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.
IT HAD rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six oâclock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.
Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bedâor rather in Sanchiaâs bed, as she had expectedâinstead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.
His long fingers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not altogether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.
Only to find that letter waiting for himâ¦
He scowled. He didnât want to think about that now. Heâd spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadnât been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enriqueâs return the day before.
His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals of the morning glory that climbed the pillars beneath his balcony. Raindrops sparkled, creating a rainbow of colour on the pearly-white blossoms, drawing his eyes lower to where a veritable waterfall of jasmine and bougainvillaea spilled their beauty in the courtyard below.
Enrique had always believed his home was the most beautiful place on earth, but this morning it was difficult to empty his mind of intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts. Even the sunlight glinting on the spire of the church in the valley below the palacio brought him no pleasure today, and he turned back into his apartments with a barely controlled feeling of frustration.
The letter was lying on the floor beside his bed, thrown there after he had read it for the umpteenth time at three oâclock that morning, but he ignored it. Even though the temptation was to pick it up and read it once again, he put the impulse aside and, stripping off the silk boxers which were all he wore to sleep in, he strode into the adjoining bathroom.