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.
A Distant Sound of Thunder
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
COVER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TITLE PAGE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
COPYRIGHT
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
THE velvet dusk of evening was spreading its cloak over the island, stilling the chattering minah birds and dimming the brilliance of the exotic frangipani and flame trees. A welcome, cooling breeze sprang up as the sun sank below the tangled web of the jungle behind the villa, pushing probing fingers against Rebecca’s hot forehead as she emerged from her patient’s room and closed the door thankfully. The humidity throughout the long day had been exhausting and not even the air-conditioning could cope entirely with the damp heat. Rebecca ran a weary hand through the thick silky fairness of the curls on her brow and longed for the luxury of the shower she would soon be taking. Adele had been particularly trying today, but she was asleep now and for a few hours her time was her own.
As she passed along the terrazzo tiling of the hall she glanced automatically towards the wide windows which in daylight gave a magnificent view of the lush green grass which was all that separated the villa from the palm-fringed reaches of the beach. Beyond the stretch of silvery coral sand surged the brilliant waters of the Pacific and Rebecca never tired of marvelling at the natural beauty of her surroundings. It was worth the humidity, the persistent hum of insects, the sometimes nauseating aroma of drying copra, and even Adele’s often cruel contentiousness.
Now she made her way to her room and stripping off her uniform and underclothing she went into the adjoining bathroom. The chill of the water took her breath away as she twisted and turned beneath the shower and she gasped pleasurably. She was vigorously towelling herself dry when the doorbell chimed.
At once she stopped what she was doing and frowned. What an annoying thing to have happened! It was the servants’ night off and she was alone in the villa, apart from the sleeping Adele, of course, and she would not remain sleeping long if whoever it was who was calling persisted in ringing the bell. She sighed exasperatedly. Perhaps they would see no lights and go away. She hoped so. She couldn’t imagine who it might be. Adele had few friends and it was not a night that the doctor usually called.
The bell rang again, and Rebecca pressed her lips together in annoyance. She would have to answer the door. There was nothing else for it. Thrusting the towel aside, she reached for her housecoat, a silky garment in rather an attractive shade of apricot. Her hair was a tangled mass of curls, and she had no time to comb it now. Smoothing it with a careless hand, she left the bathroom and walked impatiently along the corridor to the front door. In daylight a mesh screen was all that covered the entrance, but tonight the doors were closed and secured and she was loath to open them to admit…who?
She slid back the bolt, turned the key and opened the door a few inches. In the faint light emanating from the hall she could see a tall man waiting outside and for a moment her heart flipped a beat.
‘Yes?’ she murmured tentatively, but to her surprise the man stepped forward, gently but firmly propelling the door back so that he could step into the hall. ‘Just a moment—’ began Rebecca indignantly, and the man inclined his head with frowning speculation.
‘Your pardon, mademoiselle,’ he exclaimed, his accent unmistakably French. ‘For the moment I mistook you for Adele’s maidservant. My apologies for startling you.’
Rebecca was trying to control the hot flush that was running up her body and engulfing her at the realisation that she was wearing only the clinging apricot gown and this man was standing, regarding her indolently with dark eyes which were nevertheless intense. He was one of the most attractive men Rebecca had ever seen, but this knowledge only added to her confusion.
‘Miss—Miss St. Cloud has retired for the night,’ she informed him uncomfortably. ‘I—I am her nurse.’
The man glanced round the wide hall with inscrutable eyes and then returned his gaze to Rebecca. ‘Ah, so. I should have realised perhaps, but my plane was delayed…’ He lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture. ‘No matter, I will not disturb her now. Will you tell her in the morning that I called?’
Rebecca swallowed hard. ‘Who—who shall I say has called, monsieur?’
The man raised his dark eyebrows for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Just tell her it was St. Clair, mademoiselle. She will know who that is.’ He studied her flushed cheeks with faint amusement. ‘And you, mademoiselle? Do you have a name?’
‘Er—Lindsay—Nurse Lindsay,’ replied Rebecca jerkily.
He regarded her intently for a moment. ‘Nurse Lindsay,’ he repeated slowly. ‘You have been with Adele long?’
‘Two—two years, monsieur,’ responded Rebecca reluctantly, wishing he would go.
He frowned again. ‘Two years. A long time, mademoiselle. I should imagine my sister-in-law is not the most understanding of patients. And working here—in Fiji—do you not find it lonely? Or have you friends?’
Rebecca objected to this intent questioning, but as she had no idea what his involvement with Adele might be she could hardly be rude to him. ‘I—I am quite happy, thank you, monsieur.’
His dark eyes narrowed with mockery. ‘So formal, mademoiselle. I am embarrassing you, I can see it. I am sorry. You must put my curiosity down to a mere male’s insensitivity. I must apologise again.’
‘That’s not necessary, monsieur.’ Rebecca shivered involuntarily.
At once he was contrite. ‘You are cold, mademoiselle. I will go and contain my curiosity until another day. Au revoir.’
Rebecca’s cheeks burned. She could have said she was far from cold. She could have said that the shiver she had experienced was stimulated by entirely different sensations. But she said nothing, and with a faint smile he stepped outside again.
Rebecca waited until he had taken several steps and then she closed the door behind him, thrusting home the bolt with trembling fingers and leaning back against the cool panels. As she pressed herself against the wood she heard the sound of a powerful engine roar to life, and a few moments later the sound died away along the private track that led to the main road. Only then did she allow herself to relax completely, but the legs on which she walked back to her bedroom were uncomfortably unsteady…
Adele St. Cloud was a woman in her late thirties who looked years older. Born with a heart complaint that had crippled her life and to some extent her mind, she had left England more than ten years ago to make her home in the warmer climate of the south Pacific, taking with her an elderly servant who had served her as both nanny and nurse. Adele’s family were wealthy cloth manufacturers of French descent, living in Somerset, but apart from accepting an allowance as her due she had never got on with them. Maybe her congenital weakness was to blame, or maybe she was just naturally averse to her sisters, in any event when her only remaining parent died she lost no time in making a new life for herself in Fiji. Unfortunately her elderly nurse died some eight years later and in consequence Adele had to advertise for a replacement. And that was how Rebecca came to apply. Looking back on it now, Rebecca wondered whether she would ever have had the courage to travel so far alone if she herself had not wanted to escape from an unhappy situation.
The morning following the visit of the stranger, Rebecca was very thoughtful as she went for her early morning swim. This was the time of day she liked best when she could cast herself into the creaming waters of the lagoon and pretend the day ahead of her would not be filled with the constant demands of a fractious, unhappy woman.
As usual the water was still warm from the heat of the previous day but refreshing at this early hour. Rebecca shed her towelling jacket and ran into the water. In a white bikini, her skin tanned an even brown, she looked young and healthy, and she knew she had a lot to be thankful for. She swam strongly out to where the water deepened to dappled green and turning on to her back floated for a while, her hair spread like seaweed around her. Her eyes surveyed the shoreline, the darkness of the palms casting patches of shade in an oasis of gold. This was her particular sanctuary, for no one ever came here. The beach belonged to the villa, and as Adele never used it Rebecca had come to regard it as her own. The only sounds were the cries of the seabirds wheeling overhead and the distant thunder of the breakers over the coral reef.
When she returned to the villa she felt completely relaxed and ready to face the day and after breakfasting in the kitchen with Rosa, the Fijian housekeeper, she collected Adele’s tray and went to wake her.
Adele was already awake when Rebecca went into her room. Lounging back against the silk-covered pillows she looked pale and languid. Her naturally fair colouring was given an artificial brittleness by the coarse brilliance of her hair which she persisted in bleaching and without make-up her skin was unhealthily white. Rebecca, seeing her like this, could not help but feel pity for her even though she knew that Adele would not appreciate such sentiments.
‘Good morning, Miss St. Cloud,’ Rebecca said now, crossing cheerfully to the bed and placing the tray across Adele’s knees. ‘Did you have a good night?’
Adele sniffed, regarding her nurse contemptuously. ‘No, I slept badly,’ she said, lifting the lid of the coffee pot and peering inside. ‘Those new tablets Dr. Manson gave me are not as good as the others. It took me hours to get to sleep and then I tossed and turned—’
‘You tossed and turned for hours?’ Rebecca frowned rather resignedly. ‘You surprise me, Miss St. Cloud. I thought you must have gone straight to sleep. After all, you didn’t hear the bell, did you?’
‘Bell? What bell? The telephone bell?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘The door bell.’
Adele’s brows drew together. ‘We had a visitor last evening?’
‘Yes. Just after you had gone to—bed.’
Adele snapped her fingers. ‘Stop baiting me, miss! If I didn’t hear the door bell it must have been because I happened to be dozing at the moment it rang. Go on! Go on! Who was the caller? Dr. Manson? Or old Blackwell?’
‘No, it wasn’t the doctor, or Mr. Blackwell,’ replied Rebecca, tempted to tease her employer for just a few moments longer. But then she capitulated, and said: ‘It was a man. His name was Monsieur St. Clair. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Piers St. Clair?’
‘He didn’t tell me his Christian name, Miss St. Cloud,’ replied Rebecca, suddenly aware of the similarity between the two surnames.
Adele sighed, shaking her head. ‘It will be Piers,’ she said, with definition. ‘I know his business takes him all over the world. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that he has business here in Suva.’ Her gaze grew speculative. ‘Why didn’t you let me know he was here?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘You know Dr. Manson’s instructions are very explicit. You must not be disturbed—’
‘Rubbish! How dare you send away a friend when he takes the trouble to come out here to see me!’
Rebecca bit her lip. ‘I didn’t exactly send him away, Miss St. Cloud. He went of his own accord. He realised it was an inconvenient hour—’
Adele moved impatiently, almost upsetting her breakfast tray in the process. ‘Did he say he would come back?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca nodded. ‘At least—I assumed—’ She halted abruptly, remembering certain parts of that encounter. ‘I’m—I’m sure he will come back.’
Adele’s face was contorted with anger. ‘Stupid girl! Can’t you do anything right? Haven’t you the sense to realise when a visitor might be admitted and when he might not? Surely it crossed your limited intelligence that Piers St. Clair was no ordinary visitor!’
Rebecca suffered Adele’s rage in silence. Apart from the fact that to argue with her would stimulate her still further, she knew that to do so was useless. It was far better to allow her employer to rid herself of the pent-up emotions which seemed to develop so quickly these days, and afterwards go on as though nothing had happened.
Adele finally lay back on her pillows, spent, and Rebecca came forward and poured her a cup of coffee without saying a word. Adele raised the cup to her lips and after swallowing several mouthsful, she said in quite a different tone: ‘What did you think of him anyway, Rebecca?’
Rebecca straightened, and sighed. She had half-hoped the subject of Piers St. Clair might be put aside for the time being. But knowing Adele she guessed she intended to make the most of the incident.
‘He—he seemed very nice,’ she responded rather inadequately. ‘Would you like me to butter you a roll? Would you like some of this mandarin jelly?’
Adele’s eyes flickered upward, and she studied her nurse’s face rather mockingly. ‘He’s a very rich man, Rebecca. He owns several construction companies in France and Spain.’
‘Indeed!’ Rebecca smiled with what she hoped was a politely interested manner. ‘Are you going to get up this morning? Shall I run your bath?’
Adele uttered an exclamation. ‘For heaven’s sake, Rebecca, stop behaving like an automaton! I asked you what you think of St. Clair. Surely you have some opinion!’
‘I don’t know him well enough to form any opinion, Miss St. Cloud.’ Rebecca folded her hands with resignatio
n.
‘Oh, come now, Rebecca. Surely he has not changed so much over the years. He always was a handsome devil!’
‘The relative attractiveness of your visitors is nothing to do with me, Miss St. Cloud,’ answered Rebecca, rather shortly. ‘Is there anything else you want at the moment, Miss St. Cloud—’
Adele put down her coffee cup with a clatter. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me, miss! I just thought we might have a friendly chat about a man whom I once knew rather well…’ Her voice trailed away and there was a rather absent look on her face now. Then she seemed to realise she was being a little too confiding, for she thrust the tray aside, and said: ‘Of course I’m getting up this morning. I must look my best. St. Clair will call again. I’m sure of it!’
Later in the morning, Rebecca was wheeling Adele about the spacious garden of the villa when they heard the sound of a car’s engine. Adele looked up at her nurse, and her eyes brightened considerably. ‘That is St. Clair,’ she said. ‘Come! Wheel me round to the drive. Quickly!’
Straightening her shoulders, Rebecca complied, glancing down at her uniform to make sure it was smooth and uncreased. She wore a simple navy blue uniform dress, omitting the white cap and apron on Adele’s instructions. Her employer did not like to be continually reminded that she was an invalid.
A dark blue convertible stood on the drive, and even as they approached a man slid out from behind the driving wheel and looked swiftly up at the windows of the villa. Then, glancing round, he saw them, and began to walk towards them. In close-fitting beige slacks and a dark brown knitted shirt, open at the throat to reveal the brown column of his throat, Piers St. Clair was every bit as arrogantly attractive as Rebecca remembered, and she was annoyed to feel her pulse quicken. He was, after all, not the first attractive man she had known.
Adele’s manner became animated as they neared him, and holding out both hands she exclaimed: ‘Piers! Piers St. Clair! What in heaven’s name brings you to Fiji?’