Melting 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.

      Melting 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

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      LONDON AIRPORT was crammed with holidaymakers trying to get out of the city, a circumstance which was not improved by striking baggage-handlers, refusing to load and offload luggage. Frustrated matrons, trailing fractious children, struggled after their burdened husbands, and the general chaos which ensued rivalled Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day.

      Olivia, weighted down by her own two cases, was glad she was not going in the opposite direction. Her flight had landed without delay, and only a handful of passengers had been obliged to sort out their belongings. It didn’t make her suitcases any less heavy, but it had saved time. The rather handsome young man who had been sitting across from her in the plane had offered to help, but he had had cases of his own, plus an assortment of sporting equipment which labelled him a tennis pro, and she had smilingly declined. Besides, she had expected Richard to be here to meet her, and had looked forward to the young man’s speculation when her stepbrother appeared on the scene. He had watched Jules kiss her a lingering goodbye in Paris, and she anticipated his reactions to the man meeting her in London with pleasurable amusement. But Richard had not appeared, and as her arms began to ache, and she began to sweat, irritation overtook all other emotions. Richard should have been here, she thought frustratedly. It was the least he could do when it was more than eight months since she had seen him. His trip to New York at Christmas had coincided with her homecoming, and at Easter she had stayed in Paris with a girl friend because he had been in South America. Surely he could have made an effort to be in London at the end of July.

      She emerged from the Customs hall to find Alex Bishop, her brother’s personal assistant, waiting for her. The sight of him only added to her annoyance, knowing as she did that had Richard troubled to come himself he could have pulled strings and met her off the aircraft. Alex Bishop, on the other hand, would never do a thing like that. He was quite content to wait in the lounge, realising that sooner or later she would come through.

      ‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her politely now, taking the cases from her unresisting fingers. ‘Did you have a pleasant flight?’

      Olivia pursed her lips for a moment, and then allowed a sigh of resignation to escape her. What was the point of railing at one of Richard’s bright young men? It wasn’t Alex’s fault that her stepbrother wasn’t here, and if she wanted to sustain Richard’s good humour, it wouldn’t be politic to be rude to Alex Bishop.

      ‘Very pleasant, thank you,’ she responded now, as they crossed the rubber flooring to the automatic doors. ‘Apart from having to carry my own cases.’ She paused. ‘How are you? How’s Richard?’

      Alex Bishop allowed her to precede him through the sliding doors, and they emerged into the dusty sunlight of the terminal area. The smell of oil and diesel permeated the air, but the sight of Richard’s dark blue Mercedes was a welcome relief. The sleek limousine nudged the kerb, impervious to the double yellow lines that signified ‘No Waiting’, and Olivia settled herself in the front passenger seat as Alex stowed her cases in the boot.

      He came to join her a few moments later, folding his lanky length behind the wheel, and casting a shy, admiring glance in her direction. ‘You look well,’ he commented, inserting the key in the ignition, and Olivia stifled her annoyance at his avoidance of answering her question.

      The next few minutes were taken up with negotiating the traffic building up outside Terminal 1. Chartered buses, unable to depart on schedule because their passengers were still sorting out their luggage, clogged the departure lanes, and there was much heavy braking and honking of horns as impatient motorists sought to escape the worst holdups of peak hour traffic.

      ‘It doesn’t get any better,’ observed Alex apologetically, his thin face mirroring his regret. ‘I think we’ll have to copy the Americans and use helicopters to get from place to place.’

      Olivia surveyed the scene with