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.

The Judas Trap
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS certainly remote—Diane had been right about that. Remote and unfamiliar, and undeniably beautiful. In spite of the narrow roads and the high hedges, which gave her a claustrophobic feeling at times, the glimpses of the ocean she saw below the headland were as wild and as blue as she could have imagined. When she opened the car window the air smelt unmistakably of salt, but it was still chilly, and she was glad to close it again.

Sara had never been to Cornwall before; in fact, she had never been further west than Bristol. She had spent her holidays in Spain and Italy, the certainty of good weather inspiring more enthusiasm than the tourist resorts of her own country. Besides, she had never cared for those regular pictures of bumper-to-bumper traffic streaming into the West Country on every Bank and public holiday. Instead, she had gone abroad to some equally busy spot, the difference being that she could complete her journey in one easy stage—and avoid over-excitement.

This was different. This was escape. And she was fast learning there was still a part of England where the demands of the automobile did not hold sway. The villages she had passed did not cater to the tourist’s needs, nor did they seek to detain the passing motorist. On the contrary, she had felt a sense of intrusion, of being a trespasser into a world where she was the interloper, a strangely alien world that was as remote from London as it was possible to be.

It was strange to think that Diane Tregower had been born here, not in this particular spot, but in Falmouth, which was not so many miles away. Who would have dreamed that the daughter of a fisherman could aspire to such heights, could leave the quiet harbour town where she had grown to womanhood, and become one of the most sought-after actresses on the London stage? It was unusual, and unexpected, but life was sometimes like that. Her husband must have cursed the day he invited the famous producer Lance Wilmer, filming in the area, to dinner at Ravens Mill, and set in motion the events which were to end so disastrously.

Sara shivered. Poor Adam! He must have gone through hell knowing what Diane and Lance had become to one another, and then losing his sight like that … It was terrible, and humiliating somehow, recalling his eventual reconciliation to their affair, and his subsequent plea to Diane to continue to regard Ravens Mill as her home.

Not that she had ever taken him up on it. In the seven years since their separation she had seen him only once, and that was when he was in hospital, recovering from the accident which robbed him of his sight. She might not have seen him then, but Lance had insisted on it, Diane had told Sara, relating what a story it had made for the press.

‘It was quite a poignant little scene,’ she had said, with a slight curl to her lips, and Sara had marvelled that anyone who could portray such convincing emotion in public should in reality feel so little. Diane had no real sympathy, no compassion for the man she had married when she was sixteen and left without a qualm five years later, and it was doubtful whether her involvement with Lance Wilmer was anything more than a means to an end. Diane was ambitious, she had always been ambitious, and an innate aptitude for mimicry with a natural ability to act had given her the confidence she needed. The fact that she was also a very beautiful woman in no way detracted from the undoubted talent she possessed, and with Wilmer’s backing she had been an immediate success.

Sara’s slim fingers felt clammy against the steering wheel as a signpost warned her that the miles between herself and Ravens Mill had narrowed to single figures. Calm down, she thought. It’s only a house. A nice house with, according to Diane, a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean. A lonely house, a quiet house, a retreat, where she could go and soothe her own shattered emotions, sure in the knowledge that no one who knew her would guess where she had gone.

It had been Diane’s idea, of course. The house was standing empty, she said, virtually unused, Adam having abandoned his lonely vigil years ago to live in a warmer climate. He had inherited a villa in Portugal, she had explained vaguely, not specifying why or from whom, and since the Tregowers, like everyone else, were feeling the pinch, it was cheaper and easier to live out of the country.

Sara knew that the Tregowers had once been a wealthy family. Their money had financed the now-crumbling tin mines, and compared to Diane’s lot as the eldest daughter in a family of seven children, marriage to Adam Tregower had been quite an achievement. Sara could only assume that the man had been dazzled by Diane’s beauty, for he had been more than ten years older than she was, and obviously more sophisticated. But marry her he had, and as his own parents were dead there had been no one to offer any objections.

The road was winding round the headland now, and below the labouring engine of the Mini the ground fell away to the ragged rocks that scarred the coastline. Surging white foam gave a lacy illusion of innocence to jagged crags which, as the tide fell away, revealed themselves as savage denizens of this wild and beautiful shore. It was bleak and desolate, cruel even, but its very isolation appealed to Sara’s mood. Diane had been right when she said she could find release here, away from the rough and tumble of everyday living, and Sara was grateful for whatever grain of compassion had compelled the woman to offer her the house for the two weeks she could afford to stay.

Sara’s relationship with Diane Tregower was a curious one. As an editor in a small publishing house, she had few opportunities to meet members of the theatre world, but Lance Wilmer was her father’s cousin, and occasionally, if he needed an extra guest for his dinner parties, he invited Sara along to make up the numbers. It was on one such occasion, at the beginning of their relationship, that Sara had been introduced to Diane Tregower.

From the start Diane had been attracted to her. The fact that Sara’s blonde good looks had appeared like a pale copy of herself might have had something to do with it, or maybe her weakness had aroused her sympathy, or perhaps at that time Diane had been feeling a little unsure of herself, and Sara’s evident admiration had been a salve to her ego. Whatever the reasons, they had become friends, and Sara, seven years her junior, became her sometimes unwilling confidante. Yet for all that, she was fond of Diane, although her attempts to interfere with Sara’s life were not always welcome. Even so, it was Diane who had revealed Tony in his true colours, and Diane who had arranged for her to get away on her own for a while …

Her jaw shook for a moment at the remembrance of that particular revelation. She had not been able to believe it at first. Tony had seemed so sure of himself, of his love for her, he had told her so a dozen times. They had even discussed getting married. But then Diane had accidentally mentioned that Sara had a heart condition, and Tony had started finding excuses why they could not meet …

A few drops of rain speckled the windscreen, and determinedly she thrust her disturbing thoughts aside and concentrated on the road ahead. They were descending now, a hazardous hairpin descent towards a cluster of cottages that appeared to be clinging to the cliff-face above a rocky inlet. Nearer, she could see a harbour wall, and fishing boats drawn within its sheltering arm, and then the road was ascending again towards a headland where, through the now driving rain, she could see a house standing alone and unguarded.

It had to be Ravens Mill, she realised, the thought banishing her earlier depression from her mind. Diane had described the area in some detail, and it fitted exactly her description of bleakness and isolation. What Diane had not told her was its size, and its formidable appearance, and she gazed in trepidation at the stark stone walls that rose above her.

A stone gateway gave access to a weed-strewn drive that had to lead to the house, and pulling her mouth down at the corners, Sara stood on her brakes. This wasn’t the sort of place one could spend a couple of weeks in privacy, this was no country cottage where one might regain one’s peace of mind, she thought in dismay. It was a country seat, a family pile, the kind of place where half a dozen servants were needed just to keep down the dust. Diane had given her her key, and picturing a house of reasonable proportions, Sara had equipped herself with a sleeping bag for using until she had tidied the place out and aired bedding, etc, but that seemed ludicrous now. Diane had said a Mrs Penworthy came in now and then to open windows and so on, but sitting there, Sara began to doubt the truth of that statement. Did one open up such a place, just for airing? Could one? There would be so many rooms—reception rooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, bedrooms …

Hunching her shoulders, she looked at the square masculine watch on her narrow wrist. It was already after five. It would be dark in a couple of hours, and although she did not look forward to driving back to the nearest town over those roads in this weather, the prospect of spending the night alone in this gloomy mansion did not appeal.

Glancing behind her, she surveyed the pile of baggage that overloaded the back seat of the Mini and spilled on to the floor. As well as her sleeping bag and pillows there were suitcases containing her clothes, fresh linen and food enough for a couple of days—and the briefcase containing the first draft of her novel. Compressing her lips, she sighed. The book—it was an adventure story for children—needed a lot of work, but in her professional opinion it had the makings of a publishable novel. She had planned to re-write it during these unexpected weeks of freedom. It had been her goal and, she hoped, her salvation, and maybe, with a published book behind her, she would have more confidence in herself and her future.

She shifted round again in her seat. If she left now, she would never re-write the book: she was sure of that. Back in London, work would overtake her, no matter how understanding her boss had been in allowing her to take her holiday so early, and there was always the possibility that she would give in to phoning Tony again and lose what little self-respect she had.

The storm suddenly dispersed as quickly as it had appeared, and a watery sun filtered through the clouds. April showers, thought Sara wryly, watching the amber rays strike gold on blank panes. The upper floors of the house were visible between the yews that marked the drive, and on impulse she decided to take a look. After all, it was foolish coming all this way without even venturing inside, and now that the sun had come out its aspect was so much less forbidding. On the contrary, Sara could see that with care and attention Ravens Mill could become a most attractive dwelling place, and she could well imagine Diane’s sense of triumph when she first became mistress of the house.

The drive had a slight curve that successfully cut off any prying eyes from the road, but the lodge that stood at its gates was unoccupied. Someone, perhaps the boys from the village, had broken several of the windows in the lodge, but so far the house seemed to have avoided accident.

The gravel of the drive itself sprouted weeds and crab grass, and the yews, left untended, had lost all shape and design. The lawns, that had once swept to the edge of the cliff itself, were no less neglected, and only a scythe would make any impression on such rampant vegetation.

Blinds were drawn at all the windows at the front of the house, and Sara thought, rather imaginatively, that it seemed to be presenting a guarded face to the world. It was a shame that no one could afford to live here any more, she reflected, wondering if there was anything more melancholy than an empty house.

She stopped the Mini, switched off the engine, and climbed out. Immediately the chill wind off the ocean caught her breath, and she quickly reached into the car for the jacket of her jersey pants suit which she had discarded during the journey. Pulling it on over the matching brown silk shirt, she was glad of its high collar and the warmth it engendered as she rummaged in her handbag for the key Diane had given her.

The heavy studded door swung inward surprisingly easily on its hinges as she inserted the key, with none of the creaking and groaning she had been expecting. Half smiling at her own ghoulish imagination, she saw with relief that the sun was filtering through the blinds that shuttered the windows on either side of the door, and she was able to close it against the elements without fear of being unable to see. Nevertheless, she opened one of the blinds as soon as the door was shut, and looked about her with less confidence than curiosity.

She was standing in the hall of the house, she saw, with an enormously high ceiling arching away above her head. Directly ahead of her, twin staircases curved to a central flight that rose to the first floor, and in the dust-moted shafts of sunlight she could see the square portrait of a man that faced the first floor landing. To right and left, closed doors indicated the sitting rooms and drawing rooms that Sara had envisaged, while in the well of the stairs, a square oak chest shone with the patina of years. Shone …

Sara’s eyes widened, then she blinked. She had not really noticed before, but now she came to think of it, the place was surprisingly clean considering that no one was living there. Looking down at the polished wooden floor at her feet, strewn with rugs in a variety of shades and colours, she realised it, too, was well polished, and the faint smell that rose to her nostrils was that of beeswax.

A sense of unease rose inside her. Either Mrs Penworthy was as worthy as her name suggested, or Diane was wrong about the house being uninhabited. What if Adam, like his wife, had offered the place to a friend? What if right now, the present inhabitants of the house were out for the afternoon, visiting other friends or shopping …

Her immediate impulse to flee was stifled. Surely if anyone was living in the house, they would have opened the blinds? Besides, wouldn’t Diane have known if her husband was back in England? She wouldn’t have sent her, Sara, down here if there was the remotest chance that Adam was back in the country, would she?

Her heart slowing its quickened beat a little, she tried to think coherently. After all, Diane had known she was coming down here, and what more natural but that she should ask this Mrs Penworthy, whoever she was, to come in and tidy round in readiness? Surely that was the only explanation, and justification in fact for her decision to come and investigate. If she had turned round and left without even entering the building, she would never have known the trouble that lady had gone to on her behalf, and she assured herself that she ought to be honoured to be treated in this way. A wave of warmth towards Diane engulfed her. It had been kind of her to go to all this trouble. Uncharacteristically so, remembering the callous way she had denounced Tony’s behaviour. How could she in all conscience turn it down?

‘So you came, Diane!’

The deep masculine voice that riveted her to the spot came from an opened doorway to the right of the hall. It was a leather-studded door, the kind of door that indicated its usage beyond, and until that moment had scarcely imprinted itself on Sara’s mind. A library, or a study, she had registered in passing, and moved on to other things.

But now the door stood wide, and a man was standing in the aperture, the dim light behind him hardly illuminating his still form. A tall man, with a lean body, and straight dark hair that fell smoothly across his forehead. His features were vaguely distinguishable—high cheekbones, a prominent nose, a thin-lipped mouth—but it was not these characteristics she recognised. She had seen pictures of Adam Tregower, and she had no doubt that this was he, but it was his motionlessness that identified him for her—that, and the dark glasses he wore, and the drawn blinds behind him. What would a blind man want with sunlight?

His words were less easy to interpret. So you came, Diane! What did it mean? What did he mean? Had he sent for his wife? Had he contacted Diane and asked to see her? Asked her to come down here, in fact?

Sara’s heart pounded unevenly. Her immediate impulse to deny the identity he had placed upon her was silenced by a feeling of intrusion, an invasion into this man’s privacy that she had had no right to make. It was not herself who should be standing here, but Diane, and to deny the truth of that statement was to tear aside Adam Tregower’s self-respect. How could she tell him that Diane had sent her here? How could she admit to being an unwilling tool in some game Diane was playing, for as the minutes passed she became more and more convinced that the other girl had known her husband was waiting at the house.

Yet, equally, how could she not deny it? This man had been married to Diane for five years. He must know her face, the sound of her voice. But Adam Tregower was blind now, a victim of his own despair, and it was seven years since they had lived together …

‘Diane …’

The man spoke again, and Sara stared helplessly in his direction. She had to speak, she had to answer him. Dear God, what did Diane expect of her?

‘Adam?’ she breathed tentatively, and she heard his sigh of relief. ‘I—how are you?’

‘How do I look?’

Evidently her husky tones were unidentifiable, and a trembling breath escaped her. What ought she to do? Denounce herself here and now, or tread deeper into this mire of deception? Adam Tregower had suffered so much. Could she honestly prevent him from suffering more? Why had he sent for Diane? Why did he want to speak to her? And why hadn’t Diane told her?

Anger gripped her. Diane had known her husband was here: she was convinced of that now. So many small things were falling into place, not least the obvious one of Diane’s suggestion that she should spend a couple of weeks at the house, a house she had taken care never to describe, so that Sara had expected something entirely different. Diane had known Adam was here, had known he was expecting his wife—and had sent her in her place, knowing that in her own grief, her sympathies would respond to this man’s helplessness.

‘You—you look well,’ she got out now, although she could hardly tell his colouring in this half light. ‘Adam, I—’

‘It was good of you to come.’ His words interrupted any explanation she might have hoped to make, and there was a curiously ironic note to his voice. ‘I wondered if you would. You lead such a—busy life. So different from my own.’

Sara’s mouth was dry. Outside, she saw with alarm, the clouds were gathering once more, and even as her eyes darted to the blind she had drawn, a few drops of rain spattered the window. All of a sudden the precariousness of her position seemed untenable, and she took an involuntary step backward.

‘Please.’ As if aware of her panic, Adam Tregower stepped forward, moving surely across the hall towards her. ‘Won’t you come into the library? We can have a drink together before dinner, and it’s easier to talk in less formal circumstances.’

‘Oh, but …’ Sara cast another longing look towards the windows. She couldn’t stay here, she thought wildly, but how could she get away without proving that Diane had made a fool of him yet again? Maybe he did not expect her to stay. Surely he knew Diane would never agree to remain at the house, alone with him. Perhaps his invitation was for dinner only, a chance for them to talk together about—about—what? Old times? Hardly. Her work? Hardly that either. A divorce? She breathed more freely. Yes, perhaps that was it. Adam wanted a divorce. He might have found someone else, someone he wanted to marry. A Portuguese girl maybe. A biddable Portuguese dona da casa, with no desire to do anything but care for her husband and bring up his children.

‘Diane.’

He was closer now, and in the shaft of light issuing through the unguarded window she saw his eyes, shadowed behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Deeply set eyes they were, beneath heavy lids, strangely piercing eyes that while she knew could not see her, seemed to penetrate her guilty façade His face, too, was deeply tanned, evidence of the warmer climes he had been inhabiting, and his throat rising from the opened neck-line of a dark blue shirt was strong and corded with muscle. There was a disc suspended from a gold chain about his throat, one of those coins that could be used as a means of identity, and he wore two rings, a plain gold signet ring, and a flat copper amulet. Although he resembled the pictures she had seen of Adam Tregower, in the flesh he seemed so much more disturbing somehow, and she began to understand why Diane had been so eager to become his wife. She wondered at the ambition which had driven the other girl to leave him, for while Lance Wilmer was a handsome man, he had never possessed this man’s purely sexual attraction.

‘Come …’

He was holding out a hand towards her now, and avoiding it she had no choice but to cross the hall towards the library door. There was a moment’s pause before he followed her, and then she heard his footsteps right behind her.

The library was large, by anybody’s standards, but age and neglect had added an air of dampness and decay. Nevertheless, a fire was smouldering comfortingly in the grate, and the smell of Havana tobacco went a long way to disguising its less pleasurable aspects. Shelves of books lined two long walls and half the third, where drawn blinds indicated a shaded window. The fourth was taken up by the huge fireplace, and a pair of darkwood cabinets, in which resided a collection of chess pieces, from jade and ivory, to ebony and alabaster. There was a desk, on which a tray of drinks rested, and as well as the leather chair that faced it there was a pair of worn green velvet armchairs that fronted one another across the hearth.

Hovering in the centre of the room, Sara heard Adam close the door behind him, and presently he passed her to indicate the chairs beside the fire.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he suggested, and with a sureness born of long practice, his hand sought the tray of drinks upon the desk.

Sara sat, partly because her legs felt a little unsure, and partly because it put more distance between them. It was all very well, posing as Caesar’s wife, but she did not know what he might expect of her, what indeed he might do to induce her to stay.

The temptation to confess her identity rose within her again only to be squashed as she watched him fumbling with the bottles. Evidently their shape and size identified them to him, and presently he turned and said: ‘What can I offer you? Whisky, gin? Or your usual?’ His lips twisted suddenly, the first sign of bitterness? ‘Or perhaps it’s not your usual any more.’

Sara hesitated. Diane’s usual drink these days was bitter lemon, with an occasional dash of vermouth, when calories permitted.

‘My—usual, I think,’ she conceded doubtfully, and swallowed rather convulsively when he presented her with a tall glass that looked as if it contained Coke, and smelled strongly of rum. She guessed Bacardi had been added, and when she tasted it her suspicions were justified.

‘Ah …’ Adam had poured himself a measure of whisky, holding the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass, listening to the sound it made and measuring its contents accordingly. ‘It’s been a long time, Diane.’

Sara nodded, realised he couldn’t see her, and said: ‘Yes,’ in a low tone.

‘I must say you’re less—aggressive than I would have expected,’ he continued, surprisingly, supporting himself against the lip of the desk. ‘I guessed you’d come—but not without protest.’

Sara took a sip of her drink to give herself courage. So it was confirmed. Adam had sent for Diane. But why? Had he told her?

‘Do you think the place has changed much?’ he was asking now, and as this was safer ground she felt able to answer him.

‘I think—there’s dampness,’ she ventured. ‘I expect, because the house has stood empty for so long …’

‘So long,’ he agreed, his mouth drawing down at the corners. ‘Too long. What do you think, Diane?’

She didn’t understand what he was getting at. Why had he asked Diane to come down here? What possible motive could he have? He must know she was a working actress—he had intimated as much in the hall. And yet he thought he had persuaded her to come down here …

Sara pressed her lips together and stared anxiously up at those hooded eyes, dark behind their concealing lenses. What thoughts were going through his mind? What manner of man was he to imagine he could summon back a wife who had left him without scruple seven years before? If, sick and blinded, after the accident when it was suspected he had tried to kill himself, he had been unable to sustain Diane’s sympathy, why should he suppose she might come back now?

It was all getting rather deep and disturbing, and with the sky darkening outside, Sara was feeling a distinct sense of unease. It wasn’t just that she was here under false pretences. If she had been Diane herself, she felt sure she would have experienced the same kind of feeling, a sense of enclosure, of being trapped, of being imprisoned with this man in the darkness he had occupied for the past seven years …

‘Another drink?’ he suggested, but looking down at the almost untouched glass in her hands Sara demurred.

‘I—I shall have to be going soon,’ she murmured, and sensed rather than saw his stiffening features. ‘I—can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’ His voice was harsh. ‘There are plenty of rooms; plenty, as you know only too well.’

Sara set down her glass on the hearth, welcoming the fire’s warmth against her chilled fingers. ‘I—I don’t think you understand’—she was beginning, deciding this had gone far enough, when once again he interrupted her.

‘It’s you who don’t understand, Diane!’ he declared coldly. ‘I didn’t bring you here for a friendly chat, as you’re aware. Nor do I intend that you should leave again, the minute you decide I’m no real threat to that comfortable life you’ve made for yourself!’ He tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass with a careless gesture. Then he faced her across the width of the faded patterned carpet, and if she had not known better she would have sworn he could see her there, sitting nervously on the edge of her chair. ‘You came because my letter frightened you, because you didn’t really believe it, but you couldn’t be absolutely certain. Since your arrival you’ve been watching me, studying my reactions, trying to decide whether I meant what I said, and if I did, what I could do about it.’

Sara got to her feet jerkily. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Tregower,’ she said then, fear combining with a natural nervousness to bring a tremor to her voice. ‘I—I am not—not your wife, not Diane Tregower. My—my name is—is Sara Fortune, and—and I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

There was silence for several pregnant minutes, minutes when she could see he was grappling with what she had just said, digesting it, dissecting it, testing it for flaws, and finding it wanting. Then a bitter smile twisted his lips and a short harsh laugh broke from them.

‘Oh, bravo, Diane, bravo!’ he complimented her mockingly. ‘Yes. Yes, indeed, that was worthy of the actress you undoubtedly are. To deny your own identity—how clever, and how apt! How could a blind man be sure you are who you say you are, particularly a blind man who has not seen you for so many years? The voice, the body, even the make-up of the face could have changed in that time. And he would have no way of knowing, no way of really being sure …’

Sara gasped. ‘It’s true. I’m not lying. I really am who I say I am.’

‘Then why did you not say so before?’

‘Why, I—because I—’

‘Because you didn’t think of it!’

‘No!’

‘Oh, come on …’ There was nothing to pity about him now. Standing squarely between her and the door, he epitomised the dominant male, hard and masculine, and totally without sympathy. ‘I know you, Diane. I know everything about you. I’ve listened, until I’m sick to my teeth, to stories about your charm, your looks, your likes, your dislikes, your absorption with self, self, self …’

‘No!’

‘I’ve watched a man disintegrate before my eyes, lose all his confidence, his self-respect, even his will to live, while he spoke of your needs, your demands, your success. Your selfishness, more like, your flawed image, your destructive self-indulgence that must be satisfied, whatever the cost!’

Sara didn’t understand all of this. ‘You—you watched a man …’ she whispered unsteadily, and with a savage oath he tore off the glasses which had concealed his eyes, revealing them to be a brilliant shade of amber, burning now with the hard light of malevolence.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as she stood there staring uneasily at him, realising weakly that he could see. And why not? This was not Adam Tregower—she realised that now. The resemblance was there, the features followed a similar pattern and given the half light she could be forgiven for mistaking his identity. But this man’s face was harder, stronger—younger. A relative, no doubt, but not Diane’s husband.

‘You—you’re not—’ she stammered, wondering why the knowledge gave her no relief, and he nodded.

‘No, I’m not,’ he agreed harshly. ‘I’m Michael Tregower. Adam is—was—my brother!’

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU LOOK SHOCKED!’ he declared a few moments later, as Sara continued to stare disbelievingly at him. ‘Didn’t you know Adam had a brother? Perhaps not. It doesn’t surprise me. I was always considered the skeleton in the Tregower family cupboard.’

Sara licked her dry lips. ‘Adam—Adam did not have a brother,’ she declared, faintly but succinctly. ‘I know. Di—Diane told me.’

‘Really.’ Plainly he did not believe the latter half of her statement. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he did. A half-brother, at least. His—our—father was not averse to sowing a few wild oats of his own.’

‘You mean—you mean—’

‘I’m a bastard? Yes, that’s right. Bastard by name, and bastard by nature, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Look …’ Sara sought desperately for words to explain all this, ‘I don’t care who you are or why you’re here. I don’t even care what you think of Diane or—or the way she behaved towards your brother. What I must repeat is that—that I am not her. My—my name is Sara Fortune, as I’ve told you—’

‘Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you?’ Michael Tregower reached into his pocket and drew out a case of narrow cigars, placing one between his teeth while he sought for his lighter. ‘We both know who you are and why you’re here—’

‘No. No, you don’t—’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘Mr Tregower! Please! Listen to me!’ Sara took an involuntary step forward, and as she did so his hand came out and caught her wrist, his thumb pressing cruelly against the veins on the inner side of her arm.

‘No,’ he denied. ‘You listen to me. Adam is dead, didn’t you understand what I said earlier?’

‘ No !’

‘Yes.’ Michael thrust his dark face closer to hers, the odour of whisky on his breath invading her nostrils. ‘Dead, do you understand? By his own hand. And there was nothing I, or any of us, could do about it.’

‘No!’

Sara moved her head futilely from side to side, her long pale hair contrasting with the darkness of her jacket, as the blood draining out of her hand had a curiously numbing effect. Staring into Michael Tregower’s vengeful features she had the uncanny notion that he intended to kill her, too. That that was why he had sent for Diane, why he had threatened her in some way that forced her hand, and brought her down here. Only she hadn’t come. She had sent Sara instead, hoping perhaps that the blind husband she had not seen for seven years would be unable to distinguish between them. And it might have worked, bearing in mind Sara’s own instinctive compassion for the man she had thought to be Diane’s husband. Whatever reason he had had for sending for his wife, she had banked on her counter-action to thwart it, though what excuse she could give Sara the girl had yet to wonder.

‘I tell you, I’m not Diane Tregower!’ she cried, fear forcing the note of panic into her voice. ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake!’

‘No, Diane. You made the mistake in coming here,’ he declared, a mocking smile curling his lips. ‘Really, Diane, I expected better of you. Were you really disturbed by my little note? So disturbed that you made a special journey down here—alone?’

‘You—you sent for Diane?’ Sara choked, trying impotently to free herself, but he was merciless.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t I just told you? Adam’s dead. He died three weeks ago. Three weeks in which I’ve thought of little else but the pleasure of getting my hands around your selfish little neck!’

Sara’s breathing had quickened alarmingly, and she could hear her heart thundering in her ears. Her blood pressure must be sky-high, she thought, though her own health had never meant less to her. Even so, a slightly hazy feeling was invading the corners of her eyes, and although she struggled to fight the wave of faintness that was overtaking her, the encompassing blackness engulfed her like a welcoming shroud.

She came round to find herself lying on a dust-sheeted sofa in a room she had not seen before. She guessed it had been a sitting room or a drawing room, and judging by the shapes beneath their ghostly covers, there were other sofas and armchairs, and was that a grand piano in the window embrasure?

The dizziness had subsided, and she was edging up on to one elbow when Michael Tregower came into the room carrying a glass of what looked like water. His face was paler, too, than she remembered it, but his eyes were just as hard when they alighted on her. He came to stand over her as she flopped back weakly against the cushions, and her heart began its familiar tattoo at the flintlike coldness of his expression.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded, but it was more of an accusation than an enquiry.

‘What—what happened?’ she asked, playing for time, and grim lines bracketed his mouth.

‘I apparently frightened you so much, you fainted,’ he declared, contemptuously, offering her the glass and when she declined, disposing of it on to the mantelshelf, which was not shrouded. ‘Or was that affected, too? If so, you’re a better actress than even I gave you credit for being.’

Sara swung her legs rather shakily to the floor and sat up. His callousness almost equalled Diane’s, she thought, half deciding they deserved one another. But then, remembering the murderous glint in his eyes when he had spoken of his brother’s wife, she resolved not to give in to petty revenge. Nevertheless, Sara was appalled at the way Diane had sent her down here, knowing full well that she was supposed to avoid excitement of this kind.

‘I think we’d better eat,’ Michael Tregower said now, and Sara gazed up at him in amazement.

‘Eat?’

‘Why not? Mrs Penworthy’s left us a cold meal in the dining room. We might as well reinforce ourselves for the night ahead.’

Sara shook her head helplessly, her eyes drawn to him in spite of her revulsion to his cruelty. How old was he? she wondered. Thirty-two, thirty-three? Was he married? Or had he avoided that state after his brother’s misfortunes? Whatever, there had to have been women in his life and his remarks about the night ahead filled her with alarm. Somehow she had to resolve this unpleasant situation before anything further happened, and getting rather unsteadily to her feet she said:

‘Where’s my handbag?’

‘Your handbag?’ Michael Tregower thrust his hands into the waistline pockets of the moleskin pants he was wearing. Close-fitting as they were, they outlined every muscle of his powerful thighs, and she guessed with a feeling of disgust that in her place, Diane might not have found the prospect of his attention so unwelcome. ‘Why do you need your handbag? You’re not going anywhere.’

Sara held up her head. ‘Where is my handbag?’ she repeated, and after a moment’s grim scrutiny of her determined features he strode impatiently out of the room.

It crossed her mind to make for the front door while he was employed in finding her bag, but as her keys were in its pocket, it seemed a futile exercise. Instead she walked rather stiffly across to the hall door and looked out.

Already he was emerging from the library again, carrying her handbag, through which he was rummaging with scant regard for her possessions.

‘How—how dare you?’ she gulped, as he finished his search and thrust the bag into her hands, but he merely grimaced at her.

‘I wouldn’t put it past you to carry a gun, sister dear,’ he retorted mockingly, and she gazed openmouthed at his effrontery. A suddenly strange expression crossed his face as he looked down at her, and almost unwillingly he reached out a hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek. She flinched away from his touch, but he was not offended, and his lips twisted with sardonic amusement. ‘I must admit,’ he drawled, ‘Adam had better taste than I gave him credit for. No wonder he found your defection so hard to take. In his position, I might even have done the same.’

‘I doubt it.’ Sara found she was trembling with indignation, but she couldn’t help it. She had never met a man who had treated her in this way, who held her femininity in such low regard. Owing to her health, and her mother’s obsessive care of her, her encounters with the opposite sex had been kept to a minimum until Tony appeared on the scene. Her mother’s death a year ago had left her in a state of limbo, and unaware of her weakness, Tony had come closer to her than any man had ever been allowed to do. That was until Diane chose to intervene, and now Sara’s withdrawal was as much an instinctive thing as an emotional one.

Michael Tregower was regarding her with guarded eyes. ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed dryly. ‘No woman is worth that kind of sacrifice. Not even you, Diane.’

Clenching her teeth, Sara scrabbled round in her handbag and brought out her driving licence. ‘There,’ she said, thrusting it at him. ‘My name is Sara Fortune. That’s my licence.’

He took the plastic folder without protest, and flicked it open. ‘Sara Fortune,’ he read, with dark eyebrows slightly upraised. ‘Flat 3, Dolphin Court, West Kensington. Hmm, very interesting. Who is Sara Fortune, by the way? Your secretary? Wilmer’s?’

‘Lance Wilmer is my father’s cousin,’ declared Sara angrily. ‘I tell you, I’m Sara Fortune. Why won’t you believe me?’

Michael Tregower’s brows descended. ‘Did you honestly think producing a driving licence would convince me? My dear Diane, it occurs to me that if you’d had an accident around here, it might have been hard to explain exactly what you were doing in the area. People in your position often travel incognito, don’t they? So—you’ve adopted Miss Fortune’s identity, whoever she may be.’

Sara sighed. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane? Haven’t you ever met her? I’m nothing like her.’

‘Slim, blonde, green eyes; looks younger than her years …’ he shrugged. ‘You would seem to fit the description very well. Besides,’ his mouth tightened ominously, ‘Adam had a picture of you in his wallet. You’re Diane Tregower all right. I’d know that innocent face anywhere!’

Sara shook her head, thinking desperately. ‘But don’t you see?’ she said at last. ‘The picture Ad—your brother kept in his wallet was probably taken ten years ago. Diane’s changed. She’s older now. Where is the picture? Let me see it.’

‘I don’t have it,’ he declared coldly. ‘Adam would never let it out of his hands. After he was dead, it was buried with him.’

‘Oh.’ Sara felt as if the bottom was dropping out of her world. Then another idea came to her. ‘Ring,’ she said. ‘Telephone London. I have Diane’s number. Speak to her. See for yourself that she’s really there, not here. She—she’s appearing in a play at the moment.’ She glanced nervously at her wrist watch. ‘Ring the theatre. Surely that will convince you.’

He stared at her beneath lowering lids. ‘How do I know you don’t have someone waiting at the theatre, depending on this call?’

‘How could I?’ Sara was desperate. ‘How could I know what might happen?’

He scowled. ‘My note—the note you thought came from Adam was explicit enough. Come alone, it said. Tell no one where you’re going.’

Sara gulped. ‘Well—well, surely then, I wouldn’t—have told anyone …’

He was obviously hesitating, and she pressed a finger on her palpitating pulse. No excitement! she thought wryly. Dear God, she had had more excitement in the last half hour than she had had in her whole life before. She ought to be dismayed. But she wasn’t. She had never felt the adrenalin flooding along her veins as it was doing at the moment, and the exhilaration that accompanied it was intoxicating.

‘All right,’ he said at last, when she was beginning to give up hope of him ever agreeing to make the call. ‘What’s the number of the theatre? I’ll speak to the manager.’

Sara scribbled the number on a slip of paper and handed it him. She supposed, belatedly, that she ought to have pretended ignorance, or at least hesitated before writing down the figures. But it was too late now. He was already crossing the hall to pick up the green telephone that rested on the oak chest.

There was a moment’s delay while he contacted the operator at Torleven, and then Sara heard the reassuring burr of the bell ringing in the manager’s office. It seemed to ring for ages before it was answered, but when the receiver was lifted, she found herself holding her breath as Michael Tregower made his enquiry.

‘Not there?’ he said, a moment later, swinging round to stare grimly at Sara. ‘What? Taken ill? I’m sorry. Do you know when she’ll be back? Oh—I—er—I’m just a friend. A friend of a friend, as you might say. No. Sorry. Yes, of course. Goodbye.’

As the receiver was replaced, Sara felt her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth. She didn’t have to be told that Diane wasn’t in the building. Even without Michael Tregower’s words, his expression said it all.

‘There’s panic on, apparently,’ he declared without emotion. ‘Your understudy’s had to take over at the last moment, and people are demanding their money back. An unexpected illness, so your agent tells them. They don’t know when you’ll be able to return.’

Sara moved her head in a helpless, negative gesture. ‘Diane—Diane must have planned this,’ she said incredulously. ‘She must have known I might try to get in touch with her …’

‘Oh, come on.’ He sounded really impatient now. ‘Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? When you passed out just now I should have realised that no stranger was likely to react so positively. You were scared, Diane, admit it! Scared out of your tiny mind! But not half as scared as you ought to be now, knowing I know that you’ve burned your bridges behind you.’

Sara felt unutterably weary suddenly. It had all been too much for her. Much too much. The retort that had she known Diane would not be there, she would hardly have suggested ringing the theatre, trembled on her lips, but was never spoken. Michael Tregower would doubtless decide she had only been playing for time, for whatever defence she raised, he tore it down ruthlessly.

‘I think we should eat, don’t you?’ he declared coldly, and with a helpless movement of her shoulders, she implied consent.

The dining room was at the back of the house, and here the blinds had been drawn to allow the last light of the evening to penetrate its shadowy corners. A lamp on a long sideboard gave illumination, and the table was laid with a white damask cloth and silver cutlery. There was a savoury quiche, a dish of cold meats, a bowl of tossed salad, and some crusty rolls. To follow there was a strawberry gateau, and Sara wished she felt more able to do justice to it. But her mind buzzed with the possibilities of what Michael Tregower intended to do with her—with Diane—and it was difficult to concentrate on anything with that nagging anxiety bringing a hectic flush to her cheeks.

‘Relax,’ he remarked unsympathetically, leaving her to seat herself on one of the tapestry-covered chairs. ‘For a woman of your age and apparent experience, you’re ridiculously sensitive. Or is that an act, too? How does one tell?’

Sara subsided on to the chair at the opposite end of the table from the one he had taken, and made no attempt to answer him. But her silence was evidently no more acceptable than her diffidence, for he stifled a curse as he rose again and came to take the seat at right angles to her.

‘Surely this is cosier,’ he remarked with cold mockery, and her hands tightened automatically in her lap.

She supposed she ought to tell him that as well as being someone else, she was also suffering from a rare heart disease that, while allowing her to lead a normal life in ordinary circumstances could, given sufficient stimulation, cause valvular failure and, ultimately, death. It was a condition she had lived with all her life, or at least as long as she could remember. Rheumatic fever when she was scarcely out of infancy had affected her heart, narrowing the valves and preventing them from closing properly. Regular care and the use of drugs had minimised the effects of the disease, but it was always there, and in cases of extreme stress her heart could cease to function entirely. Sara seldom talked about it. Indeed, if anything, she was ashamed of the weakness that her mother had guarded so vigilantly. After her mother’s death, she had felt a sense of freedom from the knowledge, but Tony’s defection and her subsequent withdrawal had reminded her of her vulnerability.

Now this man, Michael Tregower, was tormenting her, goading her, threatening her with she knew not what. And he had no idea of the risks he was running …

‘Eat, can’t you?’ he said now, helping himself to a generous slice of the savoury flan, and ladling salad on to his plate. ‘The food’s good—I can vouch for it. I’ve been living here for almost a week now, and Mrs Penworthy has done me proud.’

‘Mrs Penworthy!’

Sara looked up with expectant eyes, and his lips thinned. ‘Oh, no,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the housekeeper will recognise you! Sorry. She’s only been looking after the place since Adam went to live in Praia do Lobo. I doubt if you ever met her.’

Sara hunched her shoulders. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane?’ she protested. ‘Why, she—she’s famous!’

‘I’m afraid I’ve been living in South America for the past fifteen years.’ Did that account for his swarthy complexion? ‘Like I told you, I was always the black sheep of the family. Old Adam, our father that is, never wanted to see me around. I reminded him too strongly of his ill-spent youth.’

Sara sighed. ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Why did—why did Adam go to live in—where was it you said.’

‘Praia do Lobo. Don’t pretend you don’t know. He inherited the villa there.’

‘Inherited? From whom?’

His eyes narrowed, ‘All right, I’ll play the game, if you like. From Tio Jorge, of course—our father’s uncle. You knew Adam’s grandmother was Portuguese, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ But that explained the dark blood. ‘I tell you, I only know what Diane told me.’

‘Who better?’ He shrugged sardonically. ‘Well—our grandmother came from Coimbra. It’s quite a famous town in Portugal.’

‘I know of Coimbra,’ retorted Sara, somewhat tartly. ‘My education has not been neglected.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His lips curled. ‘So Jorge de los Santos was our grandmother’s brother. His wife, Isabella, is matriarch now.’

‘I understand,’ Sara nodded.

‘As it happens, I’ve been more involved with that side of the family than Adam ever was.’ His eyes narrowed broodingly as he stared into the gathering dust. ‘You may know that Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. I work there, for the Los Santos mining corporation.’

‘Mining?’ Sara was interested in spite of herself. ‘What kind of mining?’

‘Diamonds—industrial diamonds,’ he added evenly. ‘The Tregowers have always been involved in mining of one kind or another. You’ll know about the tin mines, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Yes. Well, I was sent to Portugal when I was eighteen, to the university of Coimbra. For some reason my father decided that his mistakes were best kept out of the country. In any event, he did me a favour. Old Isabella likes me. She says I remind her of her late husband. It was she who sent me to Brazil.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? I wonder?’ His lips twisted. ‘And Adam never mentioned me to you?’

‘I tell you—’

‘Yes, I know.’ He silenced her with a look. ‘So—tell me about—Sara Fortune. What does she do? Does she have a job? Or is she an actress, too?’

‘Acting is working,’ Sara countered, almost without thinking, and then looked down at her hands in annoyance. ‘I—I work for a publishing house—the Lincoln Press. I—er—I’m an editor.’

‘Really?’ He forked a slice of ham on to his plate. ‘An editor. How interesting!’

‘It is interesting,’ exclaimed Sara hotly. ‘I love my work.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he retorted thinly, and she subsided again. ‘I suggest you have some food,’ he added, as she continued to stare mutinously down at her hands. ‘There’s no point in starving yourself.’

Sara looked up. ‘Why did you invite Diane down here? How did you hope to get her to agree to come?’

Michael Tregower looked at her for a long moment, then he cut a slice of the savoury flan and set it on her plate. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Before I decide to starve you instead.’

Sara’s clenched fists rested on the table beside her plate. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Don’t I have a right to know?’

He continued eating for several more minutes, then he looked at her again. ‘You thought Adam had sent that message, remember? You didn’t even care that he had died!’

‘I didn’t know!’

Sara’s defensive words were instinctive, but damning as well. Michael Tregower’s lips curved contemptuously.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘Play the game long enough and the victim always betrays himself.’

‘Oh, you won’t listen to me, will you?’

‘No.’

‘I—I mean me! Sara Fortune. I didn’t know Adam was dead.’

‘As Sara Fortune, why should you?’

‘Why, because Diane is a friend. Because she would have told me if she knew.’

‘And of course, you didn’t know that Adam had been ill, seriously ill, so ill, in fact, that he wrote to you, begging you to come and see him!’

‘No!’ Sara could hardly believe it. Diane had said nothing about Adam’s writing to her. On the contrary, she had led Sara to believe that he was living quite happily in Portugal, enjoying the change of scene, the warmer weather. ‘When—when was this?’

‘At Christmas,’ replied Michael Tregower bleakly. ‘Exactly three months before he died—before he took his own life!’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ He was implacable, and the increasing gravity of their discussion was bringing that frightening intensity back to his features. ‘He had cancer, you know. It killed his mother, and it would have killed him—eventually.’

‘Then—’

‘Stop there!’ he commanded harshly. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. But to the people who cared about him, his death was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that need never have happened. If you’d answered his appeal, gone to see him, shown him you were not completely heartless …’

Sara had no answer to that but the obvious one. She was not Diane, therefore she had not known. If she had known, if Diane had confided in her, she would have urged her to go and see the man without whom she might never have been given the opportunity to meet Lance Wilmer.

Picking up her fork, she toyed with the food on her plate, her appetite dwindling completely. Then, lifting her eyes, she said: ‘But—if—if Diane wouldn’t come to—to see Adam in Portugal, how—how could you persuade her to come here?’

‘You came,’ he retorted with cold mockery, and her lids hid her anxiety.

There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and now Michael Tregower reached for this, filling both their glasses with a complete disregard for Sara’s protest.

‘Drink it,’ he said ominously. ‘You may need it.’

Sara shook her head. ‘What—what do you intend to do with me?’ She hesitated. ‘I assume you had some idea in mind.’

‘Oh, yes.’ His humour was sardonic. ‘Although I must admit you disappoint me in some ways.’

‘I—disappoint you?’

‘That’s right.’ Darkness had fallen completely now, and his features were menacing in the lamplight. ‘The woman Adam described to me was—different somehow.’

Sara held her breath. ‘How different?’

He frowned. ‘You’re—softer. I expected a hardbitten businesswoman, but instead you appear—gentle, almost fragile. Is it an act? Was that what my brother saw in you? That gentleness, that fragility? The velvet glove that hides the iron fist?’

Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘If I’m so different, why won’t you believe that I’m not Diane?’

‘Oh …’ he lay back in his chair, raising his glass to his lips, ‘I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before. But I don’t think I am. I think you’re a very—astute woman, a very clever woman. But you won’t fool me. Not like you fooled Adam.’

‘So …’ Sara’s voice quivered a little, ‘we return to the point. What do you intend to do with me?’

‘Well …’ He put down his glass and leaned forward, resting his arms along the table at either side of his plate. ‘I’ll be honest. My initial intentions bordered on the homicidal. And when I got hold of you, I—well, let’s say, your timing was brilliant.’

‘My—timing?’

‘The faint. When you lost consciousness.’ His tongue brushed his lower lip. ‘Oh, yes, that was worthy of the true professional!’

Sara knew there was no point in denying that she had enforced her state of oblivion. To do so would entail explanations she was curiously loath to give. It was crazy, but there was something forbidden and exciting about what she was doing, and while she knew her mother—God rest her soul—would have been horrified by her recklessness, for the first time in her sheltered existence, she felt really alive! Not even Tony had been able to achieve that.

‘You—you’re saying you wanted to kill me?’ she breathed, the words scarcely audible, and thick lashes veiled his eyes.

‘Is that so surprising?’ he demanded. ‘Because of you, my brother lived a life of hell!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry!’ He threw the words back at her. ‘Do you think that does any good? Saying you’re sorry? My God, you sit there looking the picture of innocence, with one man’s death on your conscience, and the prospect of another’s pending.’

Her arched brows drew together. ‘I—don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you think I brought you down here? Not for a cosy get-together, believe me! I intended you should pay—one way or the other—for what you did to my brother.’

‘One way—or the other?’ she echoed.

‘Yes.’ He thrust himself back so that his chair tipped on to two legs. ‘Death—or convicted as the murderess you are. I can’t decide which affords the most satisfaction.’

Sara gasped. ‘You’re mad!’ The sense of excitement was souring. ‘I tell you, I’m not Diane.’

Michael Tregower shrugged, dropping back on to the four legs of the chair with an unnerving thud. ‘No—well, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Plenty of time?’ Sara stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean exactly what I say. We’re not going anywhere. Not either of us.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.