Cage Of Shadows

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.

Cage of Shadows

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

‘DO it,’ said Evan urgently. ‘What have you got to lose? And more importantly, think what you’ve got to gain.’

‘Yes.’

Joanna pushed her large-framed spectacles up her nose and cupped her chin with one hand. A tall girl, with a curtain of silky dark brown hair that fell about her shoulders, she looked rather pensive at present, the long green eyes, which she privately considered her best feature, opaque now behind their shield of tinted glass.

‘How else are you ever going to afford to go to art college?’ Evan persisted. ‘You told me yourself that Marcia was unlikely to help you.’

‘I know.’

Joanna sighed. It certainly was a temptation. With the kind of money Evan Price was offering, she might even be able to afford her own flat, and to be independent of her stepmother would be worth so much more. Judging by the rumblings recently, Marcia expected her to get out and find herself a job, and just because her father had expected her to go to art school there was no reason to think his widow would sponsor her. On the contrary, Marcia had made it clear, right from the beginning, when Joanna’s father died so suddenly without leaving any provision for his daughter, that she did not consider herself bound to support her.

‘Consider it a holiday,’ Evan was saying persuasively. ‘A month in Florida, in the middle of an English winter! What could be better? Have you any idea how much people pay to enjoy the kind of break I’m offering you for free?’

‘I’m sure it’s a marvellous opportunity,’ Joanna conceded doubtfully, and the florid-faced man sitting across from her raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Joanna, believe me, if it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t be offering this kind of money. But—well, your father was a friend of mine, and I feel I owe something to his memory—–’

‘And the fact that I happened to have a passing acquaintance with Matthew Wilder has nothing to do with it?’ put in Joanna, with unexpected cynicism. ‘Evan, I know what you’re offering, and I know why. I just don’t know if I want to do it, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because—because he obviously wants to avoid the media. Why else would he choose to go and live out in Florida? His work has always been in Europe and Africa.’

‘Who knows why he’s gone out there? Maybe he’s discovered some new drug and he’s trying it out. That’s what I want you to find out. Joanna, Matthew Wilder is still big news. And he’s been out of the public eye for almost three years! Now we know where he is, at least let’s give it a try.’

Joanna pursed her lips. ‘Marcia had no right to give you Daddy’s diaries. They were personal.’

‘They’re also worth a lot of bread,’ declared Evan flatly. ‘And Marcia was never one to shy at the main chance. Besides,’ he tried to reassure her, ‘your father was one of this century’s foremost writers. It was a tragedy he was killed like that, but his diaries belong to his readers. Your father himself would agree with me.’

Joanna bent her head. ‘The private addresses should have been torn out. My father wouldn’t approve of you betraying his confidence.’

‘What the hell!’ exploded Evan noisily. ‘Drew’s been dead all of five months, Joanna. What he would or would not have done isn’t relevant. For three years, Wilder’s lived the life of a recluse. No one knew where he was. Now we have his address—rightly or wrongly. Would you rather I sent a news team out there? Spread the word around Fleet Street, and have every two-bit reporter with a telephoto lens crawling over the island?’

‘No.’ Joanna was sure about that. ‘But what makes you think Uncle Matt will see me? I was eight years old when I last saw him. Eleven years ago! I doubt he’ll even remember me.’

‘You’re Andrew Holland’s daughter. He’ll remember you.’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, make up your mind. I need a decision. I’ve no intention of sitting on this for too long.’

Joanna hesitated. ‘But why is it so urgent? You said yourself, it’s five months since—since my father was killed.’

‘Marcia only handed the diaries over two weeks ago,’ admitted Evan shortly. ‘I don’t think she realised they were of any value until your father’s solicitor suggested the idea.’

‘Howard Rogers?’ Joanna’s lips curled. ‘Oh, yes, it would be Howard who suggested it. My father’s privacy would mean nothing to him.’

Evan frowned. ‘Do I detect a note of bitterness?’

‘No.’ Joanna was indignant, and then she sighed. ‘Well, not really. It’s just that Howard’s been around a lot more since Daddy died. I sometimes wonder exactly what his intentions are.’

‘Yes.’ Evan was thoughtful now. ‘Well, it has to be said, he hasn’t had much success on your behalf, has he? I should have thought that as your father’s solicitor, he would have suggested it was Marcia’s duty to provide you with an allowance, at least.’

Joanna made no comment. She was reluctant to criticise her stepmother’s motives, even to Evan, who had been her father’s publisher for the past fifteen years. But it was hard to justify the mean streak in Marcia, that caused her to ignore her stepdaughter’s feelings, and create the kind of situation where Joanna felt obligated to support herself. It should not have been necessary; her father had died a wealthy man. But such were his feelings for the woman he had married ten years after his wife’s death, he had been blind to the flaws in her character. Joanna had no doubt he had believed Marcia would take care of his daughter should anything happen to him. But she couldn’t help wishing he had not been so unworldly, and left her at least enough to live on.

‘Five thousand pounds, Joanna.’ Evan interrupted her train of thought. ‘Five thousand pounds and expenses. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

Joanna avoided his gaze, glancing round the restaurant where he had brought her for lunch with troubled eyes. It was rather an exclusive restaurant, and on any other occasion she would have appreciated his generosity. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that this was all a deliberate ploy to get her into a frame of mind where she would jump at his proposition, equating the kind of money he was offering with the lifestyle she had grown up to expect.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ she murmured half inaudibly, but he heard her.

‘All right, six, then,’ he declared, ‘but it’s my last word,’ and Joanna felt even worse that he should think she was trying to bargain.

‘I—can I think about it?’ she asked at last, lifting her bespectacled eyes to his. ‘I mean—you do appreciate, I—I have commitments.’

‘What commitments?’

Evan was sceptical, and Joanna assumed an aloof expression. ‘I do have friends, you know,’ she replied, stung by his indifference, and stifling his impatience, Evan acquiesced.

‘Okay,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll give you—forty-eight hours to think it over. If you haven’t contacted me in that time, I’ll consider the offer rejected, right?’

‘Right.’ Joanna spoke less confidently now. It was all very well making proud statements about commitments, but the truth was, if she didn’t take this chance, she would have to take a job—any job—to supplement her dwindling resources.

‘Right.’ Evan lifted a hand and summoned the waiter. ‘You know my number. I’ll be waiting for your call. Just don’t make me wait too long.’

Going home on the bus, Joanna wondered what he would have said if she had challenged his bland bravado. After all, if Matthew Wilder had intentionally cut himself off from his friends and colleagues, what chance might a stranger have of making contact with him? Evan knew this, or he would never have contacted her. He knew that a news team from one of the specialist magazines he published might never stand a chance of seeing Wilder, let alone talking with him, and if she, Joanna, refused to co-operate, he could easily have to abandon the whole idea.

From Matthew Wilder’s point of view, that could only be for the best, she reflected ruefully. The man obviously wanted to remain undisturbed. Was it fair for her, no matter what her connections, to consider invading his privacy? Of course it wasn’t. It was reprehensible, and she knew it. Particularly as Evan’s suggestion had been that she should pretend she was holidaying in the area, and had come upon his house unaware.

Joanna closed her eyes in disgust. It was all so corny! Who would believe it? Least of all a man like Matthew Wilder, who had years of experience in dealing with the media.

Fifteen years ago, when his first book was accepted for publication, Andrew Holland had bought a tall Victorian house, in an unfashionable suburb in north London. Since then, the suburb had become fashionable, and now the house was worth quite a lot of money, but her father had never wanted to move. Joanna couldn’t really remember living anywhere else, but now, as she walked along Ashworth Terrace, she couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Marcia decided to realise this investment too.

There was a car parked at the kerb in front of the house, and Joanna recognised it with a deepening sense of depression. It was Howard Rogers’ car, and the fact that the solicitor was here meant that she and Marcia would have no chance to talk privately. She had decided on the bus to talk to her stepmother, ask her what she thought she should do; but now that Howard was here, any private discussions would have to wait.

Joanna let herself into the house with her key, pausing in the carpeted hall to remove her fur-lined suede jacket. It was a chilly afternoon, and although she had scarcely noticed the temperature as she walked the couple of hundred yards from the bus stop, now that she was indoors, she lifted her shoulders appreciatively in the warmth from the heating system.

She could hear no sound of voices from the library where Marcia generally entertained visitors, and she was about to mount the stairs to her room when the housekeeper, Mrs Morris, appeared from the kitchen.

‘They’re in the library,’ she confided in an undertone, surprising the girl. ‘Or at least they were half an hour ago. I was just going to bring some tea. I’ll put an extra cup on the tray.’

Joanna bit her lip. Mrs Morris’s affection had sustained her during the long months since her father’s death, but even to please her, she couldn’t intrude on her stepmother’s privacy without an invitation.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Morris,’ she said. ‘I’d really rather go up and change. I’ll come down and have a cup of tea with you in the kitchen afterwards, if you don’t mind.’

‘Bless you, you know you’re—–’ began the housekeeper, only to break off abruptly as the door to the right of the hall opened and a burly man of medium height appeared in the aperture. Wearing a city suit, Howard Rogers, as always, was dressed to fit his role as her father’s—and now her stepmother’s—legal adviser, but Joanna uneasily retained the notion that his appearance belied the true measure of his character. She didn’t like him. She never had. And she drew back now, wishing he had not overheard their low-voiced conversation.

‘Joanna!’ he exclaimed heartily. ‘I thought it must be you. Marcia said you’d be out for the rest of the afternoon, but obviously she was wrong. Come in, come in. I’d like to have a word with you.’

Giving Mrs Morris a rueful look, Joanna acknowledged his greeting and stepped past him into the library. The last thing she needed right now was to play gooseberry with him and her stepmother. Marcia would not appreciate it, and most definitely, nor would she.

But to her surprise, the library was unoccupied, and when Howard closed the door behind them she glanced round almost apprehensively. She had never been alone with him before, and although she knew he was old enough to be her father, she felt an unwelcome sense of anxiety at the sudden glitter in his pale eyes.

‘I—where’s Marcia?’ she asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt, and Howard walked across the room to take up his stance before the fireplace. Although the house was centrally heated, her father had always kept an open fire in the library, and the solicitor put his hands behind his back to warm them at the blaze.

‘Marcia is getting changed,’ he replied, after positioning himself to his satisfaction. ‘I’m taking her out to dinner this evening. I thought we’d drive into the country. I know a rather attractive hotel in Sussex, with an extremely good wine cellar.’ He paused, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels and toes. ‘Wine is so important to a meal, don’t you think so, Joanna? Food is a necessity, but wine adds that something extra, the gilding on the gingerbread, so to speak.’

‘Er—what did you want to talk to me about, Mr Rogers?’ enquired Joanna, blinking rather owlishly behind her tortoiseshell rims. She had no wish to prolong this conversation, and she didn’t like the way Howard was acting. As if this was his home, and she was the visitor.

‘There’s no hurry,’ averred Howard smoothly. ‘Marcia will be ages yet—you know what she’s like. It will take her half an hour to decide what dress she’s going to wear.’

Joanna expelled her breath resignedly. ‘Mr Rogers—–’

‘Howard. Why don’t you call me Howard?’ he suggested jovially. ‘After all, we’re friends, aren’t we? And you’re not a little girl any more, Joanna. By no means, no. You’re quite a young lady. How old are you now? Seventeen? Eighteen?’

‘I’m nineteen, and I think you know that, Mr Rogers,’ responded Joanna tautly. ‘Please, get to the point. I—er—I’m going out this evening myself.’

‘Are you?’ Howard’s reddish-grey brows arched. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ retorted Joanna with some heat. ‘Mr Rogers—–’

‘Oh, very well.’ His thin mouth tightened. ‘If you will persist in this childishness, I have no option but to treat you as one. Marcia—Marcia and I—your stepmother and I, that is—–’ Joanna’s nerves jangled, ‘—Marcia and I are going to get married.’

‘To get married!’

If there had been a chair behind her, Joanna would have sank into it, but there wasn’t, and she stood there on legs that threatened any moment to give out on her, staring at him as if he had pointed a gun at her head.

‘Don’t look so horrified.’ Howard shifted a little uncomfortably nevertheless. ‘It shouldn’t come as such a shock to you. You must have realised that Marcia and I were—well, close friends at least?’

Joanna shook her head. She couldn’t speak. She felt as if her throat had closed up, and she stood there like an automaton, frozen in an attitude of dumb disbelief.

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Howard’s initial sense of discomfort gave way to a cajoling impatience. ‘Don’t look like that, Joanna, or I shall begin to think you don’t like me, and I know that’s not true.’ He stepped diffidently across the floor towards her, halting in front of her and looking encouragingly into her pale stunned features. Because he was not a tall man, they were almost on eye-level terms, and she longed to shrink away from that fawning insincerity. ‘Joanna,’ he said, wheedlingly, ‘this isn’t like you. This isn’t like my pretty little girl.’ He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of dark hair back from her forehead. ‘Such a lovely girl,’ he breathed, his voice thickening. ‘If your father had just been a little less besotted—–’

‘Don’t touch me!’ With an abrupt movement, Joanna recoiled from the pudgy hand that lightly grazed her cheek, and Howard’s expression hardened as she shuddered in distaste.

‘There’s no need for that, Joanna,’ he declared harshly. ‘I should watch my step if I were you. It’s only through my good offices that you’re still here, in this house. Marcia would have cast you out long ago. Only I persuaded her that you weren’t ready, that you needed time—–’

‘—that it wouldn’t look good for my father’s widow to throw out his only daughter within weeks of his funeral!’ snapped Joanna in disgust. ‘Don’t pretend you had any real thought for my feelings.’

‘You’re wrong, Joanna.’ Howard clenched his fists angrily. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been working in some shop or café by now, slogging your guts out all day, and dragging yourself home to some sleazy bedsitter! As it is—–’

‘As it is, I’m to be thrown out now, is that it?’

‘No.’ Howard took another step towards her. ‘Not if you play your cards right.’

‘Not if I play my cards right?’ Joanna stood her ground, staring at him distrustfully. ‘What is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about art school, that’s what I’m talking about,’ exclaimed Howard triumphantly. ‘That is what you want to do, isn’t it? Go to art school?’

‘Well—yes—–’

‘Very well, then,’ Howard hesitated a moment, before putting his hot fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face to his. ‘If you stop treating me like a leper, I’ll promise to put in a good word for you. Between us, we should be able to persuade Marcia—–’

Joanna was appalled, but she forced herself to remain motionless as his thumb rubbed insinuatingly along her jawline. Dear Heaven, her thoughts raced, what was he suggesting? That she should allow him to—to—– Her mind baulked at the obvious conclusion, but her spirits rose again at the thought of what Marcia would say when she told her the truth—–

‘I mean,’ Howard was going on, his whisky-scented breath fanning her cheek, ‘you know that if your father had made you his heir—–’

The sound of the handle of the door being turned effected the reaction Joanna was about to make. It caused Howard to step abruptly away from her, and by the time Marcia Holland came into the room, he was back in his position before the fire, apparently conducting a casual exchange with her stepdaughter.

Marcia Holland was small and blonde and petite, the exact antithesis of Joanna. Having seen pictures of her own mother, Joanna had sometimes wondered whether Andrew Holland had married Marcia because she was the absolute opposite of what his first wife had been. Joanna’s mother had been an extremely capable woman. Marcia appeared not. She behaved the way men expected a woman like her to behave. Because she looked so small and frail, she adopted an air of ingenuous fragility, and she always succeeded in getting her own way, because she looked so helpless. Only Joanna knew she wasn’t helpless; anything but. Marcia’s outward appearance was only a façade; underneath she was a very determined woman.

Now, she closed the door and advanced into the room, her gaze flickering briefly over her stepdaughter before moving on to the man by the fire. Holding out her hands towards Howard, she moved into the circle of his arm, and then turned to face Joanna, as if anxious for her approval.

‘Has Howard told you our news?’ she asked, in the little-girl voice she effected whenever any man was within earshot, and Joanna, endeavouring to recover from the two shocks she had received, took a deep breath.

‘He—he’s told me you plan to get married,’ she replied rather huskily. ‘I—I was surprised. I had no idea you had that in mind.’

Marcia’s brittle blue eyes hardened. ‘I don’t have to discuss my affairs with you, Joanna,’ she said, the baby-soft voice belying the pointedness of the words. She glanced up at the man beside her, her diminutive size complementing his height. ‘It happened so quickly, didn’t it, darling? We didn’t have time to discuss it with anyone.’

‘You’re so right,’ applauded Howard warmly, and the duplicity of his behaviour made Joanna feel physically sick. ‘But Joanna knows all about it now. I’ve put her in the picture, so to speak.’ His eyes flicked insolently in the girl’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Joanna?’

Joanna’s lips felt stiff, but she knew she had to speak. She would not—she could not—let him get away with it. ‘I don’t know that Marcia would agree with you,’ she retorted contemptuously. ‘I’m sure she’s totally in the dark about what you have in mind.’

Marcia’s blue eyes darted swiftly up at the man within whose arm she was nestling. ‘Howard?’ she murmured questioningly. ‘What is she talking about? What do you have in mind?’

Later, Joanna realised she had played right into Howard’s hands by accusing him outright. But just then she could only stare at him in outrage as he expertly negotiated this unexpected attack. Instead of rushing to his own defence as Joanna had anticipated, he took a leaf out of Marcia’s book and assumed a rueful expression, answering her reluctantly, as if betraying a confidence.

‘I’m afraid—well, Joanna doesn’t entirely approve of the place I’m taking you for our honeymoon,’ he conceded with a convincing sigh. ‘I suppose—the villa was her father’s, and—–’