As a child SARAH MORGAN dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.
Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isnât writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies, and any activity that takes her outdoors.
Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.
THEY were all staring.
He could feel them staring even though he stood with his back to them, his legs braced against the slight roll of the ferry, his eyes fixed firmly on the ragged coastline of the approaching island.
The whispers and speculation had started from the moment heâd ridden his motorbike onto the ferry. From the moment heâd removed his helmet and allowed them to see his face.
Some of the passengers were tourists, using the ferry as a means to spend a few days or weeks on the wild Scottish island of Glenmore, but many were locals, taking advantage of their only transport link with the mainland.
And the locals knew him. Even after an absence of twelve years, they recognised him.
They remembered him for all the same reasons that he remembered them.
Their faces were filed away in his subconscious; deep scars on his soul.
He probably should have greeted them; islanders were sociable people and a smile and a âhelloâ might have begun to bridge the gulf that stretched between them. But his firm mouth didnât shift and the chill in his ice blue eyes didnât thaw.
And that was the root of the problem, he brooded silently as he studied the deadly rocks that had protected this part of the coastline for centuries. He wasnât sociable. He didnât care what they thought of him. Heâd never been interested in courting the good opinion of others and heâd never considered himself an islander, even though heâd been born on Glenmore and had spent the first eighteen years of his life trapped within the confines of its rocky shores.
He had no wish to exchange small talk or make friends. Neither did he intend to explain his presence. Theyâd find out what he was doing here soon enough. It was inevitable. But, for now, he dismissed their shocked glances as inconsequential and enjoyed his last moments of self-imposed isolation.
The first drops of rain sent the other passengers scuttling inside for protection but he didnât move. Instead he stood still, staring bleakly at the ragged shores of the island, just visible through the rain-lashed mist. The land was steeped in lore and legend, with a long, bloody history of Viking invasion.
Locals believed that the island had a soul and a personality. They believed that the unpredictable weather was Glenmore expressing her many moods.
He glanced up at the angry sky with a cynical smile. If that was the case then today she was definitely menopausal.
Or maybe, like the islanders, sheâd seen his return and was crying.
The island loomed out of the mist and he stared ahead, seeing dark memories waiting on the shore. Memories of wild teenage years; of anger and defiance. His past was a stormy canvas of rules broken, boundaries exploded, vices explored, girls seducedâfar too many girls seducedâand all against an atmosphere of intense disapproval from the locals whoâd thought his parents should have had more control.
Remembering the vicious, violent atmosphere of his home, he gave a humourless laugh. His father hadnât been capable of controlling himself, let alone him. After his mother had left, heâd spent as little time in the house as possible.
The rain was falling heavily as the ferry docked and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket and moved purposefully towards his motorbike.
He could have replaced his helmet and assured himself a degree of privacy from the hostile stares, but instead he paused for a moment, the wicked streak inside him making sure that they had more than enough time to take one more good look at his face. He didnât want there to be any doubt in their minds. He wanted them to know that he was back.
Let them stare and speculate. It would save him the bother of announcing his return.
With a smooth, athletic movement, he settled his powerful body onto the motorbike and caught the eye of the ferryman, acknowledging his disbelieving stare with a slight inclination of his head. He knew exactly what old Jim was thinkingâthat the morning ferry had brought trouble to Glenmore. And news of trouble spread fast on this island. As if to confirm his instincts, he caught a few words from the crush of people preparing to leave the ferry.