скачать книгу бесплатно
An All-Consuming Passion
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. She won’t play by the rules…and he won’t play her game! Morgan Kane arrives on Pulpit Island in the Caribbean with strict instructions: collect his boss's daughter and bring her back to London. But Holly Forsyth has no intention of leaving her job at the mission school - especially not escorted by Morgan! Holly plans to make Morgan forget his responsibility – but he soon proves a stronger rival than she'd expected… as the heat between them intensifies, Holly soon realises she’s got more than she bargained for!
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 (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
An All-Consuming Passion
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue5dc7034-20a4-5468-9107-ca902913bfbd)
About the Author (#u657dc409-104c-5e04-a7f4-6071381d09c3)
Title Page (#u49411cb4-a590-5a9c-9d36-0f6c44b8ffbb)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uf6327377-29dc-5604-bbcc-7e77ad353cd0)
‘WE’LL be landing in less than fifteen minutes, Mr Kane.’
The pilot had turned from the controls to address his only passenger, and Morgan lifted his head from the papers he had been studying since they left St Thomas to meet the man’s candid gaze.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he echoed, his attractive voice low and well modulated. ‘Okay, Joe. Thanks.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Kane,’ responded the dark-skinned pilot, resuming his appraisal of the instruments in front of him. ‘Should still be light enough for you to see the island, if the weather holds up. Looks like that storm they promised us isn’t going to show.’
Morgan hesitated a moment, cast a faintly regretful glance at the documents he had taken from the briefcase beside him, and then came to a decision. Sliding the papers back into their file, he pushed the file into the briefcase, snapping the fasteners shut before asking politely, ‘Do you get a lot of storms here?’
‘Hell, no!’ Joe allowed a chuckle to escape him. ‘Didn’t Mr Forsyth tell you? Pulpit Island has an almost perfect climate. Little rain; plenty of sun; and the trades, to keep the temperature just bearable.’
Morgan acknowledged his ignorance. ‘No hurricanes?’ he enquired mildly, easing the collar of his shirt away from his neck, and Joe cast him a reproving grimace.
‘Not since 1973,’ he asserted. ‘Like I said, you’re going to love it here, Mr Kane.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to form an opinion,’ remarked Morgan drily, looking down on to a sea as clear and blue-green as aquamarines. ‘Is that Pulpit Island down there?’
‘No, sir, that’s Little Orchis,’ said Joe, tipping the plane’s wing so that they turned in a south-easterly direction. ‘You’ll be able to see Pulpit Island any minute now. Would you like me to give you an aerial tour before we land?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Morgan smoothly. ‘Where do we land? In the harbour?’
‘Oh, the old sweet pea splashes down in Charlotte’s Bay,’ answered Joe, with another chuckle, patting the controls of the vintage seaplane, which plied its trade in island-hopping. ‘Mighty handy as it turns out. The old Gantry place is right on the bay. That way Miss Holly knows the minute her father reaches the island.’
Morgan propped his chin on one lean brown hand and gazed a little ruefully out of the window. He hoped Holly had had her father’s telegram. It would make things infinitely more difficult if she was not anticipating his arrival. Besides which, she would have had no warning of what her father wanted her to do.
Shifting his long legs a little impatiently, he wished, not for the first time, that Andrew hadn’t involved him in his private affairs. It was one thing to be Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant, to know as much, if not more, than his employer about the day-to-day running of the Forsyth corporation, and to participate in the expansion of his business empire. It was quite another to be expected to persuade his twenty-year-old daughter—and only offspring—to return to London at her father’s whim, when she must know as well as he did that there had to be more to it than her father’s sudden desire to resume a paternal role.
It was too late now to try and pretend her father had any real affection for her. From the day she was born—and Morgan could remember that day very well—she had been an unwanted encumbrance to him, a constant reminder of her mother, whose life had been forfeit to secure her own, and for which Andrew Forsyth had never forgiven her.
Morgan had not been Andrew’s assistant then, of course. He had been a new, and very junior, executive, fresh out of university, with a double first in law and economics, and little else. It had been his first day with the company, and the personal affairs of his boss had seemed very distant indeed.
However, twenty years had seen a great number of changes. In time, his shrewdness in business and his capacity for hard work had been recognised, and by the time he joined Andrew’s immediate staff, Holly Forsyth was no longer so remote from him. Not that he knew her well. A series of nannies, followed by a spell at an exclusive preparatory school, had made way for an equally exclusive boarding school, and if there had been problems, he had not been expected to handle them. Indeed, the first time he actually saw Holly in the flesh had been less than five years ago, when Andrew had asked him to pick her up from a friend’s house in Woking and drive her to London airport to catch a plane for Zurich. And then, what with her non-communicativeness and the chauffeur’s watching presence, they had scarcely exchanged more than a few words. He had thought at first that she was shy and, having children of his own now, he had done his utmost to put her at her ease. But the cool indigo eyes, watching his efforts from between narrowed lids, had had more than a touch of scorn in their depths, and he had quickly realised that Holly Forsyth knew exactly what he was trying to do.
Since then, his glimpses of her had been equally brief. Once, in London, soon after her return from the finishing school for which she had been sent to Switzerland, he had encountered her leaving her father’s office, but on that occasion she had looked straight through him. He had suspected at the time that her over-bright eyes and flushed cheeks had mirrored an inner tumult, and certainly Andrew’s temper had been decidedly unpredictable for the rest of the day. But then, he had learned, Andrew was always unpredictable where Holly was concerned, and Morgan doubted that anything she did would find approval with her father.
The last time he had laid eyes on her had been two years ago, just before she left England. He had called at Andrew’s house in Hampstead late one evening to deliver some papers his employer had left at the office, and he had met Holly arriving home with a crowd of noisy young people. They were all high, whether on drink or marijuana, or perhaps a combination of both, Morgan couldn’t be sure, and the row that had ensued when Andrew erupted from his study had not been pleasant.
Morgan had not wanted to get involved, but it was Holly herself who had involved him. With artless provocation, she had slipped her arm through his and compelled him to stay, using his strength to support her when her father’s wrath washed over her. A tall girl, with cropped fair hair and a slim, still adolescently angular body, she had faced her father bravely, unaware that Andrew Forsyth wasn’t even listening to her. Poor Holly, Morgan remembered now, the colour leaving her face so quickly that the expertly used cosmetics became as conspicuous as a clown’s mask. She should have known better than to try and fight Andrew Forsyth. Men with far fewer scruples had tried and failed, and Holly simply did not have the weapons.
If only she had not looked so much like her mother, perhaps then her father might have been able to forget. But, having seen photographs of the first Mrs Forsyth, Morgan knew exactly why his employer found his daughter’s presence so intolerable. Holly’s mother was the only woman he had ever loved, and although there had been three other wives since her death, there had been no other children—not even a son to step into his father’s shoes.
Unfortunately, Morgan had been able to do nothing to help her and, when she realised this, Holly had turned on him, too. As her friends drifted away in twos and threes, unable—or unwilling—to be a party to her humiliation, Andrew had delivered his final ultimatum. If she wanted him to go on supporting her, she would have to give up mixing with that crowd of queers and layabouts, or she could get out.
Six weeks later, Morgan heard that she had left for her mother’s old home on Pulpit Island, one hundred and fifty miles from St Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Sara Gantry, Holly’s mother, had been born in the West Indies, and her family had once owned a thriving sugar plantation there. But, what with the price of sugar falling and labour becoming increasingly expensive, the estate had largely been dismantled, even before Holly’s grandparents died. However, the house was still standing and, according to Andrew, Holly had always been happy there.
‘She used to go out for holidays, when she was younger,’ he told Morgan, with a rare flash of what might have been conscience. ‘She likes swimming and fishing, and messing about with crayons and water colours,’ he added, when his assistant made no immediate comment. ‘Don’t judge me, Morgan. She always has been a thorn in my side.’
And who was he to judge anyway, reflected Morgan drily, resting one booted ankle across his knee. His own sixteen-year-old twins were proving to be just as much of a liability, and how could he blame Andrew for ignoring his daughter when he spent so little time with his sons? According to Alison, his ex-wife, he was totally responsible for their delinquency and, in all honesty, he had been away a lot when they were growing up. Andrew was a demanding employer and, as his empire stretched from one side of the financial world to the other, Morgan had often been in Hong Kong or San Francisco when he should have been at home.
But had he been entirely to blame? To begin with, Alison had been delighted when, soon after their marriage, Morgan had been recruited to Andrew Forsyth’s office. She had even encouraged him to make himself indispensable to his superior, and she had soon found uses for the higher salary his promotion had brought.
She had not wanted the twins, but their arrival less than two years after their marriage had coincided with their removal to a bigger flat, and she had been placated by the chance to prove her home-making abilities. Besides, she had discovered that having twins set her apart from other young mothers, who had only had one child at a time, and for a while she was content to bask in their reflected glory.
By the time the twins were two, however, motherhood had begun to pall, and Alison was clamouring for a garden to get them out of her hair. She didn’t care that, to buy the house in Willesden, Morgan had to work a twelve-hour day. She had chosen it because it was near her mother’s house, and in no time at all Mrs Stevens was caring for the twins while Alison spent her time in boutiques and beauty parlours.
But, eventually, even the novelty of an unlimited supply of money did not satisfy her. Morgan’s promotion to Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant meant that he and his wife were occasionally invited to dinner in Hampstead, and before long Alison was resentful of their own ‘poky’ domain. She saw no reason why they should not have a large house, and a housekeeper, now that Morgan had a position of authority.
They moved again, this time to a sprawling house in Wimbledon, with every accoutrement Alison could wish for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms; there was even a sauna in the basement. It was the kind of luxury home anyone would be proud of. Only, now, boredom took the place of envy, and resentment of Morgan’s more exciting lifestyle became the most contentious issue in Alison’s life.
Morgan was unable to appease her. Her constant jibes and recriminations made life pretty difficult at times, and before long the twins began to notice. Salving his conscience with the conviction that the boys would be happier if they were not constantly witness to their parents’ rows, Morgan had suggested boarding school. But for once Alison had demurred from taking the easy option.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she had shouted, her fashionably thin features contorted into their habitual expression of dissatisfaction. ‘Then you wouldn’t need to feel any sense of guilt in neglecting your family, would you? You could go off with Andrew bloody Forsyth with a clear conscience!’
Morgan had endeavoured to explain that were he to resign his position as Andrew’s assistant, they could not afford their present standard of living, but she had not listened. So far as his wife was concerned, he was a careless, selfish bastard, whose only real enjoyment was in making money for someone else.
Alison, meanwhile, was finding different pursuits. Abandoning any pretence of fidelity, she began to look for diversion in other quarters, and their relationship quickly foundered.
Yet, even then, she had fought their inevitable separation. Blaming Morgan yet again for his selfishness and neglect, she had fought for, and gained, custody of the two boys, and Morgan found himself faced with the upkeep of two households, instead of just one. Of course, the modest flat he occupied in Kensington did not stretch his income, but fighting Alison’s influence on the twins was quite another matter.
Naturally, having been raised in such an atmosphere, they had been affected by it. Just in a small way at first: fighting in the playground, stealing small amounts of money from their mother’s purse, getting such poor grades in school that the headmaster had called their father in for a discussion. But gradually, as they had grown older, their crimes had become more serious. When they were sent to the local comprehensive school, they frequently played truant, and when Morgan found out and paid for their transfer to a fee-paying boys’ school, they were soon threatened with expulsion for using foul language. And finally, just recently, within weeks of leaving yet another fee-paying establishment, they had been caught shoplifting with some other boys in Oxford Street, and only the intervention of Andrew’s lawyer had prevented them from a serious conviction.
It had not been an opportune moment for Andrew to ask Morgan to fly out to the West Indies to bring his daughter back to London. With the twins out of school and resentful of the restrictions he had persuaded Alison to put upon them, he had been loath to leave the country. But Andrew had had the solution.
‘I’ll speak to the commanding officer of the Admiral Nelson,’ he declared, mentioning the name of a famous sailing vessel, used as a training ground for would-be naval recruits. ‘Fawcett—that’s the chap—he’s a friend of mine, and if he can fit them into his schedule, he will. Three weeks living in pretty austere surroundings is exactly what they need, and they’ll learn the rudiments of sailing as well as learning to work with other people as a team.’
‘And do you think Jeff and Jon will comply?’ asked Morgan doubtfully. ‘Will Alison let them go?’
‘If I ask her,’ returned Andrew smugly, exchanging an amused smile with his assistant. ‘It will do them a power of good. And it will get them away from their mother for a while, which can’t be bad.’
Morgan shifted rather impatiently in his seat now and Joe, attracted by the movement, glanced round. ‘That’s Pulpit Island, Mr Kane,’ he said, pointing down towards a mass of greenery, which seemed to be floating on the water. ‘See that sickle curve of beach? That’s Charlotte’s Bay that it’s wrapped around.’
‘Oh—thanks.’
Morgan produced a smile and determinedly forced his mind to dwell on less disturbing things. As the plane banked to facilitate its approach he was able to discern the distinctive outcropping of rock, which Andrew had told him had given the island its name, rising over a thousand feet from the central highlands. The rest of the island appeared to be covered in a thriving mass of vegetation, a darkly tinted emerald, set in a frame of creamy white coral.
The island was bigger than he had expected, though as the seaplane plunged towards the enveloping curve of Charlotte’s Bay, he could see little sign of life. ‘Charlottesville—that’s the capital—it’s at the other side of the island,’ the pilot commented, as if reading Morgan’s thoughts. ‘Not much of a capital, really. Just a handful of shops and warehouses, and a market that sells fruit and fish.’
Morgan wanted to reply, but the sea seemed to be hurtling up towards them at a terrifying pace. He felt the rush of adrenalin through his veins turn his stomach over, and he gripped the arms of his seat as the aircraft hit the water. ‘Christ,’ he muttered weakly, as the plane’s floats tore a channel across the bay, and a salty spray forced its way through a ventilator. Taking off had been slow, but landing certainly wasn’t.
‘You all right, Mr Kane?’ asked Joe with some concern, as the aircraft slowed to a more sedate pace and chugged happily towards the shore. ‘Guess you’ve never flown in the “goose” before, but you can rely on her. Safest transport around.’
‘Is it?’
Morgan’s tone was dry, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long day. First the nine-hour flight to Miami, then the forty-minute wait for his connection to St Thomas. And now this crazy island-hopping amphibian, which even now was having its wheels cranked down by hand so that, when they reached the shallows, it could waddle out on to the beach.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past six local time, but his body told him it was much later. Apart from which, he had an ache in his spine through sitting so long, and the alarm he had experienced on landing had covered his whole body in an unpleasant wave of heat.
Reaching up, he loosened his tie and peered somewhat wearily out of the window. Although it was early evening, the warmth now that the plane had landed was almost palpable, and he looked down at his dark grey three-piece suit with some impatience. He should have changed at Miami, he reflected. He had had time. But he had also needed a drink, and he hadn’t had time for both.
The seaplane bumped up on to sand filtered from successive generations of coral, washed by the lucid green waters of Charlotte’s Bay. Ahead of the plane, the virginal white sand gave way to coconut groves and waving palms, and beyond that to the tangled forest he had seen from the air.
There was a boy standing on the beach, apparently waiting for the plane, and Joe waved to him, evidently recognising a friend. ‘That’s Samuel, Miss Holly’s houseboy,’ he explained to his passenger. ‘Seems like she knew you were coming.’
‘Seems like she did,’ murmured Morgan drily, loosening his seat belt and automatically checking the zipper of his trousers. ‘I wonder,’ he added, under his breath, and when the plane halted, he got gratefully to his feet.
Because of his height, it was impossible to stand straight inside the plane, but Joe was already out of his seat, loosening the catches and thrusting open the door. He let Morgan precede him, standing back while the other man bent to negotiate the low lintel.
Morgan stepped down on to the sand that crunched beneath the soles of his shoes, and into a wave of heat infinitely more enervating than the cloistered atmosphere on board had been. The seaplane had kept reasonably cool throughout the flight, and the wash of water against its hull had kept it cool on landing. But outside, in the still powerful rays of the setting sun, the temperature was considerably higher, and the jacket of his suit felt damp beneath his arms.
With a gesture of impatience, he shrugged out of the offending garment and slung it over one shoulder, aware of the amused gaze of the boy on the beach as he took in the equally uncomfortable waistcoat beneath. Samuel—if that was his name—was wearing sawn-off jeans and a flapping T-shirt, and his dark, bronzed skin gleamed dully with the patina of good health. He was perhaps sixteen, Morgan estimated, the twins’ age. But he was taller than they were, and not so stocky, his long legs protruding from the knee-length denims.
‘Mr Kane?’ he enquired, stepping forward, his expression sobering abruptly. ‘Miss Forsyth sent me to meet you. She’s waiting for you back at the house.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Morgan inclined his head in acknowledgment, as Joe hoisted his overnight-case out of the plane. He shrugged. ‘Is it far to the house?’
‘Hell, no. That’s it—over there,’ exclaimed Joe, preempting the boy’s response. He pointed a long finger, and Morgan squinted into the deepening gloom. The sun was sinking fast, and the island was bathed in an amber radiance, an almost unholy glow that was rapidly turning to umber.
The Forsyth house seemed to stand on a rise, overlooking the bay. A white, verandahed portico was overset with dark iron-railed balconies and, even from this distance, Morgan could see the profusion of plant-life growing all around it. It was bigger than he had expected, and many of the windows were shuttered, but a light was glowing from a downstairs window revealing Holly’s occupancy.
‘Let’s go,’ said Samuel, apparently resenting Joe’s interference in what he considered to be his territory. He picked up Morgan’s suitcase and took a few pointed steps along the beach. ‘You coming, Mr Kane?’
‘Er—yes. Yes, of course.’ Morgan dragged his eyes away from the house and turned briefly back to the pilot. ‘Thanks,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Now—how do I get in touch with you when I want to go back?’
‘Miss Holly’ll arrange all that,’ responded Joe, with a grin. ‘You have a good holiday now. You hear?’
Morgan forbore from repeating that this was not a holiday, and grinned in return. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ And, with a final gesture of farewell, he started after Samuel’s lanky form.
By the time they had reached the stretch of beach below the house, the seaplane had shimmied back into the water and was making its take-off. The roar of its engines was an ugly intrusion into a stillness disturbed only by the piping sound of the crickets, and a flock of birds rose protestingly from their nesting place, startled by the unaccustomed violation of their privacy.
Samuel balanced Morgan’s suitcase on his head, holding it steady with one hand, as they left the beach to climb a shallow flight of steps to the house. There must have been fifty of them, Morgan decided, feeling the constriction in his chest as he followed Samuel’s unhurried tread. It made him realise that a weekly work-out at the squash club was not a total compensation for a sedentary life, and he was panting pretty badly by the time they reached the top.
It was fully dark now, but the air was fragrant with the scent of night-blooming plants and delicate honeysuckle. They picked their way across a garden that had evidently been left to go to seed, and brushed between a mass of statuary before climbing two more steps to a lawned area in front of the house. The lights from the house gave more illumination here, revealing that the grass had, at least, been cut, and the borders trimmed. An old cane chair reclined in the shade of a flowering acacia, and on the verandah a pair of cushioned sun-loungers were set beside a basket-woven table.
It wasn’t until they were actually climbing the steps up to the verandah that Morgan realised someone was standing there, in the darkness, watching their approach. She had not occupied either of the sun-loungers that flanked the circular table, where a jug of iced cordial drew his thirsty gaze. She was standing in the shadows, against the wall of the building, and she only moved into the light when she was obliged to do so.
Even then, Morgan had some difficulty in relating this golden-skinned creature to the Holly Forsyth he remembered. Setting down his briefcase, he ran a hand around the back of his neck, flinching from the dampness of his skin. He was sweating quite profusely now, and it didn’t help to be confronted by someone as cool and self-possessed as this young woman seemed to be.
