by Anne Mather
Harlequin 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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Smokescreen
Anne Mather
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
‘THE Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away… ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’
The words of the funeral service drifted over Olivia’s head. She was hardly aware of them. She was hardly aware of the sunny February day, an inappropriate contrast to the sombreness of the occasion, or of the covertly interested glances she attracted, as the young, bereaved widow. She appeared unconcerned that her sallow skin and ebony black hair were a startling contrast in this essentially English setting, or that the sable coat she wore with such indifference accentuated her almost alien appearance. She seemed remote from what was happening around her, careless that her manner might be misconstrued; the whispered speculations of her fellow mourners reaching her ears with no more consequence than the sound of the leaves shifting about her feet.
There were a great number of mourners gathered about the graveside, associates and business colleagues of Henry Gantry, his fellow directors in the huge chemical corporation he had founded, employees; anyone who thought that by being there they might prove themselves in some way. Henry Gantry had been a powerful man, in death he still commanded great respect, and although not one of them would admit to being afraid of him, they all had been, at one time or another.
Olivia was the exception. She had not been afraid of him. She had hated him before she even knew him, and latterly she had come to despise him, and herself. But fear, that was for people whose lives Henry Gantry had been able to control, and there had been many, she had to admit. Yet, strangely enough, living in his house, she had come close to respecting him, even if she could never forgive him for what he had done. She had even discovered in herself a mild contempt for people whose weaknesses Henry had exploited. It was a feeling she had fought to overcome, and now it was all over. Or perhaps it was only beginning…
The funeral service had ended. The heavy, lead-lined coffin had been lowered into the ground, and Francis Kennedy, who had been Henry Gantry’s personal assistant, touched her sleeve.
‘Let me drive you back to the house, Mrs Gantry,’ he offered, with the bland personable charm that seemed to have ensured his success with her sex. ‘You must be cold and tired. What you need is a stiff brandy—to take the strain.’
Olivia turned her long green eyes in his direction, their cool transparency startling in those dark features. ‘Thank you,’ she said, civilly enough, although experience had taught her to distrust too much subservience. ‘I think I can stand it, Francis. I shall ride back with Forsyth, as usual. As you can see, he’s waiting for me. But it was a nice gesture.’
Francis Kennedy inclined his head. ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Gantry. I’ll see you later, at the house.’
Olivia acknowledged his submission and then, with a faint smile for the priest who had conducted the ceremony, she turned in the direction of the cars. Poor Father Donovan, she thought cynically, as the heels of her long boots sank into the soggy turf that flanked the graves. Like everyone else, he had succumbed to the corrosive power of wealth and possession, and although Henry Gantry had never stepped inside a church in his life, his funeral Mass had been just as magnificent as that conveyed to the most ardent believer. But perhaps that was only right, she reflected, forcing her callousness aside. What was it she had read: that God rejoiced more over the repentance of one non-believer than over so many who had had faith? She shook her head. It was something like that. The trouble was, Henry Gantry had repented nothing. He had lived his life the way he chose to live it, and at the end he had had only gratification for his own shrewd reasoning.
The sun was hidden by a cloud suddenly, and the bright afternoon with its promise of spring became at once dull and overcast. Although it was barely three o’clock, it would be dark soon, and Olivia quickened her step to where the chauffeur, Forsyth, was standing beside the Rolls.
A flutter of condolences surrounded her as Forsyth opened the door of the Rolls for Olivia to ascend. Malcolm Birk, Henry’s managing director, and his wife, pressed forward to offer their regrets, Barry Freeman, the company secretary, Sean Barrett, another director; Mortimer Lloyd, Lane Grimond, Paul Sloane, James Farrell; Olivia acknowledged all their commiserations with unsmiling politeness, aware as she did so that each one of them was concerned for his own ends and no one else. Henry had been right about one thing, she thought, sinking back against the soft leather upholstery; they were like a pack of wolves, intent on the kill. And if her position had not been so secure, she would have been the first casualty.
Expelling her breath on a sigh, she became aware of Forsyth’s eyes watching her through the rear-view mirror. But his eyes showed concern, not avarice, and she allowed a slight smile to touch her lips in answer to his unspoken question.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, drawing off the black suede gloves which had hidden her narrow fingers. Examining the square-cut sapphire that nudged the broad gold wedding band on her left hand, she shook her head half disbelievingly. ‘I’ll be all right, Forsyth,’ she said again. ‘You’ll see.’
There were reporters at the gates of the cemetery, a gaggle of them, with notebooks and cam
eras, leaning dangerously close to the car as it passed to take yet another picture of the grieving widow. For it was quite a news story: a young woman, of only twenty-two years of age, whose marriage to a man more than forty years her senior had made her a celebrity; a bride of only six months, widowed by her elderly bridegroom, and suddenly one of the wealthiest women in the world.
Olivia could not hide from the flashing light bulbs, so she did not try. She sat there, cool and remote, her intense composure yet another source of speculation for the gossip-hungry readers of the gutter press. She knew everyone thought she had married Henry for his money, and she supposed she had, in a way. But not in the way they meant; not even in the way his business associates believed; and certainly not for the reasons Henry himself had put forward.
It was only a fifteen-minute drive from St Saviour’s cemetery to the house she had shared with Henry for the past six months. They had not had a honeymoon; it would have been an unbearable irony. And in any case, Henry had already been a sick man. He had known the few months he had left to him, and while Olivia might despise his memory, she could not help but admire the strength of will which had kept this knowledge in the back of his mind. Only his closest associates, like Francis Kennedy, had been aware that ill health had impaired his ability to function as he would have liked. But who would have believed it, after all? He had been a fighter to the last. And only the gauntness of his features in these last few weeks had betrayed the hours of pain he had suffered in silence. He had always looked so strong; a fine figure of a man, with his broad shoulders and tall physique. Indeed, when the pictures of their wedding appeared in the papers, not everyone had envied him his good fortune. Some had envied Olivia too, and not just because Henry Gantry was reputed to be the fifteenth most wealthy man in the world.
The Rolls slowed as they turned into Virginia Drive, and the tall steel gates of the house confronted them. Virginia Drive wasn’t really a road at all, it was a cul-de-sac, with only the high walls of Henry Gantry’s property on either side. The gates, which were set squarely at the end, guarded the entrance to the private estate, and were patrolled day and night by armed guards with dogs. As the Rolls approached, it was identified, and the heavy steel gates swung back with mechanised smoothness. Olivia received a polite salute from the guard on duty as she passed, and although in the beginning she had been embarrassed by this mark of respect, now she raised her hand automatically, without even giving it much thought.
A gravelled sweep curved between tall hydrangeas and rhododendron bushes, before emerging into the wide forecourt before the house. The house itself was casually elegant, a neo-Georgian edifice, with a pillared portico and panelled doors below a fluted fanlight. A series of box hedges gave definition to the terrace, and beyond them a manicured expanse of lawn, inset with a lily pool and flower beds, provided a formal display. Everywhere was immaculate, as immaculate as an army of gardeners could make it, and because Henry Gantry had believed in paying for service, he had never suffered from any shortage of staff.
‘Will you be wanting the car again today, Mrs Gantry?’
Forsyth’s polite enquiry drew Olivia’s attention, and she looked at him almost absently. She had been absorbed with her thoughts, absorbed with the enormity of the task that confronted her, and Forsyth’s simple question required some concentration.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I don’t think so, thank you, Forsyth. You can take the rest of the day off.’
‘Why, thank you, Mrs Gantry.’ Forsyth was pleasantly surprised. He walked round the car and opened the door for her as she moved to alight. ‘Take it easy, hmm?’ he added, as she accepted his hand, and the sympathy he had shown her in the car was renewed in that warm grasp.
‘Thank you.’ Only briefly, her rare smile showed, and then she released herself and walked towards the house as other cars pulled up behind them.
The hall of the house was high-ceilinged and wide, carpeted in blue and gold, and supporting a huge chandelier. There were other lights, set around the walls, whose discreet positioning highlighted some of the many original paintings Henry Gantry had collected during his business career; and as they were presently lit to allay the gloom of the lowering skies, the hall had a warmth and an intimacy it was sometimes lacking.
The house itself was built on two levels. Where Olivia stood to allow the butler, Hamish Murdoch, to help her to remove her coat was the upper level, and to either side of her, the drawing rooms and the library opened on to this level. The stairs, that gave access to the first floor, also rose along one panelled wall, and the gallery above provided further space for Henry’s collection.
Ahead of her, Olivia could see the sweeping arch that framed the shallow steps that led down to the dining room and sun lounge, and her late husband’s study. This part of the house faced south, and a series of glass doors in each of the rooms gave access to a pool patio, which Henry had used frequently when the weather was good enough. Below the patio, the ground fell away gradually to the river, the Thames at this point being deep enough and wide enough to create a natural barrier to intruders.
A cold buffet had been laid in one of the drawing rooms, at Olivia’s suggestion. She had not wanted a formal gathering in the dining room, and besides, this way no one would notice how little she ate. Francis Kennedy, typically, was the first to arrive, and he surreptitiously took over, organising drinks for those who wanted them, and generally taking the pressure off Olivia. She knew she would feel grateful to him, for easing her position, if only she could stop thinking of the motives behind his conciliatory smile.
Henry’s solicitor was there; Adam Cosgrove had known Henry all his working life, and Olivia supposed it wasn’t unreasonable that he should feel some remorse. Nevertheless, she thought he looked at her with more than a degree of calculation, and she wondered if he was speculating how best to present his suit. It was a little distracting to consider how many people had depended on Henry for their livelihood, and who now depended on her! How would they feel when they learned what she intended to do? She was realistic enough to know that they would not admire her for it.
‘Olivia!’
A woman’s faintly sardonic voice spoke behind her, and she turned to confront Drusilla Stone. The other woman looked cool and elegant, in a dark fur coat over plain grey flannel, her immaculately tinted hair as fair as Olivia’s was dark. She certainly didn’t look her age, Olivia reflected bitterly, and no doubt of all Henry’s retainers, Drusilla would benefit most; but perhaps that was how it should be; she had been his mistress for years, and had remained so up until his marriage.
‘Hello, Drusilla,’ Olivia responded now, without expression. ‘So good of you to come. I knew you would.’
Drusilla’s lips twisted. ‘It was the least I could do, don’t you think? For Henry’s memory? Of all the hangers-on here, including yourself, I have the most right to expect an acknowledgement.’
Olivia did not take offence. She knew Drusilla had never forgiven Henry for marrying someone else, particularly someone so much younger than herself.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be disappointed, Drusilla,’ she remarked now, offering her a canapé from the tray held by a passing waitress. And when the older woman refused: ‘Surely we can overlook our differences now. We have so much in common.
‘I have nothing in common with a money-grubbing little gold-digger like you!’ Drusilla hissed venomously. ‘And if Henry hadn’t been so all-fired keen to deprive that selfish son of his from getting his hands on his money, he’d never have been taken in by an over-sexed little—’
‘That’s enough, don’t you think?’ Francis Kennedy’s smooth interruption successfully circumvented Drusilla’s attack. ‘Dear Drusilla! You never could distinguish between good taste and bad, could you? And don’t you think H.R. knew that? Or else you’d be standing where Olivia’s standing now.’
Drusilla’s carefully painted face contorted. ‘Keep out of this, Kennedy! Don’t think I can’t see your game! Wi
th Henry dead, you’ve got to revise your strategy, haven’t you? And paying court to his rich widow must have its attractions.’
Kennedy’s expression hardly changed, but his eyes narrowed angrily and Olivia sighed as she put a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Francis,’ she said, ‘it’s kind of you to defend me, but honestly, I can look after myself.’
‘Yes, she can look after herself, Francis!’ Drusilla mocked maliciously. ‘You’d better believe it. She’s Mrs Gantry, and you and I aren’t even poor relations!’
‘Shut up, Drusilla—’
‘Oh, please! Can’t we leave it?’ Olivia’s fingers tightened round the stem on her glass. ‘This is my husband’s funeral, Francis. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that. Perhaps you’d make sure everyone has what they need. You know them all so much better than I do.
‘Certainly, Mrs Gantry.’
Francis resumed his role smoothly, and ignoring Drusilla’s malevolent gaze, he quickly circulated among the guests. Olivia, for her part, was relieved when several other members of the gathering joined them, and Drusilla eventually drifted away, no doubt to brood over past injustices.
Olivia managed to handle the conversation adroitly. Even in so short a time she had learned to dissemble, and it was easier to accept these people at their face value than try to evaluate their individual intentions. She knew they were wary of her. She knew they were suspicious of her plans now that Henry was dead. It could not be easy, having a stranger thrust so unexpectedly into their midst, a stranger moreover who had been given the power to direct the future course of their lives.
‘Well, Olivia—’ It was Adam Cosgrove at her side, his lined face grave and thoughtful. ‘I suggest we get the formalities over with, don’t you? I realise you may not be feeling up to it right now, but these matters have to be attended to, I’m afraid. If you’d like to join me in the library, I think we can suitably dispose of H.R.’s last wishes.’