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Bedded For The Italian's Pleasure
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.When desire overrules all sense… When Juliet meets broodingly handsome Italian Raphael Marchese, there is an instant and dangerous attraction between them. But because of the pretense Juliet has agreed to in order to help a friend, Rafe mistakenly thinks she's a gold-digger who's engaged to another man!However, the tension between Juliet and Rafe is stronger than reason, and it erupts. Raphael makes love to her–passionately and ardently. He reasons that though he can never have her, he can enjoy the pleasure of her body….
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.
Bedded for the Italian’s Pleasure
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#u1e6edcf0-8533-5b9f-bb3c-ab97f3c989a1)
About the Author (#ue3ebb355-80c0-5804-ae5e-8ae925ef2114)
Title Page (#u3dc1e5c7-b84b-5744-8e1f-a646990e7d43)
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u311e9e0a-db3c-5077-803f-a76d52bde6a7)
JULIET wondered what it was like in the Caymans at this time of year. Pretty much like Barbados, she assumed. They were all islands in the Caribbean, weren’t they? But she’d never been to the Caymans.
Still, whatever they were like, they had to be better than this gloomy employment agency, whose sickly green walls and wafer-thin carpet were a poor substitute for the comfort she was used to. Had been born to, she amended, fighting back the tears of self-pity that formed in her eyes. Beautiful violet eyes, her father used to call them. They reminded him of her mother, who’d died when she was just a baby. How long ago it all seemed.
One thing she knew, her father would never have allowed her to be duped by a man like David Hammond. But her father, too, had died of a brain tumour when Juliet was just nineteen and a year later David had seemed like a knight in shining armour.
If only she’d realised that his main interest in her was the trust fund her father had left her. That just a handful of years after their society wedding he’d take off with the woman he’d introduced to Juliet as his secretary. With her stupid indulgence, he’d taken charge of her trust fund. By the time she’d realised what was happening, he’d transferred the bulk of it to an offshore account in his own name.
She’d been so naïve. She’d let David’s good looks and boyish charm blind her to any faults in his character. She’d believed he loved her; ignored the advice of friends when they’d told her he’d been seen with someone else. Now the few pounds he’d left in their joint account were running out fast.
Of course, those friends that had stuck by her had been sympathetic. They’d even offered to help her out financially, but Juliet had known their friendship couldn’t last under those circumstances. No, she had to get a job; though what kind of a job she could get with no qualifications she dreaded to think. If only she’d continued her education after her father died. But David’s appearance in her life had blinded her to practical things.
She glanced round the waiting room again, wondering what sort of qualifications her fellow applicants had. There were five other people in the room besides herself: two men and three women, all of whom seemed totally indifferent to their surroundings. If she didn’t know better, she’d have said they were indifferent to being offered employment, too. At least two of them looked half-asleep—or stoned.
Which could be good news or bad, depending on the way you looked at it. Surely after interviewing someone dressed in torn jeans or a grungy T-shirt, or that girl whose arms were covered with lurid tattoos, Juliet, in her navy pinstripe suit and two-inch heels, would be a relief. Or perhaps not. Perhaps unskilled jobs were more likely to be offered to people who didn’t look as if they could afford to be out of work.
‘Mrs Hammond?’
It’s Ms Lawrence, actually, Juliet wanted to say, but all her means of identification were still in her married name. Not that everyone who got divorced reverted to their previous identity. But Juliet had wanted to. She’d wanted nothing to remind her that she had once been Mrs David Hammond.
Now she got nervously to her feet as the woman who’d called her name looked expectantly round the room. ‘That’s me,’ she said, aware that she was now the centre of attention. She tucked her clutch bag beneath her arm and walked tentatively across the floor.
‘Come into my office, Mrs Hammond.’ The woman, a redhead, in her forties, Juliet guessed, looked her up and down and then led the way into an office that was only slightly less unprepossessing than the waiting room. She indicated an upright chair facing her desk. ‘Sit down.’ Juliet did so. ‘Did you fill in the questionnaire?’
‘Oh—yes.’ Juliet produced the sheet of paper she’d been rolling into a tube as she waited. When she laid it on the woman’s desk—Mrs Maria Watkins’ desk, she saw from a notice propped in front of her—it remained in its half-curled position and she offered a little smile of apology as Mrs Watkins smoothed it out. ‘Sorry.’
Her apology was neither acknowledged nor accepted. Mrs Watkins was too busy reading what Juliet had written, pausing every now and then to glance at her as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. So what? Had the slick business suit fooled her? Or was she admiring Juliet’s dress sense? Somehow, she didn’t think so.
‘It says here that you’re twenty-four years old, Mrs Hammond.’ Mrs Watkins frowned. ‘And you’ve never had a job?’
Juliet coloured a little. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
It was straight question, but Juliet had the feeling she shouldn’t have asked it. She had some pride. Did this woman have to rob her of every single drop?
Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Is that relevant? I need a job now. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not, Mrs Hammond. Would-be employers require CVs; references. It’s important for me to understand why a would-be applicant has none of these things.’
Juliet sighed. ‘I was married,’ she said, deciding that was the least controversial thing she could say.
‘Yes, I see that.’ Mrs Watkins consulted the sheet again. ‘Your marriage ended some nine months ago, did it not?’
Nine months, eight days, recited Juliet silently. ‘That’s right.’
‘But no job?’
‘No. No job.’
Mrs Watkins sucked in a breath through her nostrils that was clearly audible. It was the kind of sound her father’s butler, Carmichael, used to make when he disapproved of something she’d done. That Mrs Watkins disapproved of her lack of experience was obvious. Juliet wondered if she would have fared better if she’d come in a grungy shirt and jeans.
‘Well,’ Mrs Watkins said at last, ‘I have to tell you, Mrs Hammond, it’s not going to be easy finding you employment. You have no discernible qualifications, no employment history, nothing in fact to convince an employer that you’re a good worker. And trustworthy.’
Juliet gasped. ‘I’m trustworthy.’
‘I’m sure you are, Mrs Hammond, but in this world we don’t work on word-of-mouth. What you need is an erstwhile employer to vouch for you, someone who is willing to commit his opinion to paper.’
‘But I don’t have an erstwhile employer.’
Mrs Watkins gave a smug smile. ‘I know.’
‘So you’re saying you can’t help me?’
‘I’m saying that at the present time, I don’t have a vacancy you could fill. Unless you wanted to wash dishes at the Savoy, of course.’ She chuckled at her own joke. Then she sobered. ‘You’ll find details of courses you could take at the local college—classes for everything from cookery to foreign languages—in the waiting room. I suggest you take a few of the leaflets home and decide what it is you want to do. Then, come back and see me when you feel you have something to offer. Until then, I’d advise you not to waste any more time.’
Waste my time, was what she meant, Juliet decided gloomily, getting to her feet. ‘Well—thank you,’ she said, the good manners, which had been instilled into her since birth by a series of nannies, coming to her rescue. ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said.’ She paused. ‘Or find another agency.’
‘Good luck!’ The latter was said with some irony and Juliet left the office feeling even more of a pariah than before. But what had she expected? Who had she imagined would employ someone without even the sense to recognise a con man when she saw one?
Outside again, she looked up and down Charing Cross Road, considering her options. Although it was only the beginning of March, it was surprisingly warm, though a light drizzle had started to dampen the pavements. She lifted a hand to hail a taxi and then hastily dropped it again. The days when she could swan around in cabs were most definitely over.
Sighing, she started to walk towards Cambridge Circus. She would catch a bus from there that would take her to Knightsbridge and the tiny one-bedroom apartment where she lived these days. The large house in Sussex where she’d been born and lived for most of her life had been sold just after her marriage to David. He’d said the house he’d found in Bloomsbury was much more convenient. It wasn’t until he’d left her that she’d found out the house had been rented by the month.
She knew her friends had been appalled at her naïvety, but, dammit, she’d never encountered David’s kind of ruthlessness before. It was just luck that the apartment had been in her name and David couldn’t touch it. It had been her father’s pied-à-terre when he’d had business to attend to in town, and she’d hung on to it for sentimental reasons.
Halfway to her destination she passed a pub and on impulse she went in. It was dark and smoky in the bar, but that suited her. She hardly ever drank during the day and she’d prefer it if no one recognised her in her present mood.
Slipping onto one of the tall stools, she waited for the bartender to notice her. Short and fat, with a beer belly that hung over his belt, he managed to look both businesslike and cheerful. Much different from Mrs Watkins.
‘Now, then,’ he said, sliding his cleaning cloth along the bar, ‘what can I get you?’
Juliet hesitated. It didn’t look as if it was the kind of place that had a bottle of house white waiting to be poured. But who knew?
‘The lady would like a vodka and tonic, Harry,’ said a voice at her shoulder and she swung round, ready to tell whoever it was that she could choose her own drinks, thank you very much.
Then her eyes widened in surprise. She knew the man. His name was Cary Daniels and she’d known him since they were children. But she hadn’t seen him for years. Not since her wedding, in fact.
‘Cary!’ she exclaimed. ‘Goodness, fancy seeing you here.’ The last she’d heard he was living in Cape Town. ‘Are you on holiday?’
‘I wish.’ Cary slid onto the empty stool beside her, handing a twenty-pound note to the bartender when he brought their drinks. He’d apparently ordered a double whisky for himself and he swallowed half of it before continuing. ‘I’ve got a job in London now.’
‘Really?’
Juliet was surprised. Although they’d lost touch for a few years, when his parents died and he’d had to go and live with his paternal grandmother in Cornwall, he had attended her wedding. At that time he’d been excited about the great job he’d got with the South African branch of an investment bank and everyone had thought he was set for life. But things had changed, as they do. Didn’t she know it?
‘So how have you been?’ he asked, pocketing his change and turning on his seat to face her. Although the dim light had prevented her from noticing before, now she saw how haggard he looked. There were bags beneath his eyes, his hair was receding rapidly, and his thickening waistline told of too many double whiskies over the years. She knew he was twenty-eight, but he looked ten years older. What had happened to him? she wondered. Was he suffering the after-effects of a bad relationship, too?
‘Oh—I’m OK,’ Juliet said lightly, lifting her glass in a silent salute and taking a sip. It was much stronger than she was used to and she just managed to hide a grimace. ‘Getting by, I suppose.’
‘I heard about your divorce.’ Cary was nothing if not direct. ‘What a bastard!’
‘Yes.’ There was no point in denying it. ‘I was a fool.’
‘I wish I’d been around when it happened. He wouldn’t have got off so lightly, I can tell you. What’s the son of a bitch doing now?’
Juliet pressed her lips together. It was kind of Cary to be so supportive, but she couldn’t see him tackling someone like David. He simply wasn’t the type. ‘Um, David’s in the Caymans, or so I believe,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But do you mind if we don’t discuss it? There’s no point in harbouring old wounds. I was a fool, as I said. End of story.’
‘You were gullible, that’s all.’ Cary was assertive. ‘As we all are from time to time. It’s easy to be wise after the event.’
Juliet gave a rueful smile. ‘Isn’t that the truth?’
‘So—what are you doing?’ Juliet tried not to resent his curiosity. ‘And where are you living? I guess the house in Sussex has had to be sold.’
‘Yes.’ Juliet acknowledged this. ‘I’ve got a small apartment in Knightsbridge. It used to be Daddy’s and it’s not the Ritz, but at least it’s mine.’
‘Bastard!’ said Cary again. Then, ‘I suppose you’ve had to get a job.’
