Captive Destiny

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.

Captive Destiny

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

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE telephone rang and Emma picked up the receiver.

‘Avery Antiques. Can I help—–’ she was beginning, when a harsh, masculine voice interrupted her.

‘Emma! How are you?’

Her heart quickened its beat for a moment and then she squashed the sudden anger that gripped her. There was no point in expending unnecessary emotion needlessly. She ought to be able to speak to Jordan without feeling anything at all, but it wasn’t easy when for so long resentment had coloured her reactions towards him.

‘Good morning, Jordan,’ she responded now, coolly, without expression. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘So formal!’ he remarked cynically. ‘I asked how you were.’

‘Oh—well, I’m fine, thank you.’ Emma’s fingers tightened on the receiver. It wasn’t like Jordan to care, one way or the other.

‘You are? Good.’ She could hear the irony in his tone. There was a long pause, then: ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I am?’

I don’t particularly care! But the words were never spoken. Instead, she said: ‘I am rather busy at the moment, Jordan. If there’s something—–’

‘There is.’ His crisp tones overrode her polite rejection. ‘Have dinner with me this evening.’

‘No!’ The refusal was out before she had time to formulate her feelings. ‘That is—I’m afraid I can’t have dinner with you this evening.’

‘Why not?’ Jordan was not a man to accept defeat so easily.

‘Because—because I already have an appointment, as it happens,’ she declared, justifying her words with a silent admonition to her conscience. After all, she had told Mrs Ingram she was going to make a start on clearing out the attic and despite the cold weather she had considered going up there tonight.

‘I see.’ She heard Jordan’s impatient intake of breath. Tomorrow night, then.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Another appointment?’ His sarcasm was showing.

‘No.’ She moved the receiver to her other ear. ‘As a matter of fact, I—I really don’t want to have dinner with you, Jordan.’

‘Afraid of making David jealous? From what I hear, I don’t believe you have to worry on that score.’

‘You swine, Jordan!’

‘Oh, come.’ He made an irritated sound. ‘I don’t want to row with you, Emma. I just want to talk to you, that’s all. Nothing more.’

‘No.’

She wanted to hang up on him then, but something kept her hanging on the line, despising herself for allowing him any opportunity to hurt her once again. Jordan Kyle was a past master in the art of hurting her, yet she still felt a tremor when she heard his voice.

‘Emma …’ He was obviously seeking for words. ‘I have to talk to you. You could say it’s—a matter of life and death.’

‘Whose death?’ Emma’s mouth was dry. ‘Yours?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He paused. ‘Well? Am I to be granted an audience?’

Emma hesitated. ‘You—you could come to the house. Have, dinner with—with David and me, if you want to.’ But she crossed her fingers as she suggested this. David would never sit down to a meal with Jordan Kyle.

Jordan sighed. ‘No, Emma. That wouldn’t do at all, and you know it.’

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Are you?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘All right, Emma. If I can’t persuade you to change your mind … I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Wait!’ He was going to hang up on her. She knew it. And at the same time, she couldn’t allow it. ‘I mean …’ She faltered as she tried to justify detaining him. ‘Why did you want to speak to me, Jordan?’

‘You’ll never know, will you?’ he retorted equably, and hung up on her.

Emma continued to sit there, holding the receiver, for several agonising seconds. Then, as if it had suddenly burned her, she replaced it on its rest, staring at it mutinously as the familiar resentment she felt towards Jordan enveloped her in a wave of hot indignation. How dare he ring her up like that? After all this time? How dare he coolly invite her out to dinner when for the past eight years he had apparently ignored her existence?

She drew a long steadying breath. Thank goodness she had refused him, she thought, smoothing her hair with a nervous gesture. At least she had shown him that he could not drop her and then pick her up again when it suited him. How she would have despised herself if she had given in to his persuasions! And how David would have despised her if he had found out!

Even so, her hands trembled as she reached for the majolica vase she had been dusting when the telephone rang. One had to admire his audacity, she thought reluctantly. No one could ever say that Jordan Kyle lacked temerity. And there was no doubt, she was curious to know why he had suddenly chosen to contact her again. Could it have anything to do with the business? No. Her mother was no longer even a shareholder, and besides, if it had had to do with her mother’s affairs, surely Jordan would have contacted her. But what else could it be? What other connection could there possibly be between the Kyle family and her own?

She was still standing by the desk, absently smoothing her duster over the cherubs’ heads depicted on the vase, gazing blindly through the belling leaded panes of the shop window, when Gilda returned. The older woman came into the shop with its mellow chiming bell, closed the door and approached her assistant without Emma seeming to be aware of her. She stretched out a hand without speaking to rescue the fragile piece of pottery, and Emma’s startled response was a justification for her employer’s prudence.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she gulped, as the vase fell harmlessly into Gilda’s waiting hand. ‘I—I was miles away.’

‘So I noticed,’ remarked Gilda dryly, setting the vase down safely on the desk. ‘For heaven’s sake, where were you? I was sure you hadn’t heard the bell.’

‘I hadn’t.’ Emma’s face was flushed with embarrassment. ‘You’re back early. Did you get what you wanted?’

Gilda Avery removed the sheepskin jacket she was wearing over a slim-fitting jersey suit and hung it on the stand behind the desk. Then she held out her wrist watch for Emma to see.

‘I don’t know what time you think it is, my dear, but I make it a quarter to one. Don’t you want any lunch today?’

‘A quarter to one?’ Emma could hardly believe it. What time had Jordan rung? Half past ten? Eleven? Whatever, she had been standing staring out of the window for well over an hour.

Shaking her head as if to shake away the sense of unreality which still gripped her, she exclaimed: ‘I seem to have fallen asleep, don’t I?’ She forced a worried smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve missed any customers.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ drawled Gilda amiably, subsiding into her armchair and stretching her booted legs in front of her. ‘God, I’m glad that’s over. Dealing with someone on a one-to-one basis is always harder than outbidding buyers at an auction.’

‘But did you get it?’ Belatedly Emma was remembering the French secretaire Gilda had gone to see that morning, and realising that in her absence she had done next to nothing.

‘Yes, I got it,’ Gilda replied now, pulling out a pack of Gauloises and putting one between her lips. ‘But …’ she lit the long French cigarette and inhaled deeply, ‘… at a vastly inflated price.’

‘Then why didn’t you—–’

‘—let it go?’ Gilda shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m getting soft in my old age, or perhaps Lady Margaret was too persuasive.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ Emma was striving for composure. ‘I—I can tell by your face that it’s what you wanted.’

‘Oh, it is!’ Gilda shed all pretence of indifference and enthusiasm shone in her light blue eyes. Drawing in her legs, she moved to the edge of her chair and resting her elbows on the desk, she exclaimed: ‘Emma, it’s exquisite. Really exquisite! It’s a genuine Riesener, of course, and the marquetry is so intricate—–’ She broke off abruptly to draw on her cigarette again, looking up at her young assistant. ‘You’ll love it, Emma. It’s so beautiful, I shan’t want to sell it.’

Unable to sustain the penetration of those curiously intent blue eyes, Emma moved round the desk, her fingernail trailing lightly over its surface. ‘Oh, I—I’m sure you will,’ she murmured, forcing a light tone. ‘Someone—some American—will come into the shop and offer you a fabulous price, and you’ll be unable to resist.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Gilda continued to study the girl’s unnaturally deepened colour. And then, with an abrupt change of topic, she said shrewdly: ‘What’s happened, Emma? Who’s been here? Why are you so nervous suddenly? Did David call?’

‘No.’ At least that was true. Emma pushed back the heavy weight of her hair with a determined hand. ‘You know what it’s like when you’ve been day-dreaming and you’re suddenly brought down to earth again. I—I guess I’m just a little off balance, that’s all.’

Gilda’s eyes narrowed. ‘What were you day-dreaming about?’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Emma shrugged. ‘This and that. Er—have you had lunch?’

‘No. I’ll have a sandwich here later.’ She frowned. ‘Emma, I don’t want to probe, but if there’s something worrying you, don’t you think you should tell me? We’ve been friends a long time, and I’ve known your family for years. If there’s something troubling you …’

‘Why should you think there’s something troubling me?’ Emma reached for her own suede coat and slipped her arms into the sleeves, and without waiting for an answer, added: ‘What sort of sandwich do you want? Ham or cheese?’

‘Ham, please.’ Gilda rose to her feet. ‘Emma, you’re not having trouble with David again, are you? I mean—well, he’s not being more objectionable than usual, is he?’

‘No!’ Emma pressed her lips together tightly. Then, as if suddenly coming to a decision, she said shortly: ‘It was Jordan. He rang.’

‘Jordan Kyle!’ Gilda’s eyes widened disbelievingly.

‘Do I know any other Jordan?’ demanded Emma, with an attempt at levity. Then, tautly: ‘Yes, of course. Jordan Kyle.’

Gilda breathed a sigh. ‘Am I permitted to ask why he telephoned?’

‘He asked me to have dinner with him.’

‘He what?’

‘Yes, I was surprised, too.’ Emma shifted awkwardly. ‘But there you are. The unexpected sometimes happens.’

‘Yes.’ Gilda regarded the girl opposite her with an anxious expression. ‘And did you agree?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Emma was glad she could speak honestly. ‘I told him I didn’t want to have dinner with him. Besides,’ she paused, ‘David wouldn’t approve, would he?’

‘No,’ Gilda agreed dryly. ‘But then David isn’t likely to approve of you doing anything that might upset his scheme of things.’

‘Oh, Gilda!’ Emma sighed. ‘I know you don’t like David. I know you have reason not to do so. But please, don’t put me in the middle, like a bone between two dogs.’

Gilda shrugged. ‘All right. Let’s leave David, for the time being. Why did Jordan invite you to dinner?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me.’

‘I see,’ Gilda nodded. ‘As enigmatic as usual. I wonder what’s going on? Do you think he still finds you attractive?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ Emma headed determinedly for the door. ‘The only thing Jordan Kyle ever found attractive was Tryle Transmissions, and you know it.’

‘Really?’ Gilda resumed her seat. ‘That’s not what I heard.’

Unwillingly, Emma was intrigued. ‘What—what do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Gilda flicked over the pages of an inventory. ‘Go get your lunch. And don’t forget my sandwich. I’ll have ham today.’ She chuckled. ‘I feel like a lion, not a mouse.’

‘Gilda!’ Emma clenched her fists, and as the woman looked up, she added: ‘What do you know? What have you heard about Jordan? Is he involved with some girl? Is she married?’

‘Does it matter to you?’ Gilda’s eyes softened. ‘Oh, yes, I can see it does. Emma!’ The tone was reproving now. ‘I thought you’d got over all that foolishness.’

‘I have.’ Emma held up her head. ‘But I’ve known Jordan all my life. Naturally I’m—interested in what happens to him.’

‘All right.’ Gilda picked up a pencil and toyed with it thoughtfully. ‘He’s been seen around with Stacey Albert. You know—her father has a controlling interest in—–’

‘—A.C.I. Yes, I know.’ Emma nodded jerkily. ‘The computer corporation.’ She paused. ‘Oh! Well, I didn’t know that.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Are they—getting married?’

‘Perhaps. Your Mr Kyle doesn’t seem too eager to tie himself into that kind of situation, does he? I mean, he’s what? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? Quite old not to have been married already.’

The skin over Emma’s cheekbones felt tight. ‘Yes, well—like I said, the company was always his first and last love.’

‘Maybe no longer,’ observed Gilda wryly, but Emma reserved her opinion. Even so, the possibility of Jordan being involved with another woman still had the power to weaken her knees.

The antique shop stood in the High Street. Because Abingford’s history dated back to feudal times, its size and reputation had spread, and in the season it was flooded with visitors from both sides of the Atlantic. Its timbered buildings were world-famous, and its cathedral dreamed beside the placid waters of the River Avon. It was near enough to Stratford, and the other attractions of the Cotswolds, to merit half a dozen decent hotels, but it still maintained the atmosphere of the country town it had always been. It was far enough from London not to attract a commuter population, yet near enough for a day’s visit using the efficient rail link. Emma had lived there all her life—at least, apart from the two years she had lived in London; and her family had lived in the district for as long as she could remember.

Today, as she hurried along the High Street and turned into Hunter’s Mews, however, she was paying little attention to her surroundings. Not even the east wind, bringing with it little flurries of snow, could distract her from the chaotic turmoil of her thoughts, and she had passed the butcher’s shop before she realised she needed to call in there. Turning back, she bought the fillet steak David liked grilled to a juicy rareness, and then hastened on towards Mellor Terrace.

Before Emma and David were married, David’s mother had lived in the house in this pleasant Georgian terrace, but when the wedding was planned, she had insisted on finding a flat and giving the house to her son as a wedding gift. In consequence, its furnishings were rather old-fashioned, with lots of dark furniture in rooms that were themselves inclined to be gloomy. Emma had planned to change all that. She and David had discussed interior decorating and colour schemes in those few short weeks of their engagement, but afterwards—after disaster had struck—he had lost all interest in changing anything. On the contrary, he seemed to cling to those things that were familiar with an almost obsessive grasp, and the idea of going against his wishes was unthinkable. Even so, there were times when Emma felt her mother-in-law’s hand in the matter, and guessed that Mrs Ingram was using David’s disability to her own advantage. She had always been a possessive woman, and the abnormality of their marriage made her position that much stronger.

Letting herself into the house in Mellor Terrace, Emma immediately sensed the presence of the only other person who had a key to her home. It was an intangible awareness compounded of their mutual antipathy, and the more physical evidence of her mother-in-law’s slightly cloying perfume. Attar of roses drifted along the hall, and with it the murmured sound of voices.

Emma was removing her coat when the wheels of David’s chair heralded his emergence from the living room. His hands on the wheels brought the chair to an abrupt halt when he saw her, and his pale features assumed the somewhat peevish air he invariably adopted with her these days.

‘You’re late,’ he observed shortly. ‘Fortunately, Mother’s here to keep me company, or I should have been most concerned. Doesn’t Gilda Avery know that I expect you home at a quarter past twelve?’

Sighing, Emma went to bestow a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she murmured apologetically, ignoring the impulse to defend herself. ‘Gilda had an important meeting this morning, and I had to hold the fort until she got back.’

‘If you ask me, I think that woman detains you deliberately,’ remarked Mrs Ingram, coming out of the living room to stand behind her son. A tall, well-built woman, she tended to overpower any opposition, but Emma had had plenty of experience in defying her.

‘Gilda wouldn’t do that,’ she said now, smiling in the face of hostility, knowing full well that Mrs Ingram would prefer her to argue, thus giving her an opportunity to gain her son’s support.

‘I don’t know why you have to work anyway,’ added her mother-in-law, digging up an old bone of contention. ‘Heaven knows, David spends enough time on his own as it is. I can’t imagine why you persistently follow your own career at the expense of your husband’s happiness.’

Emma’s tongue probed her upper lip. Then she said firmly: ‘David understands. I need an occupation. And so far as being alone is concerned, David wouldn’t want me around all the time. When he’s working—–’

‘When I’m working,’ put in David moodily. ‘A rare and wonderful occurrence these days.’

‘Oh, David …’

Whenever he got on about the shortage of commissions coming his way these days, Emma felt guilty. And yet his work was as good as ever. His artistic talents had not been impaired at all, but his attitude of mind coloured his illustrations, and his London agent had confided that unless David could shed his almost manic preoccupation with misery and suffering he would no longer be able to represent him. It was just an added problem to the already overloaded problem of their lives, and there were times when Emma wished it could have been she who had been crippled in the crash. It was at times like these when she chided herself for insisting on continuing with her job, but most of the time she accepted that without the three days a week she spent at Avery Antiques she would go mad.

Now, leaving David to offer his mother another glass of sherry, she went into the kitchen and turned on the grill. The steaks would not take long, and as she had bought extra to go into the freezer it was no problem to cater for three instead of two. Mrs Ingram was a frequent visitor to the house, and Emma had long abandoned the idea of being mistress in her own home.

Lunch was ready in half an hour, and seated at the square mahogany table in the dining room overlooking the walled garden at the back of the house, Emma relaxed a little. Why not? she asked herself, sipping at the glass of wine David had produced to drink with the meal. It was perfectly natural that hearing from Jordan again after all this time should have disconcerted her, but she was over the worst now and she was glad she had confided in Gilda. She was the only person she could confide in, and telling her had lessened the impact somehow. All the same, there was still the element of unease in not knowing what he had wanted, but that would dissipate with time. He had probably been at a loose end, she thought wryly. He must have been, to ring her when he had made it brutally plain in the past that their relationship had meant nothing serious to him. Did he think perhaps that now she was married she might be more accommodating? What kind of relationship did he think she had with David? Or didn’t he think about David at all?

Yet, if what Gilda said was true, he already had an accommodating girl-friend. Stacey Albert was a very sophisticated young lady, so why was Jordan bothering with the girl he had once known and discarded, the girl he had shed like an unwanted toy when her father sank into debt and finally killed himself? Her lips tightened. Oh, yes, as soon as the firm of Trace and Kyle, known familiarly as Tryle Transmissions, was bought out by the Kyle family, he no longer made any pretence of his feelings towards his father’s partner’s daughter.

‘Do you have to go back to the shop this afternoon?’

Mrs Ingram was speaking to her, and Emma looked up half guiltily, as if afraid her thoughts were visible for everyone to read.

‘I—beg your pardon? What? Oh, yes. Yes. I promised Gilda I’d take her a sandwich. She’s had no lunch.’

‘Can’t she afford to buy her own sandwiches?’ demanded David testily, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘You aren’t paid to feed your employer as well as yourself, are you?’

‘No,’ agreed Emma, biting her tongue on the desire to tell him that without her salary they couldn’t afford to drink wine at lunchtime either, and Mrs Ingram took up the comment.

‘She really is the most objectionable woman,’ she declared, with a sniff. ‘When I asked her to contribute to our charity fund, she had the nerve to tell me that her taxes alone would feed and clothe half the population of Abingford and she didn’t see why she should contribute when the state had millions of pounds just waiting to be applied for.’