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 Woman of Passion
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
Cover Page
About the Author
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
THE man was there again. Helen could see him striding away along the shoreline, the creamy waves lapping the soles of his canvas boots. It was almost impossible to make out any distinguishing features from this distance, but he was tall and dark-haired, and the way he walked made her think he was not seeking recognition. On the contrary, if she was an imaginative female—which she’d always assured herself she wasn’t—she’d have speculated that he took his walk so early to avoid meeting anyone.
She had no idea who he was. And doubted that if she’d observed him at any other time of the day he’d have aroused any interest at all. But for the past three mornings—ever since her arrival, in fact—she had seen him walking the beach at six a.m. Always alone, and always too far away for her to identify him.
Of course, if she herself had not been suffering the effects of the time-change between London and Barbados, she probably wouldn’t have been awake at six a.m. But, as yet, her metabolism hadn’t adapted to a five-hour time-lag, and each morning she’d found herself leaning on her balcony rail, waiting for the sun to make its appearance.
And it was probably just as well that the man chose to walk along the shoreline, she reflected ruefully. Standing here, in only the thin cotton shift she wore to sleep in, she would not have liked to think herself observed. At this hour of the morning, when no one else in the villa was awake, she could enjoy the beauty of her surroundings unhindered. Once the children were awake—and Tricia—her time was no longer her own.
Yet she shouldn’t complain, she told herself severely. Without Tricia’s help, she had no idea what she’d have done. A young woman of twenty-two, with no particular skills or talents, was anathema. Would-be employers wanted written qualifications, not heartfelt assurances that she could do the job they had to offer.
Of course, until her father’s untimely death, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to earning her own living. She’d been reasonably well educated, though she’d be the first to admit she was no academic. Nevertheless, she had attended an exclusive girls’ school and an equally exclusive finishing-school in Switzerland, and she’d considered herself admirably suited to maintain her role in life.
Which had been what? She pulled a wry face now. Well, to find a man like her father, she supposed—or like the man she had thought her father to be—and get married, raise a family, and repeat the process with her own children.
She sighed. Only it wasn’t to be. She wondered if her father had given any thought to her dilemma when he’d taken his yacht out for the last time. Had he really jumped, or had he only fallen? With the sea calm and the yacht found drifting, unmanned, ten miles south of the Needles, it was hard not to think the worst.
Naturally, she had been distraught when they brought her the news. She couldn’t believe that her father, who had been an excellent yachtsman, could actually have drowned. And the fact that they’d not found his body had kept her hopes alive. Whatever the coastguards said, he wasn’t dead.
But he was. His body had been found a couple of days later, and the realisation that she was alone now had been numbing. Even at the funeral she’d half expected James Gregory to come striding into the chapel. It was strange how that had sustained her through all the interminable expressions of grief.
Afterwards, however, while the guests were making a rather unsympathetic attack on the splendid buffet the housekeeper had provided, Max Thomas, her father’s solicitor, had drawn her aside. And in a few short words he had swept the ground from under her feet. Her father, it appeared, had been destitute. For years he’d been Iiving on borrowed time, and now that time had run out.
Incredibly, considering the affluent lifestyle they had enjoyed, James Gregory had been in serious financial difficulties. The estate he’d inherited from his father—and which had supported successive generations of Gregorys—was bankrupt. In spite of the pleas of his tenants for an injection of capital, no help had been offered. And, although a couple of years ago he had had the idea of opening the house and grounds to the public, that too had proved unsuccessful without the proper investment.
Remembering all those holidays in the Caribbean, the winters spent in Gstaad, the summers in the South of France, Helen had had no doubt as to how her father had spent his money. And he’d never betrayed his anxieties to her. She’d always had everything she’d ever wanted.
Maybe if her mother had still been around things would have been different. There was no doubt that Fleur Gregory’s departure, when Helen had been barely four years old, had had a salutary effect on her father. Until then he’d seemed quite content to live in the country. But her mother had found country life boring, and she’d eventually run off with a wealthy polo-player from Florida she’d met at a party in town.
That was when James Gregory had bought the London apartment, but, from Helen’s point of view, living in London had seemed rather boring at first. She had missed her friends, and she had missed the horses, and although they continued to spend holidays at Conyers it had never been quite the same.
Of cours
e as she’d got older and started school her attitudes had changed. Her friends had been in London then. They had been young people from a similar background. And the boyfriends she’d eventually collected had all been as fun-loving as her father.
But her father had only been what she had made him, she reflected sadly, remembering how devastated she’d been to learn that her father had been borrowing money on the strength of securities he no longer owned. The estate had not one, but three mortgages hanging over it, and with the interest that was owing and death duties, there’d been precious little left.
The following months had been harrowing. Coming to terms with her father’s death would have been bad enough; coming to terms with the fact of his probable suicide had been infinitely worse.
Everything had had to be sold, even her car and the little jewellery she’d owned, and because her father’s only living relative was an elderly aunt, who’d disowned him long ago, Helen had had to deal with all the awful details herself. Max Thomas had helped, but even he had had no idea how distressing it had been. People who had once professed themselves her father’s friends had cut her dead in the street. Young men who’d phoned her constantly had suddenly been out of reach.
Not that Helen had particularly cared about her sudden loss of status. The hardest thing to bear was the absence of the one person she had really loved. She didn’t blame her father for what he’d done, but she did miss him. And she wished he had confided in her before taking that final step.
She could have contacted her mother’s sister, she supposed. Aunt Iris must have read about what had happened in the newspapers, but she hadn’t been in touch. Besides, Helen had shied away from the idea of asking for charity from the Warners. She and her father had had nothing to do with them in recent years, and it would have been hypocritical to ask for help now.
Nevertheless, things had been fairly desperate when she’d run into Tricia Sheridan in Marks & Spencer’s. In the four months since her father died she hadn’t been able to find a job, and although she had only been living in a bed-sitter, the rent had still to be paid. Office managers, store managers—all wanted more than the paltry qualifications she had to offer. The only position that had been open to her was a forecourt attendant at a petrol station, and she had been seriously thinking of taking it when Tricia came along.
Tricia, whose husband worked for the Foreign Office, had been living in Singapore for the past two years. She was older than Helen; she had been a prefect when Helen was still in middle school, but because of her prowess at sports all the younger girls had admired her.
She had singled Helen out for attention because Helen’s father had presented the school with a new gymnasium. A gymnasium he couldn’t afford, Helen reflected sadly now. But at the time she’d been so proud of his generosity.
Tricia had quickly discerned Helen’s situation. And had been quick to offer assistance. Why didn’t Helen come to work for her? she’d suggested. She needed a nanny, and she was sure Helen could cope.
It had all happened so quickly that Helen hadn’t really stopped to ask herself why—if five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Sophie were such poppets—Tricia didn’t have a nanny already. The other woman’s explanation that as they had been out of the country for some time they were out of touch with current agencies, hadn’t really held water, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d simply been so relieved to be offered a job that she’d agreed to her terms without question.
She supposed she’d had some naive idea that there were still people in the world who did do things out of the kindness of their hearts. Even after all the awful experiences she’d had, she’d actually been prepared to take Tricia’s offer at face value. She needed a job; Tricia was offering one. And the salary was considerably larger than any she’d been offered thus far.
In addition to which she would not have to pay the rent on the bed-sitter. Naturally, Tricia had declared, she must live in. Nannies always lived in, she’d said. It was one of the advantages of the job.
Helen wondered now whether she would have stuck it as long as she had if she had not given up her bedsit. In a short time she’d discovered that, far from being out of touch with the agencies, Tricia had, in fact, tried several before offering the post to her. Unfortunately, her requirements did not jell with most modern-day nannies. They were either too old, or too flighty, or they couldn’t follow orders, she’d declared, when Helen had mentioned her findings. But Helen had a theory that they simply refused to be treated as servants.
In any event, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in the three months since she’d been working for the Sheridans, Helen had discovered it wasn’t all bad. Tricia was selfish and demanding, and she did expect the younger woman to turn her hand to anything if required. But, when their mother wasn’t around to encourage them, Henry and Sophie were fun to be with, and Andrew Sheridan was really rather nice.
Not that he was around much, Helen conceded, cupping her chin on her hand and watching the man who had started her introspection disappear into the belt of palms that fringed the far end of the beach. His work took him away a lot, which might have some bearing on Tricia’s uncertain temper. That, and the fact that he never seemed to take her seriously. As easy-going as he was, Helen could quite see how frustrating it must be to try and sustain his attention.
For herself, she imagined a lot of people would consider her position a sinecure. After all, she had her own room, she was fed and watered regularly, and the salary she was earning meant she could put a considerable amount each month into her savings account. If her hours were long, and a little erratic, she had nothing else to do. And at least Tricia didn’t feel sorry for her, even if she could be a little patronising at times.
Still, she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tricia, she reminded herself firmly, lifting her face to the first silvery rays of sunlight that swept along the shoreline. The fine sand, which until then had had an opalescent sheen, now warmed to palest amber, and the ocean’s depths glinted with a fragile turquoise light. Colours that had been muted lightened, and a breeze brushed her calves beneath her muslin hem.
It was all incredibly beautiful, and the temptation was to linger, and enjoy the strengthening warmth of the sun. Helen felt as if she could watch the constant movement of the waves forever. There was a timelessness about them that soothed her nerves and renewed her sense of worth.
But she had spent quite long enough thinking about the past, she decided. Turning back into her bedroom, she viewed her tumbled bed with some remorse. It would have been so easy to crawl back into its comfort. Why was it she felt sleepy now, when an hour ago she couldn’t rest?
The room, like all the rooms in the villa Tricia had rented, was simply furnished: a bed, a couple of rattan chairs, a chest of drawers. There was a fitted wardrobe between this room and its adjoining bathroom, and louvred shutters on the windows to keep it cool. The bedrooms weren’t air-conditioned, even though Tricia had kicked up something of a fuss when she’d discovered this. However, the maid who looked after the villa had remained impassive. There was nothing she could do about it, she said. Perhaps the lady would prefer to stay at the hotel?
Tricia hadn’t preferred. It was far too convenient to have their own place with their own kitchen, where Henry and Sophie could take their meals without constant supervision. In addition to which, the place belonged to a business friend of Andrew’s. And he would not be amenable to them transferring to an hotel.
As she took her shower—tepid water, but refreshing—Helen remembered that Tricia’s husband was joining them today. He hadn’t accompanied them out to the Caribbean. Tricia had explained that there were meetings he had to attend, but Helen suspected Andrew had simply wanted to avoid such a long journey with two demanding children. As it was, she had had to spend most of the flight playing card games with Henry. Tricia and Sophie had fallen asleep, but Henry had refused to close his eyes.
Still, they were here now, and for the next four weeks sur
ely she could relax and enjoy the sun. She’d already discovered that it was easier entertaining her young charges when the beach was on their doorstep. So long as Tricia didn’t get bored, and insist on giving parties every night.
The shower left her feeling refreshed and decidedly more optimistic, and after straightening the sheets on the bed she pulled on cotton shorts, which were all she wore over her bikini. It had been Tricia’s suggestion that she dress like one of the family. Any attempt to dress formally here would have seemed foolish.
It was only a little after half-past six when Helen emerged from the villa and crossed the terrace. Her feet were bare, and she took care not to stand on any of the prostrate beetles, lying on their backs on the tiles. These flying beetles mostly appeared at night, attracted by the artificial light, and, although she knew they were harmless, Helen had still to get used to their size and speed of movement. She had a horror of finding one in her bed, and she was always glad when Maria, the maid, brought out her broom and swept them away.
Beyond the terrace, a stretch of grass and a low stone wall was all that separated the grounds of the villa from the beach. Although she would have liked to go for a walk along the beach herself, Helen knew the children would be getting up soon and demanding her attention. It was no use expecting Maria to keep an eye on them when she arrived to prepare breakfast. Likeable though she was, she was also lazy, and looking after infants was not her job.
Perching on the wall, Helen drew one leg up to her chin and wrapped her arms around it. The sun was definitely gaining in strength, and she could feel its heat upon her bare shoulders. Although her skin seldom burned, she had taken to wearing a screening cream this holiday. The sun had a definite edge to it these days, and she had no wish to risk its dangers.
All the same, it was amazing to think that the temperature in England was barely above freezing. When they had left London three days ago, it had actually been snowing. But February here was one of the nicest months of the year. There was little of the humidity that built up later on.