Diamond Fire. 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.

      Diamond Fire

      Anne Mather

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of 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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      ALEX doubted he would have noticed her if she hadn’t been having an argument with the clerk at the car rentals desk. She had apparently travelled from Los Angeles on the same flight he had, but he hadn’t noticed her on the plane. Which wasn’t too surprising. The United Airlines 747 had been full, and unless she had been sitting right next to him the chances of his recognising a stranger among so many passengers was slight.

      Besides, he had spent most of the five-hour journey studying Morales’s report. It was inconclusive, he knew, but he had hoped it might offer some clue the other man had missed. It didn’t. The trail the investigator had followed to the mainland dried up in San Diego, and, although Alex was pretty sure Virginia was heading for the Mexican border, without a definite lead it was futile for him to pursue it.

      In consequence, he had left it in Morales’s hands and flown back to Honolulu. There was always the chance that there might be some message at the house; some means through which he might be able to contact her. And that was how he came to be standing in the arrivals lounge, waiting for his own lift, idly watching the woman crossing swords with the Chinese girl at the car rentals agency.

      It was her hair that held his interest. He had never seen hair quite that colour before. It was red, a rich vibrant red that seemed to throb with a life of its own. And, although it was presently coiled in an increasingly precarious knot on top of her head, he could imagine how it would look if it were loose.

      Not that he was interested, Alex thought ruefully, hardly able to remember when he had last felt any real sexual stimulation. In recent years, Virginia’s frantic demands for sex had destroyed any desire he had felt to make love with her, and even when he found out what was wrong with her the feelings he had once had for her were gone.

      Lately he had begun to wonder if the girl he had thought he had married had ever existed outside his own imagination. He suspected that, as far as Virginia was concerned, marrying him had just been a means to an end. She had needed a home; money; security; and he had had it all. Quid pro quo.

      Of course, it hadn’t been enough; he realised that now. What Virginia had been seeking didn’t exist either, though her methods of dealing with it had left him cold. Perhaps it was his fault, as she had claimed. After six years of marriage perhaps he should have felt more responsibility. But there were limits to his sympathy; limits to his credibility; limits to his patience. Virginia didn’t want to change; she would never change. And he was not the gullible idiot he had been when she had married him. Five years of trying to stop someone from destroying herself had seen to that.

      Even so, when he’d left for New York a week ago he had not realised how near the edge she was. If he had, he told himself now, he would never have gone. But he had a business to run; he had commitments. And babysitting Virginia could be a full-time job.

      Nevertheless, the night before he’d left she had seemed almost normal. They had actually held a conversation during dinner, and he certainly hadn’t suspected what she was planning. If they had had a row he might have been on his guard, but they hadn’t. It had all been perfectly amicable. Which should have been a warning; but it hadn’t.

      He caught his breath as fear gripped his stomach. He had never dreamt she might leave the island. In spite of everything, she liked the comfort of their home, the sybaritic delight of wearing fine clothes, of sleeping between silk sheets. If nothing else, Virginia appreciated luxury, and there’d be precious little of that where she was going.

      But it wasn’t fear for his wife that caused the knife to turn inside him. She might be desperate, but Virginia could look out for herself. It was their five-year-old daughter, whom Virginia had taken with her, who was