to sort through later. She was glad she had. The night she left Ashworth Terrace, she had been in no state to bother about old photographs, but because they had been among her possessions they had been sent to Mrs Morris’s sister’s house along with everything else she owned.

Now, she studied the old black and white image with faintly troubled eyes. The bearded features were familiar, and yet unfamiliar. She hardly remembered the man who had come back to England from Africa, bringing with him bracelets and necklaces carved from bone and shells, weird-looking dolls, and a pair of drums, wood-framed and covered with skin. It was all so long ago, and she felt the old sense of anxiety that he would immediately suspect why she was here.

The hollow feeling inside her resolved itself into hunger, and shedding the shorts for a more modest cotton wrap-around skirt, Joanna left her room and went down to the coffee shop. She had still to decide how she was going to arrange an accidental meeting with Matthew Wilder, and over a hamburger and french fries she considered the alternatives.

Evan had given her the address, along with the information that his house was near the beach. How Evan knew this, Joanna had no idea, but as the island was only three miles wide at its broadest point, it was not unreasonable to suppose that his information was correct. ‘Palmetto Drive,’ she mused, examining the slip of paper in front of her. It sounded nice, but names, like appearances, could be deceptive.

Still, at least she knew where to find him, always assuming he was still there. All she knew for certain was that he had been there six months ago or presumably her father would have changed the address in his diary.

Swallowing a mouthful of the raspberry milk shake she had ordered to accompany her hamburger, Joanna wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. There still remained the question of how she was going to introduce herself to a man who in all probability had even forgotten her name. How could she even get herself noticed when to all intents and purposes she was no different from any one of a thousand other girls she had seen thronging the beaches from here to Miami?

She was sitting there, lost in thought, when a light hand touched her shoulder. She glanced round at once, her long green eyes wide behind the curved lenses, and found the handsome young man from the reception desk regarding her with undisguised admiration.

‘Miss Holland,’ he said, as she met his gaze coolly, ‘I thought you might be wondering about your car keys.’ He smiled. ‘Your car’s been parked in the hotel garage. When you want it, all you have to do is call the desk and it’ll be brought to reception for you.’

‘Well, thank you.’ Joanna couldn’t be impolite. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Good.’ The young man hesitated. ‘I hope your room is comfortable.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Joanna nodded. ‘It’s fine, really. Everything,’ she included the coffee shop in the gesture she made, ‘everything is fine—honestly.’

‘That’s good. If you have any problems, you tell me. Just ask for Carlos. Carlos Almeira, that’s my name.’

Still he lingered, and Joanna, eager to get to grips with her own problems, felt a sense of impatience. What did he want, for goodness’ sake? A written commendation? Or was he simply angling for a date? Either way, she was not interested.

‘Was there something else?’ she asked pointedly, waiting for him to leave her, and his tanned face creased into a smile.

‘Do you know this area at all?’ he enquired, confirming her worst fears, and she sighed.

‘No. But I’ll find my way around,’ she averred coolly. ‘G’bye.’

‘Perhaps you’d like me to show you some of the tourist attractions,’ he suggested, apparently immune to her indifference. ‘We have quite a famous museum, down by the harbour, and a marine centre. And some of the architecture in the town dates from the turn of the century.’

‘Thank you, but I prefer to do my own exploring,’ replied Joanna crisply, and then caught her breath as a thought occurred to her. If—Carlos—knew the town well, he would doubtless know who lived here, and also how far Palmetto Drive was from the hotel.

‘Tell me,’ she said, as he was turning away, and his philosophic expression gave way to one of anticipation. ‘Yes?’

‘I—is the island very big?’ she asked, fingering the stem of her spectacles. ‘I mean, could I walk from one end to the other?’

‘You could,’ conceded Carlos. ‘But why walk when you have a car? It’s too hot to walk. Except on to the beach.’

‘I like walking,’ said Joanna, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Besides, you see more that way.’ She paused. ‘I like to look at the names of the streets, to see if I recognise them. Some well-known people have lived on these islands from time to time. I suppose I’m just inquisitive.’

Carlos shrugged. ‘No famous people live on Mango Key,’ he declared, flattening her hopes in that direction. ‘Key West now, that’s different. That’s where Ernest Hemingway used to live.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Joanna tried not to show her disappointment. ‘I have read the guide books. I just thought you, being a local, might know of some interesting places.’

‘Oh, I know a lot of interesting places,’ declared Carlos, taking her innocent words as a sign of encouragement, and Joanna expelled her breath wearily.

‘Thank you for your help,’ she said, deliberately turning her head away, and with a gesture of impatience the young man left her.

Back in her room again, Joanna consulted her map. If Carlos had but known it, she knew exactly how big the island was, and running her finger along the coast from the hotel, she easily identified Palmetto Drive. It looked to be about half a mile from the hotel, and the tip of her tongue protruded between her lips as she considered what she should do. It was a hot afternoon, not at all the time of day any sensible person would choose to take a walk, but perhaps it was right for her purposes. She might even use it as a reason to gain entry to Matthew Wilder’s house. A young woman, walking inadvisedly in the hot sun! An ideal way to effect an introduction. She could pretend she was lost, or she felt sick, or she was thirsty. Surely even a recluse would not deny her assistance!

She looked longingly down at the pool as she brushed her hair before re-coiling it into its knot. She would have liked nothing so much as to swim in the pool for a while, and then stretch out lazily in the sunshine, as other guests were doing. There was an air of somnolence about the hotel, and she hoped she was not being foolish by tempting a capricious fate. She really could get lost or be overcome by the heat, and she had no guarantee that the Uncle Matt she had known would come to her rescue.

She received a few speculative glances as she left the hotel. She had changed from the vest and wrap-around skirt into a silky yellow shirt, with elbow-length sleeves, and a pair of white culottes, and she felt horribly selfconscious at being alone. She was sure the eyes that followed her progress across the stretch of turf in front of the hotel would not have done so had she had an escort, and although she knew she was not unattractive, she came to the conclusion that any unattached female was regarded as fair game.

Palmetto Drive seemed further than she had anticipated. Or perhaps it was simply the heat and her increasing apprehension. It was all very well rehearsing what she was going to say in the quiet of her hotel room, and quite another to consider feigning surprise to a man who had so many years more experience.

Her route took her along Coral Reef Avenue, and for a while she was enchanted by the creaming waters of the Gulf, surging on to the narrow beach on her right. A belt of palms separated the beach from the path, with here and there a sprawling mangrove tree, pushing up its roots through a tangle of marsh grass.

Across the street, an odd collection of shops and hotels jostled side by side. Fishing tackle and snorkelling equipment seemed to figure quite prominently, looking slightly out of place outside stores that had a distinctly mid-Western appearance, and small hotels, with latticed ironwork, boasted swimming pools and jacuzzis, which didn’t quite fit their image.

Joanna would have liked to linger among the shops and stores, picking over the souvenirs available and maybe choosing herself a new book from the racks that seemed to occupy every available space. But putting off her objective wouldn’t make it any the less inevitable, and ignoring the fluttery feeling in her stomach, she walked on.

Palmetto Drive appeared to be a continuation of Coral Reef Avenue, except that once the end of the avenue was reached, there were many fewer buildings. The populated part of the island swung away from the beach at this point, but a narrower road ploughed beneath a canopy of live oaks and the palmetto palms that gave it its name.

The houses, for there were no shops or hotels here, were set some distance from one another, and each stood in its own private grounds. In addition, they were on Joanna’s right, forming a barrier between her and the beach, and the chance of invading anyone’s privacy seemed unlikely indeed. It was also a little eerie walking along that shadowy path, and Joanna didn’t like the feeling of intrusion it gave her.

The house she was looking for proved to be the last in the line, and wrought-iron gates, securely padlocked, shattered any hopes she might have had of begging assistance. On the contrary, of all the houses, it seemed the most remote, and peering through the tall gates, she could see nothing but flowering shrubs and trees. The foliage formed a further screen to the house beyond, and its low roof was all that was visible.

Sighing, Joanna turned back the way she had come. Obviously she would have to think of something else, but what? She could hardly ring him up, could she? Although it might come to that if she could think of nothing else. She shook her head unhappily as she tramped back to the end of the road, and then halted abruptly when she saw the curve of the beach ahead of her. Of course—why hadn’t she thought of it before? The houses backed on to the beach. It was worth taking a walk along the shore, if only to assure herself that the house was occupied.

Scrambling over the low wall that separated the path from the tussocky grass that edged the beach, she took off her sandals and allowed the grains of sand to squeeze between her toes. It was very hot, almost too hot for walking in places, so she skipped down to the water’s edge and walked through the shallows. It would have been enjoyable, had it not been for the sun beating down on her head and shoulders, and she was glad she was wearing a shirt, and not the sleeveless vest she had worn earlier.

Nevertheless, she unbuttoned her shirt until the dusky hollow between her breasts was visible, and felt a trickle of moisture making its way down her spine. Even the slight breeze off the ocean made little headway in cooling her temperature, and she fanned herself apathetically as she progressed.

It took longer to walk along the beach. Apart from the fact that her feet were sucked down by the shifting sand, she had to negotiate a series of wooden breakwaters that intersected the sand in places. In addition to which, she had to watch out for crabs and sharp edges of coral, that could cause a nasty wound, as well as keeping an eye on the houses, to make sure she did not lose her bearings.

She was climbing over yet another wooden breakwater when the man accosted her. The sound of his voice, when she had thought she was alone, caused her to stub her foot on one of the wooden struts, and she gazed across at him indignantly, rubbing her injured toe.

‘You’re trespassing,’ he declared, halting some distance from her and regarding her with hard aggressive eyes. ‘The tourist areas are back the way you’ve come. I’m sorry, this is private property.’

Joanna pursed her lips. Apart from the fact that she was hot and tired, her toe was still stinging, and the realisation that this arrogant man was denying her her only chance of reaching Matthew Wilder’s house made her behave more recklessly than she might have done.

‘You should put up a sign,’ she declared, stepping over the breakwater, and ignoring him she continued on along the beach.

‘I said this is private property,’ the man grated, taking the steps that put him squarely into her path. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. Please—I must insist that you turn back.’

Joanna looked up at him mutinously. In spite of her height, he was taller than she was, and now that she had a chance to look at him properly, she couldn’t help being aware of how attractive he was. He was about thirty-five, she estimated, brown skinned and tawny-eyed, with the lightest coloured hair she had seen on a man. It was a kind of ash-blond, she supposed, with a silvery sheen that was reflected in the bleached tips of short thick lashes. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high and slightly angular, and his mouth was thin and firm, above a determined jawline. Yet for all that, it was a sensual face, and she felt her senses stirring beneath his impatient gaze. He was wearing a pair of old denim shorts and a washed-out denim waistcoat, unbuttoned at present, and his skin was just as brown on his arms and legs as it was on his face. He was leanly built, but muscular, and judging from his manner, he was unused to being disobeyed.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said impulsively, wishing she could have met him on more friendly terms. ‘I—er—I was just taking a walk. I wanted to get away from the tourist areas.’

‘Really?’ He sounded sceptical, and she thought rather crossly that he might have tried to meet her apology with some grace.

‘Yes, really,’ she insisted, feeling damp strands of hair clinging wetly to her neck. ‘I only arrived on the island this morning, and I’m afraid I don’t know my way around yet.’

‘I see.’

The man inclined his head, but his eyes had taken on an oddly puzzled look. As if he was speculating whether or not to believe her, thought Joanna impatiently, feeling uncomfortably hot standing there. The heat didn’t seem to bother him, but she was feeling decidedly thirsty, and she longed rather desperately for a cool glass of Coke.

‘I wonder—–’ she began, hesitating about how best to frame her appeal, when the man’s eyes narrowed intently, and taking hold of her chin, he turned her face into the sun.

Remembering with loathing the last time a man had taken hold of her in this way, Joanna should have recoiled from him. But this man’s hands were not Howard Rogers’ hands; his fingers were not hot or pudgy. They were long and strong and cool, and Joanna knew the craziest urge to cover his fingers with hers. Of course, she didn’t, but her green eyes turned up to his, unknowingly provocative as they searched his lean dark face.

‘Joanna,’ he said suddenly, confounding all her hopes and fears, and bringing a flush of confused colour to her cheeks. ‘My God, it is Joanna Holland, isn’t it? Or if it’s not, you’re her living double!’

Joanna blinked. ‘I—why, yes. Yes, I’m Joanna Holland,’ she got out jerkily. ‘But how do you know that? Who are you?’

Afterwards, she realised she had made exactly the right response. Her voice had had precisely the right inflection—that anxious note that fell somewhere between interest and disbelief. But just then she had had no thought of duplicity. On the contrary, she was totally bewildered by the way he suddenly let her go, stepping back from her abruptly, as if afraid she might have some contagion. In those first few seconds, she was convinced she had never met this man before. If she had she was sure she would not have forgotten, And only briefly, in the back of her mind, flickered the thought that he might have some connection with Matthew Wilder …

But as she recovered from the shock and her brain began to function again, reason came to her. Of course, she flayed herself impatiently, of course, that had to be the answer. After all, she was within a few yards of Matthew Wilder’s house. She had let her attraction to the man blind her to the fact of her whereabouts, and for the moment she gave no thought to the question of how some colleague of the man she had come to find could identify her.

‘Joanna,’ he said again, incredulously now, pushing back his hair with a bewildered hand. The action parted the sides of the denim waistcoat, revealing the fine arrowing of hair that disappeared below the belt of his shorts and exposing an unexpectedly pale scar on the underside of his left arm. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His lips twisted. ‘Don’t tell me Marcia sent you!’

‘Marcia?’ Joanna could only stare at him, incapable of making any sense of this, and he expelled his breath resignedly.

‘Marcia,’ he repeated flatly. ‘Marcia Stewart—she is your stepmother, isn’t she?’

‘Marcia Stewart married my father, yes,’ answered Joanna unsteadily. ‘But I don’t understand—–’

‘Don’t you remember me at all, Joanna?’ he enquired, a trace of bitterness giving a cynical slant to his mouth. ‘I’m Matthew Wilder. Uncle Matt, remember? Or have you forgotten that I ever existed?’

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