Sirocco. 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.

      Sirocco

       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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE man was slumped over the steering wheel of the car, evidently unconscious, and possibly in need of medical attention. The car itself was expensive—one of those powerful continental sports cars, with long silver wings—and from the look of it, it had not been involved in a traffic accident. On the contrary, it was parked sedately at the kerb, like any one of a dozen others parked in Kimbel Square—except that none of the others had an apparently senseless male reclining on the steering wheel.

      Rachel stopped and sighed and glanced around her. But as was generally the case in such circumstances, she appeared to be the only pedestrian about at this particular moment, and she reflected rather wryly that if she had not decided to abandon Roger's party for personal reasons, she would not have found herself in this uncertain position. There were, inevitably, few people walking in the quiet London square at half-past eleven at night, and had her car been parked outside the building where Roger had his apartment, she would not have been one of them. As it was, she was faced with the uncomfortable awareness that if she ignored the man, he could conceivably lie there until morning before anyone else noticed him.

      If only she had accepted Roger's offer to walk her to her car, she thought impatiently. Roger would have known what to do. But after the row they had just had, she had not felt capable of speaking civilly to him, and instead, she had flounced off without even saying goodbye. Of course, she could always go back there and get assistance, but the idea of approaching Roger again after the things they had said to one another did not bear thinking about right now, and her only alternative seemed to be the police station.

      But where was the nearest police station? she wondered, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. Like pedestrians, police stations were few and far between in this fashionable district of London, and there was always the possibility that when she returned with help the car might have gone.

      Sighing again, she cast another look about her. If she could only ascertain what was wrong with him, she thought, stepping nearer to the car. It was difficult to draw any real conclusions with a pane of laminated glass between them, and with a resigned shrug of her shoulders she touched the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and feeling distinctly like a criminal, Rachel swung it open.

      The man did not stir, but in the illumination cast by the courtesy light, she was able to examine him more closely. He was, she surmised, in his late twenties or early thirties, with straight wheat-coloured hair that looked silver at present, and unusually dark skin. She guessed that either he was not English or he spent much of his life out of doors to account for his dark colouring, but as he was lying face-down on the steering wheel, it wasn't easy to make an accurate assessment. The watch on his wrist was made by Cartier, and his jacket, like the car and the gold bracelet on his other wrist, bore the imprint of wealth and influence. Other than that, she had no clues to his identity, and once again her eyes swept the Square searching for assistance.

      But there was still no one else within calling distance, and bending down she put a tentative hand on his sleeve. As she drew nearer, she could smell the unmistakable tang of leather and good tobacco that drifted from inside the car—that, and something else, something Rachel was slow to identify, but which became evident when she shook his sleeve. A bottle rolled from his lap on to the floor of the car, and although she automatically bent to retrieve it, she guessed before she lifted it what it was.

      Gin! she murmured to herself, staring at the bottle, which was almost empty. That the man might be blind drunk had seemed such an uncharitable conclusion, but now she gripped the bottle impatiently, strongly tempted to bring it down upon the unconscious man's head. He must be crazy, she thought scornfully, shaking her head. If a policeman strolled across Kimbel Square and observed him, he could face a criminal conviction. Being drunk in charge of a car was not consequent upon one actually driving the vehicle, and these days such offences were given the maximum penalty.

      With