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.
Fallen Angel
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
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
JASON did not like London. He had not liked it when he was a student, and he liked it even less now. The crowded thoroughfares, all confusingly one way, the noise of the traffic, the sickly smell of diesel; all these things combined to make him yearn for the open spaces of his estancia; though it must be added that anyone observing his tall, immaculately-suited figure and darkly cynical features would never have suspected he felt more at home on the pampa.
It was strange, he reflected, when he had been born and brought up in England, albeit in the care of the local council, that he should feel more at ease in the South American republic where he had his home. The well-trammelled spaces of his fatherland held no interest for him, and as soon as he had obtained the engineering degree he had worked for, he left for more adventurous climes. But building bridges in Australia or pipelines in the Middle East soon began to pall, however, and because the money was good he joined a mercenary force fighting in Central Africa. But even money would not compensate for the lack of self-respect he felt facing a barefoot enemy, equipped with only the meanest kind of ammunition, with weaponry of the most sophisticated kind. He left for America with funds to pay the deposit on some land of his own, and succeeded only in blowing it all in on a speculative land deal that left him broke and jobless.
And that was how he met Charles Durham…
Jason moved to the window of his hotel suite now and surveyed the busy street several floors below without enthusiasm. Was it really fifteen years since that bar-room brawl? He could hardly credit it. And yet so much had happened in the years since, he should not find it so difficult to believe.
Durham was an archaeologist, taking a break from a dig he was working on in Mexico. He was holidaying in New Orleans at the time, and his initial encounter with Jason took place in the street outside one of the many bars and taverns. He, Jason, had been rolling drunk at the time, he remembered wryly, and was losing the fight he was having with the burly bartender when Durham recognised a fellow Englishman and intervened. He had settled the bill, which had been the cause of the fight, and the bartender, recognising the fact that sober Jason would have little difficulty in laying him out, had been more than willing to accept the settlement. Durham had taken Jason to his lodgings, sobered him up, and eventually persuaded him to admit to his abortive foray into the real estate business. Subsequently, he had offered him a job working with him in Mexico, and although Jason had known little about archaeology, he had been willing to learn.
He worked with Durham for almost two years before they discovered the ruins of the Mayan pyramid, and beneath, untouched for hundreds of years, the burial chamber. Even now, so many years on, Jason could remember the thrill they had felt upon discovering the necklaces and rings and bracelets that decked the crumbling skeleton the chamber had contained, and the jade mask that hid the hollow eye-sockets and gaping mouth.
With his share of what was left after the government had taken their dues, Durham intended to create a research institute in England, but Jason had decided to spend some time in South America. He lived in Brazil for a year, and then twelve years ago he had bought some land in Santa Vittoria, a tiny country sandwiched between Brazil and Uruguay. Although he and Durham had intended to keep in touch, England was a long way from his home at San Gabriel, and somehow he had never found the time to write letters. He had had much to learn—about growing maize and flax, planting orchards of fruit trees, so that he could harvest his own oranges and lemons, peaches and grapes, but mostly about breeding the horses and cattle which were his real love. It was almost as if he had spent his whole life searching for that one reality, and once he found it, he held it fast. And then, six weeks ago, he got the letter…
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his train of thought, and moving lithely across the room, he lifted the receiver.
‘Tarrant,’ he supplied tersely, and then relaxed when the hotel operator said: ‘There’s a young lady here to see you, Mr Tarrant. She says you’re expecting—’
‘That’s right,’ Jason interrupted the flow. ‘You can send her right up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh—’ Jason chewed on his lower lip for a moment, ‘I’m—er—I’m also expecting someone else. A boy. When he arrives, let me know at once, will you?’
‘Yes, Mr Tarrant.’
Jason replaced the receiver on its rest thoughtfully, flexing his shoulder muscles as he contemplated the interview ahead. This wasn’t quite his line—interviewing a prospective tutor for the boy, particularly a female one, but there seemed few male tutors willing to abandon the bright lights of London for a remote ranch house in the Sierra Grande. He hoped the woman wasn’t too young, although these days appearances could be deceptive, and Estelita wouldn’t approve of him taking any female under the age of thirty-five into his home.
As he waited he crossed the room again, catching a glimpse of himself in the long Chinese mirrors that flanked the marble fireplace, an anachronism now in the centrally heated hotel. A wry smile crossed his lips at the image of the dark-suited bu
sinessman they reflected, his lean frame encased in the mohair jacket, pants and waistcoat which the tailor in Valvedra had assured him was the latest fashion. Certainly his attire gave the illusion of a man accustomed to city ways, but Jason couldn’t wait to don the mud-coloured shirts and Levis which were his usual garb back home. Instead of fine suede, he would wear leather gaucho boots, and his dark hair, so smoothly combed, would be rough beneath the wide brim of his slouch hat. His lips twisted as he wondered what Charles Durham would think if he could see him now. The older man would no doubt have been proud of his success, and he regretted the carelessness which had lengthened the distance between them all these years. Still, it was too late now to feel remorse. Instead, he would do everything in his power to give the boy the home he himself had lacked.
He surveyed the luxurious hotel suite with critical eyes. Was this the most suitable place to conduct an interview of this kind? he wondered. Ought he to have had another woman present? But who? He knew few people in London. The hotel receptionist perhaps. She had certainly shown sufficient interest in him when he arrived, but without false modesty he admitted that the kind of interest she had shown was hardly appropriate to the occasion. No, this was something he was going to have to do alone, and trust his own judgment in assessing the woman’s capabilities.
He paced a trifle restlessly across to the fireplace. The two men he had interviewed for the post had both laboured under the misapprehension that because he was a wealthy man he must needs live in Puerto Novo or Valvedra. When they learned that his estancia was over a hundred miles from the coast, they quickly lost interest in working in such remote surroundings. So why should a woman feel any differently? His eyes narrowed. Unless she was some dried-up old spinster, who saw this post as a golden opportunity to ingratiate herself with the master of the household. He grimaced. He was cynical, he admitted it. But years of hard living and fending for himself had taught him never to trust anyone’s motives at face value. Only Charles Durham had ever helped him, and now he was dead Jason was determined to do what he could for his son—but not at the cost of his own freedom. He had had one taste of so-called connubial bliss, and like the use of methadone in drug addiction, it had cured him of the craving. He liked women, he couldn’t deny it. He was like any normal healthy male in that respect. But marriage no longer figured in his plans—a circumstance that fired Estelita’s hot Latin blood.
A knock at the outer door of the suite brought him upright with a certain tightening of his flat stomach muscles. Stretching the long brown fingers at his sides, he strode purposefully across the room and swung open the door. Then he stood back aghast as a smiling girl of perhaps sixteen years of age stepped forward and, reaching up, bestowed a kiss on each of his taut brown cheeks. A little above medium height and slender, she was only slightly boyish in her fringed suede pants suit, the long curtains of silvery fair hair which fell from a centre parting easily decrying such a supposition. Silky gold-tipped lashes framed wide eyes of a smoky shade of violet, while the smiling mouth was full and generous.
‘Jason!’ she said, and her voice was low and husky. ‘Yes, it has to be. You’re exactly as Daddy described you.’
‘Daddy!’
Jason was feeling distinctly confused now, particularly when the girl passed him to enter the suite uninvited, looking about her with evident fascination.
‘Look—who are you?’ he exclaimed, but even as he asked the question he knew, and a sinking feeling invaded the lower regions of his abdomen. ‘You…can’t be…’
‘Alex Durham, yes.’ The girl turned, unconsciously graceful in all her movements. ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’
Jason’s mouth opened and closed on an ominously thin scowl. ‘Alex Durham?’ he repeated tersely, and her smile gave way to a grimace of uncertainty.
‘Alexandra, actually,’ she admitted. Then, adopting a defiant stance, she added: ‘Everyone calls me Alex.’
‘Do they?’ Realising the door was still standing open, Jason closed it, albeit reluctantly, with a definite click. ‘But you knew I thought you were a boy, didn’t you?’
‘Did you?’ She lifted her shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would make that much difference.’
Jason moved away from the door, annoyed to find that it was he who was disconcerted here. The correspondence he had had with Durham’s solicitors had not been explicit. Obviously, in the circumstances, they had assumed that he would know the age and sex of the child. Child? His lips tightened. Even after so short an acquaintance, Jason could see that Alexandra Durham was not a child. How old was she? Charles had never mentioned a wife in all the time he had known him, and consequently Jason had assumed he had married after returning to England. That would make the boy—girl!—twelve at most, whereas this girl was obviously fifteen or sixteen at least. A shorter guardianship than he had expected perhaps, but what a complication!
‘Do you live here?’ the girl was asking now, and Jason forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘No, of course not,’ he retorted, rather snappishly. ‘You know my home is in Santa Vittoria.’
‘I meant while you were in England,’ she explained politely, her reasonableness irritating Jason even more. ‘I’ve never stayed in an hotel. The nuns didn’t approve of that sort of thing. Some of the girls used to spend holidays with their parents, you know, at places like St Moritz and Chamonix in the winter, or Nice or St Tropez or Cap d’Antibes in the summer, but I’ve never been to those places. Daddy was always on some dig or other—’
‘Just a minute.’ Jason halted this monologue with a curt intervention. ‘Don’t you think you ought to explain why you chose to leave me in ignorance of the fact that you’re female, and what the hell you expect me to do about it as you are?’
She frowned then, a furrow appearing on the smooth brow. ‘What I expect you to do about it?’ she repeated softly. ‘What do you mean? You’re my guardian, aren’t you? Whatever sex I happen to be.’
Jason expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. ‘I can’t believe you’re that naïve, Miss Durham. You know as well as I do that I expected a boy!’
‘So you keep telling me, but I don’t see what I can do about that,’ she retorted, half laughingly, and her amusement was the last straw as far as Jason was concerned.
‘Then I’ll tell you,’ he snapped angrily. ‘Your father was a good friend to me when I needed one, and I’ve never forgotten it. When I heard that he’d died leaving his—child—in my care, I was prepared to do everything in my power to give the boy a decent start in life—’
‘I know,’ she exclaimed, covering the space between them and laying a hand on the sleeve of his mohair jacket, but he brushed her away, continuing:
‘My correspondence with you was addressed to Master Alex Durham, and you know it. All my arrangements, all my plans, have been for a boy of perhaps twelve, thirteen years of age—’
‘Well, I can’t help that,’ she protested now, the movement of her head spilling the swathe of silky hair across the dark green suede of her jacket. ‘I didn’t ask to be willed to you. I couldn’t choose what sex I was. If I could, believe me I’d have satisfied you in every detail!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Only that my father never wanted a daughter, any more than you want me now,’ she retorted, and Jason felt a twinge of remorse for the pained anguish in her eyes. ‘I’d have been a boy all right. Then perhaps Daddy might have taken me with him on his trips to Greece and South America, instead of leaving me in the convent until I thought I should die of boredom!’
Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly how old are you?’
‘Seventeen!’
‘Seventeen?’ He stared at her disbelievingly. ‘But—but—’
‘Daddy never mentioned me?’ She shrugged, but he could tell she was fighting her emotions. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. He never wanted to get married, you know. He never should have. Then—then when my mother died when I was
born—well…’ She shrugged again. ‘He put me in the care of the nuns at Sainte Sœur.’
Jason shook his head. ‘You speak very good English. But the convent was in France, I gather.’
‘Yes. Just outside Paris, actually. My mother was French, you see. But many of the nuns at the convent were English, and my father insisted that as he spoke little French, I should be educated in his language.’
‘I see.’ Jason ran an impatient hand round the back of his neck, trying to restrain the sense of injustice that was threatening to erupt once more. How could Durham have ignored his child’s existence to the extent that never once in the two years he had known him had he mentioned the fact that he had a daughter? It was cold and callous; and totally out of keeping with the man he had thought he had known. But perhaps that was exactly why Durham had helped him, out of a sense of guilt towards this—girl, this child, who could have been little more than an infant when Durham was excavating at Los Lobos. Then: ‘You say—your father mentioned me?’
‘Yes!’ Animation entered the girl’s features again. ‘I don’t know whether he wrote you about his expeditions, but towards the end, when he was confined…’ she faltered, ‘…confined to his bed, he spoke about you a lot.’
Jason drew a deep breath and gestured towards one of the low comfortable couches that faced one another across the width of the hearth. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better sit down. We have to talk, and I guess—I guess it would be easier if we at least tried to understand one another.’
‘Of course.’ The girl’s smile reappeared, and she subsided obediently on to cushions of dark blue brocade. As she did so, the lapels of her jacket parted to reveal the dusky hollow between her breasts, and their rounded fullness pressing against the soft suede was an added indication of her burgeoning maturity. Jason hesitated a moment, and then, with some reluctance, took the couch opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his fingers curving loosely over the cushions on either side of him.