A Haunting Compulsion

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.

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

Copyright

‘DO COME, Rachel. You can’t possibly spend Christmas alone in London. Jaime won’t be home, you know that. We wouldn’t expect you to come, if he was. But you know how much Robert and I would like to see you again, so do come, do come, do come …’

Rachel closed her eyes, as the words echoed through her head, over and over, like a relentless tattoo beating against her brain. Liz had been so persuasive, so sympathetic about her father’s death, so determined that she should not spend the festive season alone in her flat, that it had seemed churlish to go on refusing. Where was the harm, after all? Liz and Robert were nice people, and she liked them. And since Jaime spent so much time abroad, they would no doubt welcome some young company.

Rachel sighed, and opened her eyes again, as the lights of Durham appeared through the hazy darkness ahead of the train. Only a few more miles and they would be in Newcastle, her destination, but despite her contention, the prospect was no longer so appealing.

Perhaps she should not have come, she argued with herself uneasily. This was Jaime’s home, not hers, these were Jaime’s parents. All right, so they had treated her more like a family friend than their son’s—what? Rachel’s lips tightened instinctively. Secretary? Girlfriend? Mistress? A shudder ran over her. Whatever she had been, she was no more, so how could she talk to them as she used to do? How could she discuss her plans for a future in which they had no part? It was an impossible situation. She could envisage the awkward looks, the pregnant silences, the periods of introspection, while each of them regretted the impulse which had brought them all together. And they were committed to ten days of this purgatory. It was going to be awful.

In an attempt to shake off the mood of melancholy which was settling on her, Rachel straightened up in her seat, and retrieving her handbag, extracted her compact. The compartment of the train was almost empty, so she flicked the case open and examined her miniaturised reflection in the mirror.

Her lipstick needed renewing, she decided, but apart from that, the three-and-a-half-hour journey from King’s Cross had not wrought any dramatic changes in her appearance. The same calm Madonna-like features gazed back at her, her dark chestnut hair thick and smooth from a centre parting, her cheekbones high and lightly tinted with becoming colour, her nose firm and straight, her wide mouth, with its sensuous lower lip, deceptively vulnerable. Yet the delicate conformity of those features chilled her somewhat, the slight tilt at the corners of dark-fringed green eyes only emphasising their cool remoteness. Her beauty had long since ceased to please her; the gratification which came from knowing she was attractive to men had died when Jaime proved its worthlessness; and although she still attracted male eyes wherever she went, she had learned to keep the opposite sex at a distance.