Sinful Pleasures

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.

Sinful Pleasures

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

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD been snowing when she left London. Great fat flakes that brushed against the aircraft’s windows and covered the runway in a feathery coat of white. She had wondered if the plane would be able to take off in such conditions; or perhaps she had hoped that it wouldn’t, she reflected tautly. Then she would have had a legitimate excuse for staying at home.

And it wasn’t as if she didn’t like the snow, she assured herself. It was much more the sort of weather she was used to at this time of the year. A blazing sun and blue-green seas were out of place in January, even if the shops back home were already anticipating the holiday season ahead.

Not everyone would agree with her, of course; she knew that. Indeed, most people would consider the opportunity to spend four weeks in the Caribbean a godsend. Particularly in her circumstances, she conceded. After a miserable Christmas spent in a hospital bed.

But most people were not her, Megan reminded herself impatiently, shifting somewhat uneasily in the comfortable aircraft seat. She didn’t want to be going to the Caribbean, in good health or in bad. She had no incipient longings to see her so-called stepfather and his family again. Since her mother died, she had had little or no contact with the Robards, and that had suited her very well. Very well indeed.

Below the aircraft, the turquoise waters mocked her feelings. Whether she wanted it or not, she was now less than an hour from her destination. Already the huge jet was beginning its descent towards Cap Saint Nicolas, and the island of San Felipe would soon be beneath them. However reluctant she might be to renew her acquaintance with her mother’s second family, it was no longer an option. By stepping aboard the aircraft, she had taken any alternative out of her hands.

It was a small consolation that it had not been entirely her decision. The fact that her stepsister had phoned while she was still in the hospital had been pure chance. Simon had answered the call, knowing nothing of the rift that had developed between herself and the Robards. He had had no hesitation in telling Anita that Megan was ill; had probably exaggerated her illness, in fact, as he was prone to do; and he had thought Anita was being kind when she had suggested Megan might like to spend a few weeks with them to recuperate. It had never occurred to him that she might not want to go.

And, of course, Anita was being kind, Megan acknowledged ruefully. Anita had always been kind, and in other circumstances their friendship might have survived. Anita was much older, but she had always treated the younger girl with affection. After all, if it hadn’t been for Anita and Remy, Megan would have found those holidays spent with her mother and the man who was to become her stepfather very lonely indeed.

But, even so, she would never have accepted Anita’s invitation in the ordinary way. Her stepsister might have issued the invitation, but Megan knew she wouldn’t have done so without her father’s consent. Ryan Robards probably controlled his daughter now, just as he had done all those years ago. If Megan was coming to San Felipe, it was because it suited Ryan Robards that she should.

The trouble was, it didn’t suit her, Megan thought frustratedly. And now that she was actually nearing her destination she couldn’t imagine how she had allowed herself to be persuaded to come. But her illness, and the weakness it had engendered, had left her susceptible to Simon’s inducements. She needed a break, he had told her firmly. And where better than with people who cared about her?

Only they didn’t care about her, she protested silently. Not really. Not the grown-up woman she had become. They remembered Meggie, the child, the fifteen-year-old adolescent. The girl who had been naïve enough to think that her parents would never get a divorce.

Megan sighed, and adjusted the pillow behind her head yet again, drawing the attention of the ever vigilant stewardess. ‘Can I get you anything, Ms Cross?’ she enquired, her smile warm and solicitous, and Megan forced herself to answer in the same unassuming tone.

‘No, thanks,’ she replied, wishing she could ask for a large Scotch over ice, with a twist of lemon for good measure. But the medication she was still obliged to take denied any use of alcohol, and she was sufficiently considerate of the tenderness of her stomach not to take any risks.

The stewardess went away again and Megan tried to relax. After all, that was what she was here for. To relax; to get away from phones and faxes, and the never-ending demands of the designer directory she and Simon Chater had founded almost eight years ago. Work had become her life, her obsession. Nothing else had seemed so important. Not possessions, not people, and most especially not her health.

The ironic thing was, she didn’t honestly see how coming to San Felipe was going to help her to relax. On the contrary, even the thought that they’d be landing shortly set her nerves on edge. Nothing Anita had said had convinced Megan that her stepfather would be pleased to see her. So far as Ryan Robards was concerned, she had betrayed her mother by choosing to live with her father. And even though Giles Cross was dead, too, the bitterness he’d suffered lived on.

The only optimistic note was that Anita had phoned without being aware that Megan was ill. After years, when their only contact had been through Christmas and birthday cards, she had called totally out of the blue. Even now, Megan wasn’t precisely sure why Anita had phoned. Unless the goodwill of Christmas had inspired a sudden need to renew old ties.

But it was going to be difficult even so. Megan had no idea what she would say to someone she hadn’t had a proper conversation with for more than sixteen years. How could she share her problems with a virtual stranger? She didn’t even know if the other woman was married, let alone what might have happened to her son.

Remy.

Megan tilted her head against the cushioned rest and sighed. It was strange to think that Remy would be grown up, too. He’d been—what? Five? Six?—when she’d last seen him? A dark-haired little boy, who’d run around half naked most of the time, and who had taken a delight in teasing his older playmate: herself.

She hadn’t asked Anita about Remy when she’d spoken to her. She’d been tense and uncommunicative, too intent on trying to find excuses why she shouldn’t come to show any interest in Anita’s affairs. Not that that had deterred her stepsister, she acknowledged. Anita had probably thought that Megan’s attitude was the result of the weeks she’d spent under medication. She’d been adamant that Megan should come to San Felipe to regain her strength. It was what Megan’s mother would have wanted, she’d insisted, and Megan couldn’t argue with that.

She was getting more and more edgy, and, deciding she needed to reassure herself that she didn’t look as sick as she felt, she took herself off to the toilet. In the narrow confines of the cubicle, she examined her pale features critically. Lord, she thought ruefully, it would take more than a re-application of her lipstick to give her face any life.

The truth was, she had been neglecting herself recently. But with Simon spending so much time in New York, or-ganising the launch of the directory there, she had naturally had a lot more work to cope with. She should delegate more; she knew that. Simon was always telling her so. But she liked to feel that she was needed. A hang-up from her childhood, she supposed.

She leaned towards the mirror. Was that a grey hair? she wondered anxiously. Certainly, the fine strand glinted silver among the corn-silk helmet of hair that framed her face. She shook her head and the offending hair disappeared, absorbed by the bell-like curve that cupped her chin.

Did she look too severe? she fretted, smoothing damp palms over the long narrow lines of her jacket. The trouser suit, with its fine cream stripe, was navy blue and not really a holiday outfit. She’d known Simon didn’t approve of her choice from the minute she’d come downstairs that morning.

But she couldn’t have worn something light and feminine, she told herself, not in her present state of mind. The navy suit was smart, if a trifle impersonal, and it was certainly more in keeping with her mood.

Someone tried the toilet door, reminding her that she was spending far too long analysing her appearance. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She grimaced. She could be stopping someone from keeping an intimate assignation. As unlikely as it seemed, such things did go on.

Outside, the purser gave her a searching look. ‘All right, Ms Cross?’ he asked, his cheeky grin proving that he was not above having such thoughts about her. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes. If you’ll take your seat and fasten your seatbelt, we’ll soon have you safely on the ground.’

‘Oh—good.’ Megan managed a polite smile in return, and groped her way back to her seat. The aircraft was banking quite steeply now, and it was difficult to keep her balance. She put the sudden sense of nausea she felt down to a momentary touch of air-sickness.

Yet she guessed her feelings was mostly psychosomatic. The prospect of seeing the Robards again was what was really causing her concern. She wondered if her stepfather would come to the airport to meet her. What on earth was she going to say to him that wouldn’t sound abysmally insincere?

Her stomach dropped suddenly, but this time it really was the effects of the plane levelling out before landing. The pilot lowered the undercarriage as they passed over the rocky promontory of Cap Saint Nicolas, and then they dipped towards the runway that ran parallel to the beach.

It was beautiful, she thought reluctantly as memories of the holidays she had spent here sent a painful thrill through her veins. She had been so naive in those days; so innocent. Which was why she’d been so hurt when the truth had come out.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. That period of her life was dead and gone—like her parents, she reflected bitterly. It was no use believing that her father would still be alive if her mother hadn’t betrayed him; no good wondering if Laura—her mother—would have developed that obscure kind of skin cancer if she’d continued to live as his wife...

The plane landed without incident and taxied slowly towards the airport buildings. Megan remembered that when she’d first come here the formalities had been dealt with in a kind of Nissen hut, with a corrugated-iron roof that drummed noisily when it rained. And it did rain sometimes, she recalled unwillingly. Heavy, torrential rain that left the vegetation green and the island steaming.

But now, when the plane door was opened, and her fellow passengers began to disembark, Megan felt the heat almost before she stepped out onto the gantry. She was immediately conscious of the unsuitability of her clothes, and her skin prickled beneath the fine cashmere.

Consequently, she was glad to descend the steps, cross the tarmac, and step into the arrivals hall. Gladder still to discover that air-conditioning had also been installed, and the debilitating heat was left outside.

All the same, for once she wished she hadn’t travelled first-class. On this occasion, being at the front of the queue that was forming had little appeal. She would have preferred to hang back, to let the rest of the passengers disperse before she collected her luggage. She was uneasily aware of how ill-prepared for this meeting she was.

Beyond Passport Control, the building opened out into the customs area. Two carousels were already starting to unload luggage from the British Airways plane. She saw, to her dismay, that her suitcases had already been unloaded, and, realising she was only delaying the inevitable, she went to claim them as hers.

She didn’t know whether to feel glad or sorry when she emerged from the customs channel to find that neither Ryan nor Anita was waiting for her. She had acquired a porter to transport her luggage to where taxis traditionally touted for fares, but she hadn’t considered that she might have to hire one herself.

She didn’t know what to do. Her formal clothes set her apart from the regular holidaymakers, most of whom were dressed in lightweight summer gear. She looked more like a returning resident, she reflected. If only she’d had her own car in the car park.

The heat was really getting to her now. Even beneath the canopy that jutted out over the taxi rank, the moist air was sapping what little strength she had. On top of which, the porter she’d hired was beginning to get restless. Megan guessed he was thinking of all the gratuities he was missing, hanging about with her.

‘Megan.’

The voice was unfamiliar, but he evidently knew her name, and she turned to give the man an enquiring look. Perhaps Ryan Robards employed a chauffeur these days, she reflected, regarding him with some reserve. In faded jeans and a skin-tight vest, with a single gold earring threaded through the lobe of his left ear, he didn’t look the type of person to win anyone’s confidence.

‘Are you speaking to me?’ she asked, somewhat stiffly, wondering if he was some kind of beach burn who haunted the airport looking for gullible tourists to fleece. Her eyes dropped to the suitcases on the porter’s cart, suspecting he had got her name from the labels, but all her secretary had done was put ‘Ms M Cross’ on the tabs.

‘It is Megan, isn’t it?’ he asked, tawny eyes mirroring his slight amusement at her formal response, and she realised he wasn’t about to go away. On the contrary, he was watching her with intense interest, and she suddenly wished that Ryan Robards would appear.

‘What if it is?’ she asked now, glancing somewhat impatiently about her. For God’s sake, she thought, where was Anita? Didn’t she know what time the plane was due to land?

‘Because I’ve come to meet you,’ the man said coolly, and a look of consternation crossed her face. He handed the porter a couple of notes and plucked her cases from the trolley. ‘If you’ll come with me, the car’s parked just along here.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Megan knew she was probably being far too cautious, but she couldn’t just go with him without knowing who he was. ‘I mean—I still don’t know who you are,’ she added uncertainly, licking her lips. ‘Did Mr Robards send you? I expected—Anita—to come herself.’

The man sighed. He was still holding her cases, and she knew they must be heavy for him. Not that it seemed to bother him. His arms and shoulders looked sleekly muscular, the sinews rippling smoothly beneath honey-gold skin.

‘I guess you could say they—sent me,’ he agreed, at last, inclining his head with its unruly mane of night-dark hair. For a moment there was something vaguely familiar about his lean features, but she would still have preferred to send him on his way.

He started along the walkway and she had, perforce, to follow him. Either that, or say goodbye to her luggage, she decided, with some resignation. Besides, although it was after four o‘clock, the sun was showing no signs as yet of weakening, and she was longing to get out of her formal clothes.

She was hot and sticky by the time they reached the car, though the fact that it was a long, low estate car, the closed windows hinting of air-conditioning, was some consolation. ‘You get in,’ the man suggested, a quick glance in her direction ascertaining that she was already wilting with fatigue. He flipped up the tailgate. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Mom guessed you’d prefer the Audi to the buggy.’

Megan blinked. ‘Mom?’ she echoed, gazing at him in disbelief, and her companion permitted her a rueful grin. ‘You’re—Remy?’ she gasped weakly, feeling in need of some support. ‘My God!’ She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘No.’ There was a faintly ironic twist to his lips as he responded. ‘Welcome to San Felipe, Aunt Megan. I hope you’re going to enjoy your stay.’

Megan blinked and then, realising she was staring at him with rather more curiosity than sense, she hastily folded her length into the car. But, ‘Remy!’ she breathed to herself, casting an incredulous look over her shoulder at the young man loading her suitcases into the back of the vehicle. She’d expected him to have grown up, but she’d never expected—never expected—

What?

She shook her head a little impatiently. What had she expected, after all? That the boy she remembered should have lost that lazy teasing humour? That he couldn’t have turned into the attractive man she’d just met?

Nevertheless, she wouldn’t have recognised him if he hadn’t spoken. It was hard to associate the child she remembered with the man. He’d been little more than a baby when her mother had first brought her to San Felipe. It made her feel incredibly old suddenly. He’d called her ‘Aunt’ Megan, and she supposed that was what she was to him.

She wondered what he did for a living. Whether he worked for his grandfather at the hotel. There was the marina, too, of course, and an estate that grew coffee and fruit. He could probably have his choice of occupations. Just because he dressed like—tike he did, that was no reason to assume he spent his time bumming around.

The tailgate slammed and presently Remy swung open the driver’s door and got in beside her. Megan permitted him a rueful smile as he started the engine, but she was uncomfortably aware that her feelings weren’t as uncomplicated as his.

‘I recognised you,’ he remarked, checking his rear-view mirror before pulling out. ‘I did,’ he averred, when she looked disbelieving. ‘You haven’t changed that much. Apart from your hair, that is. You used to wear it long.’

So she had. Megan had to steel herself not to check her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her hair had always been straight, and in those days she’d used to curl it. By the time she was a teenager, it had been a frizzy mop.

‘I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment,’ she remarked now, grateful for the opening. ‘God, I used to look such a fright in those days. And I was about twenty pounds overweight.’

‘But not now.’ observed Remy, his tawny eyes making a brief, but disturbing, résumé of her figure. ‘Mom told us all about the operation. Imagine having ulcers at twenty-eight.’

‘I’m almost thirty-one actually,’ said Megan quickly, not quite sure why it was so necessary for her to state her age. ‘And it wasn’t ulcers, just one rather nasty individual. I’d been having treatment for it, but it didn’t respond.’

‘And it perforated.’

Megan nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Mom said it was touch-and-go for a few hours.’ He paused. ‘Your boyfriend gave her all the gory details.’

‘Did he?’ Megan was about to explain that Simon wasn’t her boyfriend, and then changed her mind. They did share a house, because it was convenient for both of them to do so. But anything else—well. that was their business and no one else’s.

‘Yeah.’ Remy pulled out into the stream of traffic leaving the airport, his lean hands sliding easily around the wheel. ‘I guess your job must stress you out. You need to learn to relax.’

Like you?

Megan pressed her lips together, turning to look out of the window to distract her eyes from his muscled frame. Dear God, she thought, who’d have thought that Anita’s son would turn out to be such a hunk? If he ever got tired of island life, she could get him a modelling job in a minute.

Yet that wasn’t really fair, she acknowledged, noticing that the road from the airport into the town of Port Serrat was now a dual carriageway. Remy might be a hunk, but he didn’t possess the bland good looks of the models she’d dealt with. There was character in his lean features, and a rugged hardness about his mouth. The camera might love him, but she doubted he’d give it a chance.

In fact, he looked a lot like his grandfather, she thought with tightening lips. Ryan Robards had possessed the same raw sexuality that was so evident in his grandson. Of course, Remy might resemble his father, too, but that was something that had never been talked about, not in her presence anyway. She only knew that Anita had been little more than a schoolgirl herself when he was born.

‘So what do you think of the old place?’ he asked now, casting a glance in her direction, and Megan forced her disturbing memories aside. She hadn’t come here to speculate about his parentage, even if her father had used that in his arguments more than once.

‘It’s—beautiful,’ she said, and she meant it. The blur of white beaches and lush vegetation she had seen from the air had resolved itself into the colourful landscape she remembered. Between the twin carriageways, flowering shrubs and vivid flamboyants formed an exotic median, and away to her left the shimmering waters of Orchid Bay glistened in the sun. ‘I always loved coming here.’

‘So why have you stayed away?’ asked Remy flatly, and then, as if realising that was a moot point, he went on, ‘I know Mom’s looking forward to seeing you again. She’s talked about nothing else for days.’