Pale Orchid. 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.

      Pale Orchid

       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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE WIDE-BODIED JET taxied into its unloading bay, and the extending arm of the disembarking gangway was fitted into position. Across the tarmac, another plane was just taking off, its wings dipping to starboard as it executed the manoeuvre which would take it out across the blue waters of the Pacific, skirting the beach at Waikiki before heading back towards California.

      Watching the American Airlines jet climb into the late afternoon sky, Laura Huyton wished, with an urgency bordering on desperation, that she could be aboard that plane, heading back to San Francisco, and on to London. Seven thousand miles was a long way to come to face probable humiliation, and she wondered if she would have set out so confidently if she had known where her quest would lead her.

      Most of the other passengers waiting to disembark were holidaymakers, bound for one or other of the many excellent hotels Honolulu boasted. Some, unlike herself, were only stopping off in Oahu, en route for other islands in the Hawaiian group, but all of them, it seemed to Laura, were looking forward to their arrival. There had been a definite air of excitement in the aircraft, ever since it left San Francisco, and the stewardesses in their long Polynesian dresses added their own particular colour to the trip.

      ‘This your first visit to Hawaii?’ inquired the rather stout matron, who had been sitting beside her all trip, and who had tried on several occasions to engage Laura in conversation—without any success.

      ‘No.’

      Laura’s response was monosyllabic, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to talk about Hawaii; she didn’t want to be here; and had it not been for a brutal trick of fate, she doubted would ever have come here again.

      ‘You’ve been before then?’ persisted the woman, as the door to the plane was opened and passengers started to block the gangways in their haste to disembark.

      ‘Yes.’ Laura slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and gathered together the book and magazines she had bought to read on the journey. Then, feeling obliged to say something, if only to get the woman to move out of the aisle seat, she added briefly, ‘I used to work here some years ago. It’s not a place you forget.’

      ‘Absolutely not,’ exclaimed her inquisitor enthusiastically, getting to her feet, and although she would obviously have liked to continue this discussion, she was compelled to move ahead. ‘Have a good time,’ she added, as Laura slipped into the queue some spaces behind her.

      ‘I intend to.’ Laura allowed a small smile that gave her pale features animation. A good time, she reflected ruefully, was the last thing she was likely to have; but that was her problem and no one else’s.

      The pretty Polynesian girls who waited in the arrivals hall had almost exhausted the supply of flower garlands they handed out to holiday visitors. The leis, as they were called, were very popular with tourists, and Laura could still remember her delight when, on her first visit to the islands, she had received the symbolic welcome. Today, however, she sidestepped the smiling throng and hurried on down the escalator, to take her seat on one of the articulated buses, which transported passengers between the arrivals hall and the terminal buildings.

      By the time she had collected her luggage from the carousel and summoned a cab, the sun was sinking and, giving the address of the small hotel she remembered, just off Kalakaua Avenue, she settled back to enjoy the ride. Through the open windows of the cab, the air was deliciously warm and pungently familiar. Even before they crossed the Kapalama Canal, she could smell the Dole Canneries, and the water tank, painted to resemble a pineapple, rose like a huge yellow dome, sprouting its prickly stalk.

      To her right, the less attractive aspects of the island’s economy gave way to the waving masts of the yacht marina. Dozens of sailing craft, from modest dinghies to ocean-going schooners,