Hell Or High Water

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 [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Hell or High Water

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE apartment was silent except for the clatter of the typewriter, when the doorbell rang. It was a frustrating intrusion into the mood of the narrative, and the man seated at the machine stopped typing abruptly to rest his balled fists on the desk. Then, stilling the impulse to tear up the ruined page of the manuscript, he rose to go and answer it, a second peal grating in his ears as he crossed the floor. He was not in the mood for casual callers, and friends of long acquaintance knew better than to interrupt him at a time like this, but his suspicions as to who it might be were realised when he opened the door.

‘Jarret! The reluctantly-ageing blonde who crossed the threshold without waiting for his invitation caressed his cheek with an elegantly-gloved hand. ‘Mmmm, you haven’t shaved this morning, darling. But I love you anyway, rough or smooth!’

The sensuous tones of the woman’s voice had little effect on their recipient. With the grimness of impatience tightening his lean features, he leaned against the door frame, making no move to close it, and his feminine visitor allowed a slightly nervous trill of laughter to escape from her lips.

‘Darling, don’t stand there looking at me as if I wasn’t welcome …’

‘You’re not!’ he retorted.

‘… particularly when I came here with some rather exciting news for you.’

There was a controlled expellation of breath, and then he said flatly: ‘I’m not ready for this, Margot. As you can see, I’m working …’ he waved a careless hand towards the desk, ‘and I’d like you to go as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, we are a sourpuss today, aren’t we?’ she teased, showing no immediate inclination to obey him. Instead, she descended the two steps that separated the body of the apartment from the entrance on perilously high heels, and did a deliberate pirouette beside his desk. ‘What’s thematter?’ she asked, puckering her lips, gloved fingers flicking the pages beside the typewriter without interest. ‘Did we have a heavy night last night, or did we just get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’

‘Get out of here, Margot!’

The demand was made almost mildly, a narrow-eyed mask guarding his expression, and she chose not to respond to it.

‘Don’t be so grumpy, Jarret,’ she pouted. ‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink? The traffic in Knights-bridge was terrible, and I’m simply dying for something long and cool and satisfying. Just like you, darling.’

‘I warn you, Margot …’

The quietly threatening tone at last got through to her, and with a gesture of offence she tilted her chin. With the lines of her throat ironed out by the attitude, it was one of her best poses, and she knew it, but Jarret felt the tightness of repulsion in his stomach as he surveyed the deliberate come-on.

‘Can’t you at least have the courtesy to close the door for a moment?’ she demanded at last, when her ploy produced no reaction. Her mouth compressed. ‘You really are the most selfish bastard, Jarret. I don’t know why I care about you.’

‘Don’t you?’ Jarret’s expression was resigned, but after a slight hesitation he closed the door and came down the shallow stairs to where she was standing. ‘So?’ he said, brows arching enquiringly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Lady Margot Urquart’s lips twitched frustratedly. She did not like the forbearing tone of his voice, or trust the superficiality of his words. In spite of their different social backgrounds, he was still able to make her feel like a gauche ingénue, and despite the fact that she was more than ten years his senior, the cool blue-eyed stare reduced her to an open-mouthed sycophant.

‘You’re a brute, Jarret!’ she protested, running a deliberate hand into the unbuttoned neckline of her silk shirt. ‘Here I am, making a special journey just to do you a good turn, and you treat me like a—like a leper! I know you’re working, I know you want to get on with your book.But that’s why I’m here—to help you.’

‘I didn’t know you’d taken a course in typewriting, Margot,’ Jarret commented dryly, brushing past her to tug the offending sheet out of the machine and roll it into a ball between his palms. ‘But I’m sorry to disappoint you, I prefer to work alone, and with fewer interruptions the better.’

‘Oh, Jarret!’ Margot’s lips pursed. ‘You know I didn’t mean that. And why are you destroying that page? Surely I didn’t spoil your train of thought.’

‘I’ve screwed it up,’ remarked Jarret unpleasantly, and her chin tilted once more. ‘And that’s not the only thing that’s screwed up around here. I’d be grateful if you’d get to the point and go!’

Margot sniffed. ‘If you’re going to be like that …’

‘What? Like what?’ Jarret rested his denim-clad hips against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘How am I expected to behave? I didn’t invite you here, Margot.’

‘It’s that Sinclair girl, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed suddenly, switching tactics completely. ‘Jo told me you’d been seeing her. That’s why you’re being so utterly beastly—because of her!’

Jarret’s expression did not change. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here, Margot?’ he suggested, ignoring her outburst, and with a sound of deep frustration she flounced across the room.

‘Well, if you won’t offer me a drink, I’ll help myself,’ she declared, glancing at him over her shoulder as she halted by a tray of bottles and glasses. ‘Can I get you one, the hair of the dog, and all that, or will that disturb your creative impulses too?’

‘I don’t want a drink, Margot,’ he refused, levering his lean body into the leather chair beside the desk and draping one leg casually over the arm. ‘I don’t need that kind of stimulation this early in the morning.’

‘It is half past eleven, darling,’ Margot defended herself sulkily, pouring a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler chinking with ice and adding the merest touch of American dry. ‘Hmm, that’s better,’ she affirmed, licking the traces of alcohol from her full lips and viewing him mistily. ‘The first drink of the day is always the best.’

‘And that’s the first?’ mocked Jarret sceptically, and then regretting the impulse to arouse further recriminations, added: ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve come here now, Margot? Or must I assume that was just an excuse to pacify the beast in me?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ Margot was indignant, flicking her pleated skirt with a careless finger, drawing attention to the slenderness of leg and ankle. ‘I really do have some news for you, Jarret, but I’m half inclined not to tell you, you’ve been so uncivil to me.’

Jarret’s mouth thinned. ‘Then don’t.’

Margot’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be like that, just because I choose to tease you. You know I could never deny you anything. I don’t know why you persist in treating me like a fool!’

Jarret swung his leg to the floor. ‘Look, Margot, I don’t have the time to sit here and discuss my shortcomings. Okay, I’m a brute and a bastard and I treat you abominably. So what’s the attraction? I’ve never given you any reason to think you could run my life for me.’

Margot sighed, swinging round on her heels and pacing restlessly to the windows. From this height, the whole panorama of London and its greater outskirts were spread out below in sprawling detail, a grey plume of smoke rising from the chimneys of the power station across the river. It was a grey day, dull and uninspiring, when the metropolis looked somewhat less than its best.

Turning, she surveyed the room behind her with more satisfaction. It was austere, of course, recognisably masculine, but attractive in spite of that. She would have liked to have thought that she had been instrumental in his leasing this apartment, but the truth was its owner had been more than willing to acquire a tenant of Jarret’s increasing popularity, and consequently he had been given the pick of the block. That had been more than eighteen months ago now, and his reputation still continued its meteor-like rise.

Jarret, watching the emotions that governed her expression, wondered exactly what Jo Stanford had told her. That lady had her own reasons for feeling aggrieved with him, and he felt the increasingly familiar pangs of dissatisfactionin him, that came from a surfeit of social adulation.

Margot finished her drink, and then, surveying the ice cubes still slipping around in the bottom of her glass, said: ‘You know how you’ve been saying that London is too—hectic for you, that this apartment is too accessible to really provide ideal working conditions? Well …’ she paused to give her next words their full impact, ‘I’ve found just the place for you.’

‘Really?’ Irritation flicked along Jarret’s nerves. ‘You’ve found just the place for me? How considerate of you!’

‘No, really, Jarret, I mean it.’ Margot was aggravated by his sardonic tone. ‘I’m not joking. I know exactly the sort of place you need, and it just so happens that the owner is a friend of mine.’

‘You know, I thought perhaps he might be,’ remarked Jarret dryly, getting to his feet. ‘Well, thanks, Margot, but no thanks. If and when I do decide to leave London I’ll do so of my own volition, not to take up some offer you’ve contrived to arrange——’

‘Oh, you’re deliberately misunderstanding me!’ Margot almost stamped her small foot in impatience, reaching for the bottle of Scotch again and splashing its contents into her glass. ‘I haven’t arranged anything, nor do I intend to. Except perhaps—well, you are the one who has to make the decision.’

‘Yes, I am, and if you don’t mind——’

‘Jarret! Jarret, listen to me!’ She swallowed a mouthful of Scotch for sustenance, and approached him severely, holding herself erect. ‘I know what I’m talking about. It’s not just an idea—King’s Green is exactly the place for you.’

Jarret faced her wearily, irritation giving way to endurance as he regarded her appealing features. ‘When will you learn that I prefer to do my own hunting, house or otherwise,’ he told her steadily, and she plucked wretchedly at his sleeve, unwillingly inciting his sympathy.

‘Won’t you at least consider the suggestion?’ she ventured, encouraged to transfer her hand from his sleeve to his cheek, gazing up at him limpidly. ‘It really is a gem of a place, and Alice wouldn’t be selling at all, if the upkeep of it wasn’t so prohibitive.’

Jarret’s mouth twisted. ‘So what makes you think I needsuch an extravagance?’

‘Darling …’ She reached up to touch his unshaven jaw with her lips. ‘You can afford it, you know you can. And King’s Green is the ideal spot for you to work.’

Jarret put her firmly away from him, and ignoring the wounded look she gave him, walked half resignedly across the room. ‘Where is this place?’ he demanded, massaging the back of his neck with impatient fingers. ‘Is King’s Green a village or a house or what?’

‘It’s a house,’ Margot offered, at once forgoing her pride in her eagerness. ‘Queen Anne, I think. Oh——’ this as he started to protest, ‘—it’s in excellent condition. A little damp in places perhaps, but that can easily be rectified, and it’s in an absolute dream of a setting.’

‘Where?’ Jarret distrusted Margot’s enthusiasm, but her next words allayed his suspicions.

‘A place called Thrushfold in Wiltshire. On the Wiltshire-Dorset borders, actually. Near enough to London to drive up in a matter of hours, but not near enough to attract casual visitors.’

Jarret acknowledged this with a faint inclination of his head. ‘Wiltshire,’ he murmured reflectively. ‘I see.’

‘You’d love it!’ Margot pressed her advantage. ‘It’s got everything—half a dozen bedrooms, two or three reception rooms, and a library! You could work in there. It overlooks the paddock. And the grounds themselves are just big enough to ensure privacy.’

‘How big?’ enquired Jarret dryly, and Margot moved her shoulders in a little offhand gesture.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ she prevaricated. ‘Does it matter? Forty—maybe fifty, I’m not sure. What’s really important——’

‘Forty or fifty what?’ Jarret interrupted her. ‘Acres? Margot, you must be out of your tiny mind! I’m no land-owner!’

Margot pouted. ‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t be, darling. I think you’d make a marvellous squire! And King’s Green hasn’t had one of them for—oh, ten years or so.’

‘Let me get this straight.’ Jarret pushed his thumbs into the low belt of his denims. ‘You’re suggesting I buythis—this King’s Green from some—friend of yours?’

‘A school friend, yes. Alice Chase.’

‘And she’s a widow?’

‘Hardly your taste, darling,’ retorted Margot spitefully. ‘She’s twelve stone if she’s an ounce!’

Jarret ignored her. ‘That’s the proposition you came to put to me,’ he continued. ‘That I buy—King’s Green.’

‘Why not?’ Margot was forced to put her maliciousness aside. ‘It is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? A place in the country. Somewhere you can work—in peace.’

‘Mmmm.’ Jarret sounded as though he was extremely doubtful.

‘Well, at least come and see it,’ she urged him. ‘There’s no harm in that, is there? I mean, you’re not committed to anything, are you? And I’m sure you’ll be—enchanted, when you see it.’

‘Enchanted?’ Jarret stifled his rather wry humour. ‘Oh, Margot, you don’t know me very well, do you?’

‘Well enough,’ she murmured huskily. ‘But not as well as I’d like.’

Jarret sighed. ‘Look, I guess you thought you were doing me a favour, coming here and letting me know about this place, but—well, I can’t make a decision just like that. I—need to think about it.’

‘Of course.’ She sounded as if she had never doubted it. ‘But you will make up your mind soon, won’t you, darling? I mean, I told Alice I’d let her know within a couple of days.’

‘A couple of days,’ echoed Jarret irritably. ‘Hell, I can’t make that kind of decision in forty-eight hours!’

Margot hesitated. ‘Come and see it,’ she suggested again. ‘It’s only an hour or two’s drive. We could go tonight, and come back tomorrow.’

‘We?’

‘Of course, darling. I promised Alice I’d introduce her to you. She’s one of your fans, you know. She has all the books you’ve written.’

‘All three of them?’ mocked Jarret cuttingly.

Margot flushed. ‘Will you come?’

‘I can’t,’ he stated flatly. ‘Not today. It’s out of the question.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ she persisted, only the tightening of her lips indicating her reaction to the inevitable reasons for his refusal. ‘Jarret, you owe it to yourself——’

Jarret cut her off without preamble. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he specified abruptly. ‘It’s Friday. We can drive down before lunch and be back in town in time for dinner.’

‘Are you making me an offer?’ Margot probed, but Jarret’s expression was not encouraging.

‘I have work to do,’ he reminded her, and she made a sulky gesture of acceptance.

‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘So early!’ Margot was horrified.

‘If I can make it, surely you can,’ he averred dryly. ‘Is it a date?’

‘How could I refuse such a gallant proposition?’ she retorted, showing a little of the humour which had attracted his attention in the first place. ‘All right, darling, nine o’clock it is. Will you pick me up?’

‘Promptly,’ he affirmed, with a bow of his head, and forced to the conclusion that for the present this was all she could expect of him, she put down her glass and moved towards the door.

‘Until tomorrow,’ she murmured, lingering long enough for him to respond if he chose, but Jarret remained where he was.

‘Tomorrow,’ he agreed shortly, and the door closed rather heavily behind her.

With her departure, Jarret breathed a sigh of relief. Then, raking back his hair with aggressive fingers, he went to take one of the narrow cigars he favoured from the carved box on the bookshelves. He was already regretting the impulse he had had to give in to her, and impatience carved its identity across his dark features. Why the hell had he agreed to such a wasted outing? It was only her way of getting him to spend the day with her. Why on earth hadn’t he told her to go to hell, and shut her out of his life once and for all? He shook his head. A country estate was not for him, and she knew it. A house, maybe. That had possibilities. But forty or fifty acres of arable land …

He slumped down into the chair beside the typewriter and propped his head on his hand. What had he done that morning? Two, maybe three pages! He wasn’t even satisfied with what he had written. It was vacuously amateurish, he thought, with savage criticism, ignoring completely the incisive prose which had made a bestseller of his first novel and subsequent successes of his second and third. Nevertheless, the meaningless words and phrases were not Jarret Manning at his best, and the horrible suspicion that he had nothing more to say stirred in his stomach like a corpse in its tomb.

It was useless to pretend he was working at the moment. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, and where once these minor distractions would not have troubled him, lately he was inventing reasons for not sitting down at the typewriter.

Would a change of surroundings help? He suspected it might. Margot had been right when she had said he was too accessible in London, too open to distraction, and maybe for his own good he needed a change. Too many parties, too many drinks, too many late nights … The indictment was endless, and he had no one to blame but himself. He had let the fruits of his success dictate his style of living, and for a writer that was professional suicide. Maybe if he got away from town for a while, he would have time to think. In the clean, unpolluted air of the countryside his brain would reassert itself, and recover from the crippling effects of too little stimulation and too much apathy.

Realising he was not about to write anything of significance today, he determinedly put his self-doubts aside and went to wash and shave. Then, adding a navy corded jacket to his denims, he left the apartment. Downstairs in the underground car park, one of the fruits of his success he did appreciate awaited him, and he lowered his lean body behind the wheel, and started the powerful twelve-cylinder engine. It responded without effort, and he reversed out of the space and then accelerated smoothly up the ramp to the street.

It took him less than half an hour to reach his destination, a narrow terraced house in a row of the same, situated in a less salubrious area across the river. The sun was endeavouringto break through the clouds as he parked his car at the kerb, and levered himself out on to the pavement, and he paused to grin at an elderly matron peering through the lace curtains of the house opposite before walking up the path to the house.

It could do with painting, he reflected, letting himself in with his key and slamming the door behind him. ‘It’s only me, Dad!’ he called by means of a warning, and then strolled down the narrow passage to the back of the house.

The old man was not in the living room or the kitchen, but the open back door indicated his whereabouts. He was in the long narrow garden, pottering about in the greenhouse, and Jarret pulled a wry face as he went to show himself.

‘What are you doing here?’ the old man demanded peevishly, not entirely able to hide his pleasure nevertheless. ‘I don’t normally see you Thursdays, do I? You got some trouble or something, or is this just a social call?’

Jarret grimaced. ‘That’s some line in welcomes you’ve got there, Paddy,’ he remarked without rancour leading the way back to the house. ‘I make a special effort to come and see you, and what do you say?’

‘Don’t call me Paddy,’ the old man grunted, coming into the kitchen after him and reaching for the kettle. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or are you needing something stronger? I’ve a bottle of stout in the cupboard, if it’s not too strong for your taste.’

Jarret grinned. ‘The stout would be fine,’ he agreed, propping himself against the table. ‘And how have you been since the last time I saw you?’

The old man busied himself getting out two bottles of stout and levering off the caps. Jarret saw, with some concern, that his hands were getting shaky, and there wasn’t the strength in them there had been a year ago. That stroke he had had, had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and Jarret wished he would let him do something for him.

But Patrick Horton was intensely independent, he always had been, and since Jarret’s mother died he had resisted all efforts to share in his stepson’s success. It was ironic really, Jarret thought now, that his mother should havedied only weeks after his first book was published, and the subsequent success it had enjoyed had never made her life any easier.

Now he accepted the stout the old man handed him, declined the offer of a glass, and raised the bottle to his lips. It was rich and black, and only slightly warm despite the heat of the day, and he drank it thirstily, acknowledging the old man’s pleasure in his enjoyment as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.