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.
Edge of Temptation
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT was surprising how small the valley looked from the helicopter. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a valley that accounted for that feeling of compression, of compaction, of hills giving on to hills with little between but the restless waters of the Llanbara. The sweeping slopes where he had ridden all his life, the high pastures where Powys herded his sheep and Meredith had his forestry plantation, were telescopically condensed into narrow bands of green and brown, the trees so close the sun could not penetrate. It was an illusion, of course. As the blades of the propellers swept them lower, the rocky outcrop of Morfa Crag could clearly be seen, the sun-dappled hillside a patchwork of shifting shades and shadows, with the roofs of farm buildings clustering together in settlements dotted about the valley floor. Penwyth. His home, and his heritage. And what was it worth?
‘Lead has always been in demand, of course,’ Sir George Marland was saying now, ‘but really, it’s only during the last few years that we’ve turned back on our own resources. I think the oil crisis in 1974 alerted the government to its dependence on other countries for its essential needs, and awakened a kind of national determination to avoid any exploitation of that kind in the future.’
Rafe nodded. In all honesty, he was not paying a great deal of attention to what Marland was saying. Marland was a government official, and like all government officials, in Rafe’s opinion, he said what he had to say in as many words as possible, instead of as few.
‘Man is a hungry individual, Glyndower—some might say greedy. He’s a consumer, and in this day and age, he consumes more than he has ever done before. World mineral deposits are running low. Even the oil we’re presently pulling out of the North Sea may not see us to the turn of the century. We must constantly be on the alert for new sources, new deposits, and lead is a very valuable commodity.’
Rafe glanced at John Norman, his eyes expressive. What did Marland think he was? A moron? He knew the state of the world’s economy—who better, when it was brought home to him constantly in the day-to-day demands of the estate. He knew that cash was in short supply, and that any substantial deposit of ore on his land would benefit him and the country both. Ever since they lifted off, Marland had been expounding in this vein, and quite frankly, Rafe was sick of the sound of his cultivated tones. He didn’t need some pompous bureaucrat implying where his duties lay, explaining the situation to him as if he was some ignorant schoolboy, not conversant with the simple mathematics of economics.
‘I think Mr Glyndower understands your position, Sir George,’ Norman interposed now. ‘However, Penwyth has belonged to his family for many generations, and the farmers—the tenant farmers, that is—–’
‘Farmers!’ Marland’s tones mirrored the contempt he felt for such an interruption. ‘My dear John, the wealth accrued from such land is negligible. What is it? Sheep country at best! There’s your equation. In my view, there is no problem. And let us not forget that it’s Lord Penwyth’s decision, not Glyndower’s.’
‘My father has put the affair into my hands,’ retorted Rafe tersely, pulling a case of the narrow cheroots he smoked out of the pocket of his tweed hacking jacket. When both men declined his offer of the case, he put one of the slim cigars between his teeth, and added: ‘Conversely, I’m of the opinion that there are conflicting interests here. Interests of humanity, and ecology. This country of ours—and I mean Wales, not England, or Great Britain, as it sometimes suits the government to call us—has been torn apart by mining of one sort or another. Pits, spewing slag and slurry all over our hillsides, belching black dust into air that was once clean and pure. Is that an equation, Sir George? Is that what you mean by mineral wealth?’
Marland’s plump shoulders stiffened. He was not used to such plain speaking. His heavy jowls above the starched white collar of his shirt visibly stiffened. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ironed crease in his pin-striped trouser leg,