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 Anneâs powerful, passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
Iâve always wanted to writeâwhich is not to say Iâve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasnât until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishersâ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, Iâm literallyâexcuse the punâstaggered by whatâs happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from childrenâs 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 Iâd 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 thatâs 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 canât imagine not having a current book on the typewriterâyes, itâs my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. Heâs 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 Iâd be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
THE apartment was in one of the more expensive parts of the city. Not a high-rise, despite the many luxury apartments that were available in that kind of real estate. No, the apartment Isobel had chosen was on the upper floor of a converted Victorian townhouse, and what it lacked in modern amenities it more than made up for in style and elegance.
It didnât surprise Jake that she had preferred the older building. Isobel came from old money, and, however straitened her circumstances, sheâd rather freeze in rooms that had never been intended to be warmed by central heating than live in comfort in contemporary uniformity.
Not that it hadnât been expensive. Jake knew exactly how expensive it had been. He should do, he reflected ironically. Heâd bought it for her when they separated, and heâd held the lease on it ever since.
Jake had to park his car on the adjoining street and walk the couple of hundred yards to Eaton Crescent. It was raining, typical May weather, and he scowled as the downpour soaked the shoulders of his leather jacket. Another jacket bites the dust, he thought resignedly, wondering when heâd got used to discarding clothes like unwanted parking tickets. He should have used an umbrella. There was a golfing one in the boot of his car, put there by a grateful salesman when heâd bought the expensive vehicle. Needless to say, it had never been used.
There was a panel beside the door with the names of the various occupants of the apartments beside individual bells. It was supposed to be for security purposes, but Jake knew that persistent callers simply rang all the bells until someone was foolish enough to let them in. There was no intercom, and although at the time heâd bought it heâd expressed his doubts to Isobel, she had been indifferent to his concerns.
âDonât pretend you care what happens to us,â sheâd declared coldly, on their way back to the estate agentâs office, and heâd refused to take the bait.
Now, pushing back the thoughts of that ugliness, Jake pressed Isobelâs bell and waited for the door to unlatch. She knew he was coming so she could hardly pretend to be out.
He didnât have to wait long. Almost immediately the catch was released and he pushed open the door into the hall.
Despite its rather gloomy interior, the hall smelled pleasantly of pot-pourri and furniture polish. A cleaning service kept the public halls and stairways in excellent repair, and the immediate impression was of warmth and gentility.