Bedded For The Italian's Pleasure. Anne Mather

       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.

      Bedded for the Italian’s Pleasure

      Anne Mather

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

      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

       CHAPTER ONE

      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.’