Betrayed

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.

Betrayed

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE aircraft banked over the Thames, and the sun, which had been dazzling Olivia’s eyes moments before, swung across the cabin to blind the passengers sitting on the other side. Below her, the sprawling mass of London and its suburbs was giving way to the more sparsely populated area around the airport, and she heard the grinding rush of the undercarriage being activated as the huge jet made its final approach to Heathrow.

Her stomach flipped, but not because of the excitement of landing. At least, not with any feeling of anticipation, she acknowledged tensely. Rather, it was the awareness that in a matter of minutes she would be setting foot on British soil again, something she had believed she would never do.

Of course, when she had made that vow to herself she had been more than ten years younger, she reflected drily, remembering the devastation she had felt when she was leaving. Her whole world had been falling apart—or that was the way it had seemed then. She had been desperate to get away, desperate to put as many miles between her and Lower Mychett as was humanly possible. She doubted even her grandmother had expected quite such a violent reaction, but then, Harriet Stoner was not one to regret her words. And, to be fair, she had discovered that at least a part of what her grandmother had told her was true; time did effect change; and what had once seemed a justifiable reason for cutting herself off from the rest of her family no longer seemed so important.

Or did it?

Impatiently, Olivia ran her fingers into the crimped mass of streaked blonde hair that brushed her shoulders at the sides and dipped slightly longer in the back. Wasn’t that part of the reason why she had come back, after all? she pondered, resting her hands at the back of her neck. Oh, her grandmother’s death should be reason enough, she supposed, but it had been ten years since she had seen her, and they had never been particularly close. On the contrary, the old lady had never made any secret of the fact that she favoured Olivia’s younger brother and sister, and her eventual revelations had only confirmed the reason for her dislike.

Still, when her mother’s telegraphed message had arrived, Olivia had hardly hesitated before booking her flight to England. In spite of all that had gone before, she had decided to attend the funeral, and not even Perry’s unconcealed disapproval could sway her from her purpose. Perhaps this was what she had been waiting for, she thought consideringly. Perhaps she needed this visit—this purging of the spirit, almost—before she could truly settle down to living the rest of her life in the United States. Goodness knew, she had been vacillating over her relationship with Perry for months now, and sooner or later she was going to have to make a decision. She loved him—of course she did—but she had told herself she wasn’t entirely convinced that she wanted to give up her independence just yet. Now, however, she wondered whether she hadn’t unconsciously been waiting for something—or someone—to make up her mind for her. This trip to England, to the village of Lower Mychett in Hampshire, where she had been born, would prove to her once and for all that the past was dead. Like her grandmother, she reflected bitterly. She just wished she could feel a sense of pity.

But it was difficult to feel anything for the woman who had so dispassionately devastated her young life. At eighteen she had been on the brink of what she had believed would be a wonderful future, and to have it all taken away had been the cruellest kind of torture. It had all sounded so melodramatic, after all. One of those awful family affairs you read about in the newspapers, but never expected to experience. At first she hadn’t believed it. She knew her grandmother had always resented her, and Olivia had half convinced herself that the old lady was just making it up to hurt her. But she wasn’t. The letters had proved that. And when Olivia had realised that she and Matthew were——

She supposed she ought to have blamed her mother, not her grandmother, but she hadn’t. How could she have blamed her mother for anything? Ever since Olivia’s younger sister, Sara, was born, Felicity Stoner had suffered from a heart condition and, in consequence, she was indulged by every member of the family, including her besotted husband. The idea of Olivia accusing her mother of ruining her life didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, it would have meant telling her father, too, and her grandmother had impressed upon her the fact that Robert Stoner knew nothing.

Olivia sighed, tipping her head back against her hands and stretching the slender column of her throat. The action unknowingly caused her breasts to press against the silky fabric of her shirt, and the man sitting next to her observed the movement with undisguised approval.

‘Nervous?’ he enquired hopefully, and Olivia, who had spent the early part of the journey fending off his unwanted attentions, shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Ah.’ The man, who was possibly in his late thirties, and evidently convinced of his own attractions, patently didn’t believe her. ‘Well, don’t worry. I cross the Atlantic at least half a dozen times every month, and landing one of these things is a piece of cake.’

‘You’re a pilot?’ enquired Olivia politely, deciding that as they were preparing to land she had nothing to lose, and the man’s pale, plump features took on a faint trace of colour.

‘I didn’t say that,’ he replied, a little tersely, and Olivia’s lips twisted as she turned to the window to watch their descent. ‘I just meant my business takes me to the States fairly frequently, and I feel quite at home in a 747.’

‘Really?’

Olivia tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, without really succeeding. But honestly, some men, seeing a woman travelling alone, couldn’t help but regard her as a challenge. She had hoped that travelling first class—Perry’s idea—would have alleviated that phenomenon, but it hadn’t worked that way. Still, she supposed it wasn’t his fault that her nerves were on edge, and that indulging in small talk only made her feel worse, not better.

‘Oh, yes,’ her companion went on now, proving that his skin was just as thick as she had anticipated. ‘I guess you could say I’m a seasoned traveller. A paid-up member of the mile-high club.’ His blue eyes narrowed assessingly. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

Olivia’s patience ran out. ‘That you like playing doctor in the lavatory?’ she suggested coolly, watching the heat surge into his cheeks, and his mouth take on an aggressive curve.

‘Clever bitch!’ he muttered, shifting irritably inside his seatbelt, and Olivia turned her attention back to the window, wishing the journey were over.

The wheels touched the runway only seconds later, and the high-powered whine of the reverse thrust briefly silenced the anxious clamour in her head. But the sudden conviction that she shouldn’t have come was borne in on her as the jet’s engines pushed her back against the cushions of her seat, and she closed her eyes.

What was she trying to prove, after all? That she hadn’t lost touch with her family? Of course she had! In spite of her many invitations, her parents had never made the trip to New York to see her. And although she had told herself it was because they were country people, and that the idea of travelling across the Atlantic was too adventurous for them, she knew in her heart of hearts that that wasn’t the real reason. The fact was, her father, at least, had never forgiven her for leaving home, and without the right to tell him the truth she had damned herself forever in his eyes.

Maybe she wanted to prove to herself that leaving Lower Mychett had been the best thing she had ever done. Surely that was true? Staying would only have made the whole situation even more painful than it already was, and Olivia knew she hadn’t had that kind of strength. Besides, her grandmother had encouraged her to make a clean break, and there hadn’t seemed any other way of doing it.

Perhaps her real reason for making this journey was to assure herself that Harriet Stoner was really dead, she considered bitterly. But even she was not that vindictive. After all, her grandmother had had her best interests at heart, even if it hadn’t seemed so at the time.

She opened her eyes, as the plane taxied towards its unloading bay, and the steward began handing out coats and jackets to the waiting passengers. And for the first time she allowed herself to wonder whether she didn’t secretly hope that she might see Matthew again. It wasn’t that the memory of what she had once felt for him was anything more than a rather foolish aberration. Given the way she felt now, she guessed she would have got over her infatuation for him in her own time, if her grandmother had not chosen to interfere. But Harriet Stoner had not been prepared to take the risk, and who could blame her? Her daughter-in-law had turned a blind eye to what was going on, but she couldn’t. She was a God-fearing woman, a stalwart of the church, and her strict moral values would not allow her to keep silent.

Olivia’s lips trembled for a moment, as she remembered how horrified she had felt then. At eighteen, everything had seemed so much more clearly defined; things were either black or white, with no room for shades of grey. Now, she knew different. Her experiences in New York had taught her that life was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours, and what had shocked her ten years ago would now barely warrant a lifting of her eyebrows. In New York, at least, she amended, loosening her safety-belt. No doubt in Lower Mychett the stigma would still remain.

The enclosed gangway had been secured to the aircraft’s side now, and the heavy door was swung open. Her fellow passengers crowded round the crew, wanting to be the first to reach Immigration, and to her relief the man beside her left without a backward glance. Sliding her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, Olivia gathered her handbag and the Louis Vuitton travel bag Perry had bought her, and got reluctantly to her feet.

‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stoner?’

One of the stewardesses was at her elbow, and Olivia gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Yes. I’m fine, thank you.’

‘I just thought——’ The stewardess hesitated. ‘You seemed rather reluctant to leave.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ remarked Olivia ruefully. And then, seeing the doubt in the other woman’s eyes, she shook her head. ‘No. I was just dawdling, that’s all. Thank you.’

The walk to Immigration was invigorating. At this hour of the morning the airport corridors were cool and uncrowded, and Olivia enjoyed stretching her long legs. Seven hours in a plane was too long, she acknowledged, shifting her travel bag to her other hand. But she had resisted Perry’s efforts to send her on Concorde. Perhaps even then she had been subconsciously delaying the moment when she would have to meet her family again.

By the time she had cleared Passport Control and collected her suitcase, it was nearly nine o’clock. She had sent an answering cable to her mother, saying she would be arriving today, but she didn’t expect anyone to meet her. For one thing, it was harvest time, and as both her father and her brother worked on the Rycroft estate they would have little time to spare for a trip to London, especially to meet the apparent black sheep of the family.

There were few porters about, and, loading her suitcase and travel bag on to a trolley, Olivia looped her bag over her shoulder, and set off to run the gamut of Customs. She chose the green channel. She had nothing to declare, and she emerged unscathed into the noisy Arrivals hall.

There were at least a hundred people thronged around the Arrivals gate. Some stared at her curiously, as if trying to decide if she was someone of importance, while others held up placards announcing their identity to the incoming passengers. But none of the placards held her name, and she was not surprised when she reached the end of the enclosure undeterred.

And yet, she must have thought someone might come to meet her, she reflected wryly, for she had refused to let Perry make any ongoing arrangements for the trip to Lower Mychett. She could take a taxi into London, of course, and find out the times of trains to Winchester. But the idea of facing the M4 in the rush hour—which was probably twice as bad now as it had been when she went away—was not appealing. Matthew used to meet her in London, she remembered fleetingly, and take her to his room at the college, but she thrust the thought away …

Perhaps she could hire a car, she thought determinedly. She had a driving licence, and although it had been obtained in the United States there were plenty of Americans who came to England for fly-drive holidays. Even so, she suspected they made their arrangements well in advance. Did she need an international driving licence, for example, and, if so, where could she get one? Could she get one? Probably not soon enough to get her to Lower Mychett for her grandmother’s funeral, she decided wearily. Oh, why hadn’t she let Perry arrange a hire car for her?

Because she had thought someone would meet her, she reminded herself again. After all, the letters she infrequently exchanged with her mother maintained the fiction of their relationship, so why shouldn’t she have asked her brother or her sister to meet her?

‘Olivia.’

The sound of her name scraped over nerves bared by her confusion, and Olivia swung round to face the speaker in utter disbelief. ‘M-Matthew!’

‘Hi.’ He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘How are you?’

‘Um—fine. I’m fine.’ Olivia swallowed, and glanced uneasily about her. ‘Did—um——’ She frowned. ‘Did you come to meet me?’

‘Well, I’m not plane-spotting,’ responded Matthew drily, his lean, dark features a bland impassive mask. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

Olivia expelled her breath in a rush. This couldn’t be happening, she decided unsteadily. Somehow she had conjured up Matthew’s image, and this conversation—this unnaturally polite conversation—was just a figment of her imagination. Dear God, when she remembered how he had reacted when she had told him of her plans to go to the United States. He had been furious—no, incensed. She had half thought he was going to hit her, and the words he had used to describe her were forever imprinted on her memory. That was why this little scenario had to be a hallucination. The Matthew she remembered would never have forgiven her. Of course, she hadn’t been able to tell him the truth either, she thought bitterly. And in the same position she guessed she would have felt the same, if Matthew had walked out on her. After all, they had been in love. In love! Oh, God …

‘Is this all your luggage?’ Matthew was asking now, and Olivia dragged her thoughts back to the present.

‘What?’ She stared at him blankly. And then, realising what he had said, she nodded jerkily. ‘Oh—yes. Yes. This is all.’

She looked about her as she spoke, half expecting to find herself the object of a dozen curious eyes, but no one was staring at her—not as if she was mad, anyway, she amended—so, if she was talking to herself, no one had noticed.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the second time someone had asked her that in the space of an hour, and Olivia forced herself to look at him again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m very well, thank you. And you?’

‘Oh—great. Just great,’ responded Matthew flatly, taking the trolley from her unresisting fingers. ‘My car’s parked outside. It’s in a restricted zone, so do you mind if we move it?’

Olivia swallowed again, and, unable to prevent herself, she put out a nervous hand and touched his sleeve. Beneath the fine leather of his jerkin his arm felt reassuringly hard and muscular, and she felt his instinctive rejection of her touch in the same instant that she pulled her hand away.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, making an issue of putting the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and Matthew gave her a brief hard look.

‘Is something wrong?’ he enquired, and just for a second she heard the edge of some stronger emotion in his tone.

‘No. No, nothing,’ she answered, quickening her pace deliberately. But she wondered what he would say if she told him she had had to assure herself that he was real.

Years ago, Matthew had driven an old beaten-up Mini that he and Sam Pollack, from Pollack’s garage, had worked on together until the engine sang as sweet as a bird. It had been fast, too. Too fast, Olivia’s father had maintained, although in those days he had been more concerned that Matthew’s intentions were honourable. After all, he was Lady Lavinia Ryan’s son; and even if his father was not Sir Matthew Ryan he did own Rycroft, which in Lower Mychett was as good as owning a title.

The car that was parked outside was a far cry from that old Mini however. It wasn’t particularly clean, and it was an estate, not a sports car. But it was a Mercedes; Olivia recognised that at once. And, judging by the size of its engine, it would be able to hold its own in any contest.

Matthew swung open the passenger door, and nodded at Olivia. ‘You get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll handle the luggage.’

Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Oh—thanks,’ she said, twisting the strap of her bag round her hand, as she eased herself into the wide, comfortable seat. But, now it seemed virtually certain that this was not some strange fantasy, other thoughts were asserting themselves. Not least, what was Matthew doing here? And who had asked him to come?

The car rocked as he slammed the tail-gate and, pushing the trolley aside, he came round the car and got in beside her. Folding his long legs beneath the wheel, he reached for his seatbelt, and Olivia permitted herself a fleeting look at his unyielding profile.

He hadn’t changed much at all, she thought reluctantly, aware of his muscled thigh only inches away from her own. He had always been reasonably tall—around six feet, she guessed—which had made her five feet eight inches so much less of a problem. Until she had started going out with Matthew, she had usually been as tall as, or taller than, the boys she had dated. Matthew was a little heavier, she decided, but that was to be expected. He was older. Thirty-two now, to her twenty-eight. How well she knew that equation.

His face had aged more than his body, she noticed. There were lines beside his nose and mouth, and his grey eyes were set more deeply. But his hair was just as dark, and as usual needed cutting, catching his collar at the back, and tempting her to put it straight.

But it was then, as she dipped her head to avoid his cool appraisal, that she noticed the ring on his left hand. Her stomach hollowed at the realisation that it was a wedding-ring, and, although she knew she had no right to feel the way she did at that moment, a feeling of absolute nausea swept over her.

She thought she was going to be sick. For one awful moment, she really thought she might throw up, there, in Matthew’s car, the feeling was so intense. But, somehow, she fought it back, though her forehead beaded with perspiration in the process. Dear God, she thought, surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand across her temples, it shouldn’t matter to her what Matthew had done in the years since their separation. It was perfectly reasonable that he should have found someone else, that he should get married, and probably start a family. That was what most men did, after all, and a man as attractive to the opposite sex as Matthew had always been was unlikely to have stayed single for too long.

Nevertheless, as the feeling of sickness subsided, Olivia knew that she was still not entirely objective where Matthew was concerned. Briefly, she had known again all the pain of that earlier betrayal, and, while it was easy to dismiss their relationship from a distance, a one-to-one confrontation was something else entirely.

In spite of her efforts to avoid his attention, the unevenness of her breathing could not be disguised, and Matthew had always been fairly perceptive where she was concerned.

‘Are you ill?’ he demanded, his attention torn between concern—and curiosity—about her welfare, and the heavy pressure of traffic around the airport. ‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well before you got into the car?’