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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Wild Enchantress
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
ALL he could hear was the rushing, roaring thunder of the water as it splintered on the reef behind him. Ahead lay the beach, creamy white and shimmering in the bleaching rays of the sun, and between, deep green water, alive with the swell that made Flintlock one of the finest surfing beaches on the whole island. Behind him, the crest was rising, foam-flecked and majestic, and his speed increased as he began to coast down the face of the wave. Then it caught him, and his feeling of exhilaration quickened in pace with the surfboard as he rose to his feet and rode diagonally into shore. It was a trial of strength and muscle, keeping erect on that shifting oblong of fibre-glass, controlling its headlong passage with an expertise born of long experience. Before the surf died, he dived off the board into the surging water, and allowed the tow to sweep him on to the warm sand. The surfboard was swept up beside him, shifted restlessly for a few moments, and then was still as he was.
He rolled over on to his back, shading his eyes against the glare of heat which had since childhood given him that deep all-over tan, and felt the familiar feeling of well-being which always followed a successful session. He felt pleasantly relaxed and slightly lethargic, loath to allow the problems of the day to intrude upon these moments of complete self-indulgence.
‘Mr Royal! Mr Royal, sir!'
As if to mock his mood of lazy contemplation, Sylvester's throaty voice came harshly on the breeze that stirred the clump of wind-torn cypresses that clung bravely to the coral limestone cliffs that sheltered the cove. Levering himself up on one elbow, Jared Royal looked around and saw the elderly black manservant, incongruous in his chauffeur's livery, beckoning to him from the head of the rocky stairway which gave access to the beach.
With an expression of resigned tolerance on his lean dark features, he got to his feet, and after the briefest use of a towel, he pulled on the shabby denim shorts which were his only clothing. Then, tucking the surfboard under his arm, he trudged up the sand to where a low, bungalow-type dwelling was set on wooden stilts. Sylvester had disappeared, but he would no doubt be sitting in the car ensuring himself of his master's compliance before moving off.
However, Jared was not unduly concerned, mounting the steps to the building with unhurried deliberation. A slat-roofed verandah, overgrown with creeper, gave into the single apartment, a typical beach-house room, with equal space for cooking and sleeping facilities. It was the kind of accommodation used for picnics or weekends, where one could ignore the sand on one's feet and disregard the salt stains on the worn furniture. In one respect it differed from thousands of others like it; the walls were stacked with canvases, one leaning against the other, and easels and painting equipment of all kinds littered what floor space was left. But for all that, Jared liked it, it suited his purpose very well on occasion, and provided an ideal bolthole when his stepmother filled the house with people. He could work here, and he always kept plenty of tinned food on the premises so that he need not be disturbed. If the sleeping facilities were not what he was used to, they at least were adequate.
Now, he dumped the surfboard beside several others in one corner of the room, and crossed to take a can of lager from a gas-cooled refrigerator near the sink. All cooking and lighting appliances were fed by a gas cylinder, but he had had water laid on when the beach house was first built ten years ago.
Standing