Sirocco

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.

Sirocco

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE man was slumped over the steering wheel of the car, evidently unconscious, and possibly in need of medical attention. The car itself was expensive—one of those powerful continental sports cars, with long silver wings—and from the look of it, it had not been involved in a traffic accident. On the contrary, it was parked sedately at the kerb, like any one of a dozen others parked in Kimbel Square—except that none of the others had an apparently senseless male reclining on the steering wheel.

Rachel stopped and sighed and glanced around her. But as was generally the case in such circumstances, she appeared to be the only pedestrian about at this particular moment, and she reflected rather wryly that if she had not decided to abandon Roger's party for personal reasons, she would not have found herself in this uncertain position. There were, inevitably, few people walking in the quiet London square at half-past eleven at night, and had her car been parked outside the building where Roger had his apartment, she would not have been one of them. As it was, she was faced with the uncomfortable awareness that if she ignored the man, he could conceivably lie there until morning before anyone else noticed him.

If only she had accepted Roger's offer to walk her to her car, she thought impatiently. Roger would have known what to do. But after the row they had just had, she had not felt capable of speaking civilly to him, and instead, she had flounced off without even saying goodbye. Of course, she could always go back there and get assistance, but the idea of approaching Roger again after the things they had said to one another did not bear thinking about right now, and her only alternative seemed to be the police station.

But where was the nearest police station? she wondered, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. Like pedestrians, police stations were few and far between in this fashionable district of London, and there was always the possibility that when she returned with help the car might have gone.

Sighing again, she cast another look about her. If she could only ascertain what was wrong with him, she thought, stepping nearer to the car. It was difficult to draw any real conclusions with a pane of laminated glass between them, and with a resigned shrug of her shoulders she touched the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and feeling distinctly like a criminal, Rachel swung it open.

The man did not stir, but in the illumination cast by the courtesy light, she was able to examine him more closely. He was, she surmised, in his late twenties or early thirties, with straight wheat-coloured hair that looked silver at present, and unusually dark skin. She guessed that either he was not English or he spent much of his life out of doors to account for his dark colouring, but as he was lying face-down on the steering wheel, it wasn't easy to make an accurate assessment. The watch on his wrist was made by Cartier, and his jacket, like the car and the gold bracelet on his other wrist, bore the imprint of wealth and influence. Other than that, she had no clues to his identity, and once again her eyes swept the Square searching for assistance.

But there was still no one else within calling distance, and bending down she put a tentative hand on his sleeve. As she drew nearer, she could smell the unmistakable tang of leather and good tobacco that drifted from inside the car—that, and something else, something Rachel was slow to identify, but which became evident when she shook his sleeve. A bottle rolled from his lap on to the floor of the car, and although she automatically bent to retrieve it, she guessed before she lifted it what it was.

Gin! she murmured to herself, staring at the bottle, which was almost empty. That the man might be blind drunk had seemed such an uncharitable conclusion, but now she gripped the bottle impatiently, strongly tempted to bring it down upon the unconscious man's head. He must be crazy, she thought scornfully, shaking her head. If a policeman strolled across Kimbel Square and observed him, he could face a criminal conviction. Being drunk in charge of a car was not consequent upon one actually driving the vehicle, and these days such offences were given the maximum penalty.

With a helpless shrug, she bent and pushed the empty bottle behind the front seat. It was nothing to do with her if he chose to invite prosecution, she told herself. But as she straightened, the man stirred and groaned, and her initial intention to close the door again was hindered when he slumped sideways towards her.

‘Oh, lord!'

His weight almost threw her off her feet, and she had to grasp the roof of the car to save herself and him. Luckily, she was quite a strong girl and she was able to use her knees to propel him back into his seat, but the rocking motion had aroused him and when she attempted to draw away, his hand fastened tenaciously about her wrist.

‘Bon sang!' he swore, in a muffled voice, confirming her opinion that he might not be English. ‘Qu'est-ce que vous ětes en train de faire?'

Trying rather unsuccessfully to pull her wrist away, Rachel realised belatedly that her efforts could be misconstrued. It was possible that he might think she had been trying to rob him, and she was glad she had interpreted the situation before trying to unfasten his tie or loosen his collar.

‘I was trying to stop you from falling out of the car,’ she declared now, albeit a little unsteadily as he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘I'm sorry—I thought you were ill. It serves me right for being so inquisitive.'

‘Ill?’ he echoed, speaking good English now, though with a slight accent overlaying his drawling tone. ‘How was I ill?’ His eyes grew sardonic. ‘Do you often open the doors of strangers’ cars?'

‘Of course not.’ Rachel shifted rather uncomfortably beneath his appraising gaze. ‘You were slumped over the wheel. I was—concerned.'

‘The good Samaritan!'

‘If you like.’ Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Now, will you let me go? It's late, and one of us has to work tomorrow.'

The man hesitated a moment and then, with a faint grimace, he let her hand free, flexing his shoulders against the back of his seat as if his unconventional repose had left him feeling rather stiff. Rachel didn't wait to find out. With an unwelcome sense of anticlimax, she started towards her car, only to halt uncertainly when the man's voice arrested her.

‘Wait!'

He had extricated himself from behind the wheel now, and was standing on the pavement, supporting himself with the roof of the sports car. He was taller than average, Rachel saw, and leaner than she had thought, judging from the width of his shoulders. He was attractive, too, his lean dark features contrasting effectively with his pale hair, and Rachel guessed she wasn't the first woman to think so. Hooded eyes, which could be any shade from grey to blue to hazel, acknowledged her hesitation, and the thin lips below the narrow cheekbones twisted mockingly.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, arching one dark brow. ‘I should know the name of my saviour. Without your intervention, I might have slept much longer, and to be found in that position could have been embarrassing.'

‘Slept?' Rachel's mouth compressed. ‘You weren't asleep! You were out—cold! You're lucky it was me and not a policeman who brought you back to consciousness.'

‘You think that?’ He left the car to walk towards her, moving easily, if slightly unsteadily. ‘You think I was—drunk, hmm? Isn't that what you mean by—out cold?'

Rachel glanced behind her. Her car was still some yards away along the pavement, and she instinctively measured the distance should she have to make a run for it.

Drawing the suede holdall hanging from her shoulder in front of her, Rachel wrapped her arms about it as she replied: ‘I found the bottle. On your knee?’ she prompted, with a mock sweet smile. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't buy that story about feeling sleepy and putting your head down.'

The man pushed his hands into his trouser pockets as he halted in front of her. ‘You didn't tell me your name,’ he reminded her tolerantly. ‘Let me guess—it's Pandora, isn't it?'

‘It's Fleming,’ she retorted, annoyed that he had not attempted to argue with her. ‘Rachel Fleming. Goodnight.'

‘One moment ...’ Once again he detained her, and she turned to look at him more coolly than she felt, irritatingly aware that her pulse rate had quickened. ‘I would like to explain.'

‘It's not necessary——'

‘I think it is.’ He inclined his head back to where the door of his car still gaped open. ‘I was not unconscious, as you seem to think. The bottle was not mine. I—took it from someone else.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘Yes, really.’ He shrugged. ‘You will have noticed that it was uncapped. I intended to pour it away, but I was tired and I must have got into the car and flaked out.'

Rachel gasped. ‘You mean you're saying you hadn't been drinking?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly.

‘No.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘On the plane I drank a good deal of wine, I think.'

‘On the plane?'

‘From New York,’ he explained levelly. ‘That was why I was so tired, I guess. It is more than twenty-four hours since I saw a bed.'

Rachel sighed, tempted to point out that the journey from New York took a lot less than twenty-four hours. But to do so would imply that she required further explanation, and in all honesty he had had no need to explain anything to her.

‘Well——’ she said now, forcing a polite smile, ‘it seems I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I'll be more wary in future——'

‘On the contrary ...’ His attractive mouth lifted. ‘You did what you thought was best, and indeed, had I been—unconscious, your assistance would have been most welcome.'

Rachel moved her shoulders. ‘Think nothing of it.’ Her eyes sought the security of her car. ‘I have to go.'

‘You must allow me to drive you home,’ he declared, dogging her steps with his, apparently indifferent to the fact that his car was just asking to be stolen. His hand restrained her arm once more. ‘Believe me, I am not drunk. You will be quite safe with me.'

Will I? thought Rachel cynically, aware of the strength in the hand curled about her flesh. Ridiculous as it seemed, she was instinctively aware that this man meant trouble, and although she had no reason to be alarmed, she reacted automatically against his undoubted magnetism. She was engaged to Roger. Just because they had had a minor upset there was no reason to feel this unwarranted attraction towards another man; particularly when that man was self-assured and wealthy and probably well-used to the adulation of the opposite sex.

‘I—my car is here,’ she got out at last, gesturing towards the Mini parked a few feet away. She freed herself determinedly and took the steps necessary to put some space between them. ‘Thank you, but I don't need a lift. Goodnight.'

He swayed back and forth on his heels and toes as Rachel clumsily forced the key into the lock. Her fingers were all thumbs, and she was half afraid he was going to come and take the keys and do the job for her. She could already see him squatting beside her, his lean hands reaching surely for her keys, brushing her hands, making her skin tingle as her flesh had tingled when he touched her ...

God! With a sigh of relief, the key fitted and turned, and she wrenched open her door and scrambled inside. Her legs seemed absurdly long all of a sudden, and she had to coil herself behind the wheel, searching for the ignition with the same hurried panic as she had used on the door. She need not have worried, however. The man did not move. He simply watched until she had negotiated herself out of the parking space, and then turned and walked indolently back to his vehicle.

‘I thought you were home early last night,’ remarked Jane drily, setting down the cup of tea she had brought on the table beside Rachel's bed. She viewed her friend's darkly-ringed eyes with a wry grimace. ‘Just after midnight, wasn't it? I know I didn't expect you until three, at least.'

‘Oh——’ Rachel dragged herself up on the pillows, giving the other girl a bleary-eyed stare. ‘I left the party early,’ she explained. ‘Roger and I had a row, and I walked out.'

‘I see. So that's the reason why you haven't slept.’ Jane grimaced. ‘What was it about this time? The usual thing?'

‘Mmm.’ Rachel lifted her teacup and took a gulp of the strong sweet liquid, wondering as she did so why she felt so guilty. It was true. She and Roger had had previous rows about their anticipated wedding, almost always concerning his mother's role in it, and just because that had not been the reason for her restless night it didn't mean she owed Jane any other explanation.

‘But surely he's realised by now that you're not about to let Mrs Harrington take charge of the arrangements,’ Jane exclaimed, moving about the room, drawing back the curtains and lifting a discarded pair of tights from the floor where Rachel had dropped them. ‘I mean, it's not as if you don't have any family, is it?'

‘No.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘But with my parents being divorced, she sees her opportunity to take control. Besides which, she doesn't consider my mother as a likely contender, and you know she disapproves of my father.'

‘Well ...’ Jane was reluctantly candid, ‘your father hasn't exactly endeared himself to your future in-laws, has he?'

‘No.’ Remembering the night of her engagement party, Rachel had to be honest, too. ‘But paying for a staff of caterers isn't exactly beyond his abilities, and I can handle all the details.'

‘I suppose she wants a terribly swish affair,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘To be charitable, she's probably only wanting to save you the trouble. After all, you have a job; she doesn't. Which reminds me, it's a quarter to eight.'

‘Quarter to eight?’ Rachel's eyes turned in horror to the clock on the bedside table, and swallowing the rest of her tea in a gulp she thrust her legs out of bed. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I did,’ Jane pointed out wryly, leaving the room. ‘Don't panic! I'll go and make the coffee while you get dressed. Do you want some toast?'

‘I won't have time,’ exclaimed Rachel, throwing off her cotton nightgown and grabbing a clean pair of panties from the drawer. ‘Mr Black is leaving for Chelmsford at half-past nine, and I promised I'd go in early so we could deal with his mail before he left.'

‘Oh, well,’ Jane was philosophical, ‘it's not as if he's likely to fire you. I sometimes wonder what he'd do without you.'

Rachel grimaced. ‘So do I, but I'd rather not find out,’ she retorted as she disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen of the flat, and Jane looked up from the morning paper with a faintly admiring smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you made it. And with five minutes to spare.'

Rachel shook her head. ‘Do I look all right?'

‘Don't you always?’ Jane's comment was not without a trace of envy. ‘Next time I come into this world, I'm going to be a blue-eyed brunette!'

Rachel laughed. ‘Not with this hair, I hope.’ She touched the unruly mass of dark-brown silk that refused to adhere to any current fashion and tumbled riotously to her shoulders. ‘I sometimes think I should have it all cut off, only Roger likes it this way.'

‘I bet he does!’ Jane pulled a face as she viewed her own mousy crop. ‘Besides, with your height you can carry it. Now, stop fishing for compliments and drink your coffee. I want to get washed up before I leave.'

‘Do you have an early class?’ asked Rachel, between sips. Jane taught history at the local comprehensive school, and did not have to face the morning rush into the city that her flatmate had ahead of her.

‘Not until ten,’ Jane replied comfortably, helping herself to more toast. Unlike her friend, she always ate a good breakfast, and her ample girth was proof of her weakness for food. ‘Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? You know what they say about eating breakfast ...'

‘I'll get a sandwich from the machine at break,’ Rachel assured her, putting down her cup and picking up the jacket of her suit. ‘Thank heavens it's not raining. At least the buses shouldn't be too full.'

Five minutes later, Rachel was walking along Oakwood Road to the bus stop. She never used her car for work; it was simply too impractical in the rush-hour traffic. Nevertheless, she was often tempted, particularly when the buses were packed and went by the stop without doing so.

It was a fine, sunny morning, with the promise of spring in the air. The daffodils were nodding their heads in Oakwood Gardens, and the grey squirrel that darted across the grass in search of food gave her spirits an unexpected lift. It would be March next week, she thought with some amazement, and the wedding was barely ten weeks away. Once she and Roger were married, his mother would have much less say in his affairs, and Mrs Harrington would have to accept that she was no longer the most important woman in her son's life. At present, she found it far too easy to divert Roger from the plans they had made, but once the wedding was over and Rachel was living at the apartment, Mrs Harrington would not be so welcome there.

Recalling how she had stormed out of Roger's apartment the night before, Rachel was reluctantly reminded of what had happened after. She had not found it easy to dismiss the incident from her thoughts the night before, and even now she felt herself tensing at the memory. Of course, she had soon recovered from the sense of panic that had gripped her at the time. Her unwilling interest in the man had been the natural sequel to the row she had had with Roger, and after all, their meeting had been highly unconventional. It was natural that she should have felt some curiosity about him, particularly bearing in mind his unquestionable good looks. Not that he had been handsome, as Roger was handsome, of course. The stranger's features had been much more irregular, harder, possessed of a harsh beauty that was more distinctively masculine. He had, she supposed, what was commonly known as sex-appeal, and that dominated his dark-skinned appearance ...

Irritated at the trend of her thoughts, Rachel joined the queue at the bus stop, her burst of lightheartedness evaporating. For heaven's sake, she thought impatiently, what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she forget about what happened the night before? It wasn't as if she was ever likely to see the man again. He was a stranger and he was not English, and she didn't know why she hadn't told Jane, so that they could have a giggle about it.

The solicitor she worked for, Arthur Black, was waiting for her when she arrived at the firm's offices in Fetter Lane, and his bustling presence succeeded in driving all other thoughts out of Rachel's head.

‘You're late,’ he remarked dourly, massaging the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘I did ask you to get here by a quarter to nine, Miss Fleming. It's now five minutes past, which leaves us only twenty-five minutes before my departure.'

‘I'm sorry,’ Rachel took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ‘but the traffic was——'

‘—hectic, I know,’ he interrupted her shortly, disappearing into his own office. ‘It always is,’ he called, as she extracted her shorthand note pad from a drawer and gathered up several pencils. ‘I should have thought you could have anticipated that by now.'

‘Yes, Mr Black.'

Rachel grimaced and followed him into his office, shivering a little as the gas fire sputtered to reluctant life. The old building badly needed renovating, but the firm of Hector, Hollis and Black was unlikely to undertake it. They seemed to thrive on its sagging floors and dusty corridors, and even the offices of the principals were like Mr Black's office: poorly lit and shabby. Nevertheless, they were never short of briefs, and Rachel could only assume their clients imagined the exorbitant fees they paid were all swallowed up in their defence. Certainly they employed some of the best brains in the legal profession, and when Rachel first joined the firm as a junior typist she had been excited at the prospect of meeting such people. Now, however, the initial spark of enthusiasm had been somewhat doused. Working as Arthur Black's secretary for the past two years had helped her get things into perspective, and she no longer viewed the profession through rose-coloured spectacles. A law practice was not particularly exciting or romantic, as she had first imagined. It was mostly dull and repetitive, and only occasionally did she meet one of those charismatic characters, whose advocatory skills had made their names famous.