Green Lightning. 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.

      Green Lightning

       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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      SHE was waiting at the Bell corner when Helen turned into Castle Street. Helen knew it was her right off, even though she had never set eyes on her before. Heath had described her so accurately—blonde, willowy, elegant—everything Helen was not, and possessing the necessary qualities of a lady, which Helen was required to learn.

      Compressing her lips, Helen brought the Land Rover to a squealing halt beside the kerb and regarded the newcomer mutinously. She had been tempted to come and meet her on the Honda, but her disregard for her uncle’s wishes would only stretch so far, and already she had the underlying suspicion that by coming in the dusty Land Rover she was only reinforcing his opinion that she was irresponsible and childish.

      Squashing these thoughts, Helen thrust open her door and got out, facing the young woman with grim determination. ‘Miss Patterson?’ she enquired, glancing at the two expensive suitcases standing beside her on the pavement. ‘I’m Helen Mortimer.’

      The young woman turned a decidedly haughty look in her direction. ‘You are?’ she exclaimed, her expression eloquent of her opinion that she had made a terrible mistake. ‘You’re Mr Heathcliffe’s niece? My goodness, he wasn’t exaggerating, was he?’

      Helen’s lips tightened over the retort she would have loved to have made. Instead she controlled her temper and said stiffly: ‘If you’d like to get in …’

      Miss Patterson’s horrified blue eyes moved incredulously over the beaten-up vehicle. ‘Into that? Where’s Mr Heathcliffe?’

      ‘He couldn’t come.’ Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘He sent me instead.’

      ‘A baptism of fire, no doubt,’ remarked Miss Patterson dryly. ‘So where is your uncle?’

      ‘Does it matter?’

      Helen was rapidly losing any lingering sympathy she might have felt for the young woman. Miss Patterson’s contemptuous appraisal was making her feel gauche and immature, and she was beginning to wish she had brought the Mercedes as Heath had directed. And worn something a little more flattering, she reflected unwillingly. Faded jeans and a sloppy tee-shirt might successfully demonstrate her desire for independence, but compared to the attractive cream and green pants suit Miss Patterson was wearing, they looked cheap and shabby. Even the silk scarf draped casually about Miss Patterson’s neck must have cost more than her scuffed trainers, and the other girl’s hair was fashionably short and smooth, curving lovingly in to the back of her neck.

      ‘Are you saying your uncle sent you to meet me in—this?’ Miss Patterson enquired now, causing Helen’s nails to ball into her palms. ‘How quaint! The original covered wagon, no doubt.’

      Helen’s colour deepened. ‘Heath had to go to the office unexpectedly,’ she declared aggressively. ‘Shall we go?’

      ‘Well …’ Miss Patterson glanced about her doubtfully and Helen had the distinct impression that she half expected Heath to appear in spite of what had been said. Perhaps she thought she was playing at being chauffeur. It was obvious from her attitude, she thought miserably little of Helen’s offer.

      Walking round to get back into the driving seat, Helen schooled the errant impulse to drive away and leave her. If the Land Rover wasn’t good enough, let her find her own way to Matlock, she thought broodingly, but a glance back at her charge made her make another attempt to be civil.

      ‘Are you coming?’ she asked, pulling open her door, and waiting with impatience for the other girl to move.

      But Miss Patterson didn’t move. Glancing down at her luggage with the air of someone unused to carrying anything heavier than a handbag, she lifted her shoulders indifferently, and Helen’s resentment deepened at the obvious implication. Dammit, why couldn’t the woman put her own suitcases into the Land Rover? she thought angrily. Time was passing, and she had no wish to