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Innocent Obsession
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. A frosty reception!When Sylvie’s selfish sister refuses to go to Greece to live with her husband Leon and her small son, Sylvie is persuaded to go there instead! And she gets little thanks for her trouble – only the hostility and suspicion of of Andreas Petronides, Leon’s gorgeous, but utterly unbending brother.Refusing to think anything but the worst of her, Andreas does his best to spoil her time there. Why can’t he just concentrate on his disagreeable girl-friend instead?! But in the seductive heat of the Mediterranean sun, Sylvie begins to wonder if she really wants him to leave her alone…
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.
Innocent Obsession
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3da5b4da-6775-5c95-bf41-9ebe1ec8452d)
About the Author (#u33f23a29-d0e7-5d56-bc58-fff236401724)
Title Page (#ubc60f944-4a7c-52a8-9bf1-10f1ad7ab697)
CHAPTER ONE (#u17cda8c0-8d87-570e-870e-eccc18210e11)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc6b32189-74e1-5804-b3e2-da277c3990db)
CHAPTER THREE (#uafd366aa-2324-5176-a44b-238c2bd25a19)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_4c6a12d8-1d4b-552d-90f2-fae340fde1a3)
‘I don’t think I can do it, Margot,’ said Sylvie carefully, breaking off a spear of celery and biting into its crisp heart. Margot’s table was always liberally spread with low-calorie foods, and after a lunch of only cottage cheese and fresh pineapple, Sylvie’s healthy young stomach was still far from satisfied.
‘Why can’t you do it?’ her sister demanded impatiently, fairly snatching the bowl of celery out of Sylvie’s reach and gazing at her penetratingly. ‘What do you plan to do from now until October? Vegetate?’
Sylvie shrugged, causing the corn-gold curtain of her hair to swing forward around her cheeks. ‘I was going to try and find a job,’ she admitted, reduced to blotting up the crumbs of cottage cheese that still lingered on her plate, and Margot leaned towards her triumphantly, pointed elbows resting on the table.
‘There you are, then,’ she declared. ‘This is a job I’m offering you. Go out to Alasyia, look after Nikos for six weeks. I’ll pay you, and I’ve no doubt Leon wouldn’t be averse to—–’
‘No, Margot.’
‘Why not?’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘Margot, Leon asked you. Nikos is your child. Don’t you want to help your own son?’
Margot’s fashionably thin face gained a little unbecoming colour as she sank back in her chair, long, scarlet-tipped nails tapping irritably on the arm. ‘Sylvie, you’re being unreasonable,’ she said, drawing in her breath and expelling it again with emphasis. ‘You know perfectly well that I can’t leave London at this time. Maurice has just found me this part—and it’s a good one. I won’t—I simply won’t be dictated to by you or anyone else!’
Sylvie tilted her head to one side and considered her reflection in the silver-plated coffee pot. As sisters they weren’t very much alike, she acknowledged, without rancour. Margot, nine years her senior, was at least three inches taller, and slender as a reed, while Sylvie’s five feet four inches were infinitely more rounded. Margot’s hair was silver blonde, and she wore it in a gamine cut that gave her a boyish air, totally belied by slanting green eyes and curling lashes. Sylvie, on the other hand, couldn’t afford the expense of a regular trip to the hairdresser, and in consequence, her hair was long and thick, and abysmally straight, and the colour of wheat at harvest time. Still, she reflected, her skin was good, and she tanned quite easily, which Margot never had, and if her looks were only interesting, whereas Margot’s were striking, that was only fair when Margot’s appearance was so much more important to her.
‘I think you should write to Leon,’ Sylvie said now, looking across the table at her sister again. ‘Explain the situation. Tell him that it’s impossible for you to get away at this time. Ask him if there isn’t someone else who could take care of Nikos.’
Margot’s lips tightened. ‘You think it’s that simple, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You really think if I write to Leon and explain the situation, he’ll make other arrangements?’
Sylvie grimaced. ‘I don’t see why not.’
Margot made an impatient sound. ‘You forget, Sylvie, Leon isn’t like us. He’s not English, he’s Greek. And Greek men have an entirely different idea of women from Englishmen.’
‘He married you, didn’t he?’ Sylvie frowned. ‘He knew you were an actress.’
‘He knew I was trying to be,’ retorted Margot shortly. ‘I hadn’t actually done anything. As a matter of fact, I was desperate. If Lewis hadn’t suggested I joined his modelling group for that trip, I’d never have met Leon, would I? Never have married him!’
Sylvie absorbed this. Seven years ago, when Margot married Leon Petronides, she had been eleven, and scarcely old enough to understand her sister’s situation. All she remembered was Margot’s elation when she came home from the modelling trip to Athens, her exuberance at having met Aristotle Petronides’ son, and later on, her excitement when Leon followed her to London. The wedding that followed soon afterwards had seemed like a dream come true. Despite his parents’ disapproval, Leon had refused to give Margot up, and their honeymoon in Fiji had been the envy of all her friends. It was only as Sylvie grew older, after Margot’s son, Nikos, was born, that the flaws in their relationship became evident, and although Margot’s life with Leon had seemed idyllic, she had begun to get bored.
Twelve months ago, things had come to a head. After six years of behaving as Leon’s parents expected their sons’ wives to behave, her own father had died, and as Leon was away at the time on a business trip to the United States, Margot had flown home alone to attend the funeral.
Unfortunately, she had not wanted to go back. Initially, using her mother’s grief as an excuse, she had stayed on, sharing the house in Wimbledon with Sylvie and her mother, littering the place with her make-up and perfumes, monopolising the bathroom in the mornings, when Sylvie was trying to get ready for school.
Eventually, of course, she had been unable to resist contacting her agent, Maurice Stockton, and as luck would have it, he had just the part for her, in a play that was about to go on tour. The actress who had originally accepted the role had been taken ill, and Margot had jumped at the chance. She had moved out of the house in Wimbledon, much to her mother’s relief, and by the time she returned to London, she had enough money to rent this furnished apartment, in a converted Victorian mansion in Bayswater.
Leon had objected, of course, and Mrs Scott, Sylvie’s mother, had tried to placate him on those occasions when he had rung the house; but she found it hard to be convincing when she objected, too, and was alternately worried about her grandson and the precarious state of her elder daughter’s marriage.
At Easter, Leon had come to London to take his wife home, only to find her embroiled in rehearsals for a new play. He had ranted and raved, but Margot had been all-appealing, all-persuasive, earning herself a further three months’ grace. But now, Leon was adamant. Margot must come home—not least, because the nursemaid who had taken care of Nikos since his babyhood was leaving to care for her sick mother.
‘Anyway,’ Margot went on now, ‘Leon won’t listen to me. Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s that family of his, of course. They’ve put him up to it. Without their interference, I could probably have wheedled another six months out of him, but—–’
‘What about your son?’ Sylvie broke in protestingly. ‘It’s almost a year since you saw him. Don’t you care about him at all?’
Margot assumed a brooding expression. ‘Of course I care,’ she retorted sharply. ‘But I’m an actress, Sylvie. I have a career, and to succeed in any profession you have to be dedicated.’
‘Then get a divorce,’ declared Sylvie practically. ‘Tell Leon the truth. Tell him you don’t want to be married to him any longer. You’re a British citizen. He can’t force you to go back to Greece.’
Margot gave her sister an irritated look. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to be married, did I?’ she exclaimed, and while Sylvie stared at her incredulously, she continued: ‘I—well, I want to do both. Other women do. Other women have both a marriage and a career.’
‘Not when their husband lives in Greece, and they live in London,’ replied Sylvie crisply. ‘Oh, Margot, why won’t you be honest? What you really mean is, you don’t want to let Leon go because he’s a meal ticket, a sure-fire insurance to fall back on, when—if—your acting career falls flat!’
‘You little prig! Don’t you dare to preach to me like that,’ Margot declared angrily, her voice rising ominously. ‘You know nothing about it. Just because you’ve got a few academic qualifications, you think you know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t. When it comes to the real world, you’re sunk! And don’t think three years at Oxford will make the slightest bit of difference, because it won’t!’
Sylvie sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and rose to her feet, glancing down at her uniform of jeans and tee-shirt without resentment. Margot was probably right. She was only eighteen, after all, and she had just finished her final exams. Going to Oxford was important to her, but she had to admit that compared to Margot’s experiences, her own were prosaic. She had never mixed with artistic people, gone on modelling assignments, had handsome men phoning her at all hours of the day and night; and no wealthy Greek was likely to defy his parents and marry her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking that such experiences seemed far more desirable from a distance, than they did close to.
‘So you won’t help me?’ Margot stated, looking up at her with cold accusing eyes, and Sylvie felt a moment’s contrition.
‘I can’t,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t such a soft conscience. ‘I’m sorry, but this is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself, Margot.’
‘Then I’ll ask Mummy,’ her sister declared, standing up also, tall and slim and vaguely intimidating, and Sylvie gasped.
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Oh, I would,’ Margot nodded. ‘I’m desperate, Sylvie. One way or the other I’m going to do this play, and no one’s going to stop me.’
Sylvie sought about for words to dissuade her. ‘But—but Mummy would hate it,’ she exclaimed. ‘She doesn’t know Leon’s family. Why, she hardly knows Leon himself.’
‘I know that.’ Margot was unmoved.
‘But, Margot, she’s just making a life for herself here.’ Sylvie spread her hands. ‘Since Daddy died, you know how lonely she’s been, but now she’s joined the Women’s Institute, and she plays bridge every Friday—she’s even learning to play golf! You can’t take her away from all that.’
Margot moved across to the screened fireplace and took a cigarette from the pack lying on the mantel. Lighting it, she said, slowly and deliberately: ‘Do you think she would turn her back on Nikos? Do you think she would allow him to be cared for by strangers?’
Sylvie made a sound of impatience. ‘That’s blackmail, Margot!’
‘No, it’s not.’ Margot swung round, exhaling delicately. ‘If you won’t help me, there’s no one else.’
Sylvie’s shoulders hunched. ‘Leon will never agree—–’
‘We won’t tell him,’ declared Margot dispassionately. ‘You will simply arrive in my place—–’
‘No!’
‘No?’
Sylvie’s tongue circled her dry lips. ‘What will he think? What will he do?’
‘You’ll convince him that it was impossible for me to leave London at this time,’ said Margot relentlessly. ‘Leon won’t argue—he’s too much of a gentleman for that. And by the time he’s thought of a way to circumvent my plans, Dora will be back.’
‘Dora?’
‘The nursemaid. Her mother won’t remain sick for ever.’
Sylvie ran troubled fingers up the back of her neck and into the heavy weight of her hair. ‘Margot—–’
‘Well?’ Margot’s aristocratically thin features were cold. ‘Are you going to turn me down?’
Sylvie moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘When are you supposed to leave?’
‘Next Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday!’ Sylvie sounded panic-stricken. ‘Margot, I can’t be ready to leave by Tuesday.’
‘Why not? What do you have to do? Pack a couple of swimsuits, and a dress for the evenings.’ Her sister’s lips curled. ‘Not, I trust, those disgusting denims you’re wearing at present. Do you have any idea how tight they are?’
Sylvie broke the news to her mother after dinner that evening.
She was going to a disco with Brian Jennings, and in her uncertain mental state she thought it would be easier if her mother got over the shock while she was not around. But to her astonishment, Mrs Scott’s reaction was one of relief, not disapproval.
‘I knew Margot was going to ask you,’ she said, causing Sylvie to catch her breath in confusion. ‘I told her there was no possibility of me going, after promising to help the vicar with the summer youth festival, but I thought you might enjoy it, as we haven’t booked a holiday this year.’
Sylvie was dumbfounded. Margot had tricked her. Far from hesitating over asking their mother to take her place, she had actually come to her first, and the threatening tone she had adopted towards Mrs Scott’s involvement had been just so much hot air.
‘But don’t you think Margot is being a little selfish?’ she ventured now, as Mrs Scott settled herself in her chair in front of the television set, hoping for an unfavourable reaction, but her mother only shrugged.
‘Margot must get this acting bug out of her system,’ she declared, flicking through the pages of a television magazine. ‘Turn on the set, will you darling? I don’t want to miss my serial.’
Sylvie was thoughtful at the disco that evening, and Brian took exception to her silent introspection.
‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, drawing her into a corner and shielding her from the rest of the gathering with his stocky body. ‘Is it something I said, or didn’t you want to keep this date or something?’
