Pale Orchid

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.

Pale Orchid

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE WIDE-BODIED JET taxied into its unloading bay, and the extending arm of the disembarking gangway was fitted into position. Across the tarmac, another plane was just taking off, its wings dipping to starboard as it executed the manoeuvre which would take it out across the blue waters of the Pacific, skirting the beach at Waikiki before heading back towards California.

Watching the American Airlines jet climb into the late afternoon sky, Laura Huyton wished, with an urgency bordering on desperation, that she could be aboard that plane, heading back to San Francisco, and on to London. Seven thousand miles was a long way to come to face probable humiliation, and she wondered if she would have set out so confidently if she had known where her quest would lead her.

Most of the other passengers waiting to disembark were holidaymakers, bound for one or other of the many excellent hotels Honolulu boasted. Some, unlike herself, were only stopping off in Oahu, en route for other islands in the Hawaiian group, but all of them, it seemed to Laura, were looking forward to their arrival. There had been a definite air of excitement in the aircraft, ever since it left San Francisco, and the stewardesses in their long Polynesian dresses added their own particular colour to the trip.

‘This your first visit to Hawaii?’ inquired the rather stout matron, who had been sitting beside her all trip, and who had tried on several occasions to engage Laura in conversation—without any success.

‘No.’

Laura’s response was monosyllabic, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to talk about Hawaii; she didn’t want to be here; and had it not been for a brutal trick of fate, she doubted would ever have come here again.

‘You’ve been before then?’ persisted the woman, as the door to the plane was opened and passengers started to block the gangways in their haste to disembark.

‘Yes.’ Laura slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and gathered together the book and magazines she had bought to read on the journey. Then, feeling obliged to say something, if only to get the woman to move out of the aisle seat, she added briefly, ‘I used to work here some years ago. It’s not a place you forget.’

‘Absolutely not,’ exclaimed her inquisitor enthusiastically, getting to her feet, and although she would obviously have liked to continue this discussion, she was compelled to move ahead. ‘Have a good time,’ she added, as Laura slipped into the queue some spaces behind her.

‘I intend to.’ Laura allowed a small smile that gave her pale features animation. A good time, she reflected ruefully, was the last thing she was likely to have; but that was her problem and no one else’s.

The pretty Polynesian girls who waited in the arrivals hall had almost exhausted the supply of flower garlands they handed out to holiday visitors. The leis, as they were called, were very popular with tourists, and Laura could still remember her delight when, on her first visit to the islands, she had received the symbolic welcome. Today, however, she sidestepped the smiling throng and hurried on down the escalator, to take her seat on one of the articulated buses, which transported passengers between the arrivals hall and the terminal buildings.

By the time she had collected her luggage from the carousel and summoned a cab, the sun was sinking and, giving the address of the small hotel she remembered, just off Kalakaua Avenue, she settled back to enjoy the ride. Through the open windows of the cab, the air was deliciously warm and pungently familiar. Even before they crossed the Kapalama Canal, she could smell the Dole Canneries, and the water tank, painted to resemble a pineapple, rose like a huge yellow dome, sprouting its prickly stalk.

To her right, the less attractive aspects of the island’s economy gave way to the waving masts of the yacht marina. Dozens of sailing craft, from modest dinghies to ocean-going schooners, were moored in the basin, and Laura couldn’t help but wonder if Jason still owned his schooner. Not that it had any relevance, she assured herself impatiently, determinedly turning her attention to the exotic elegance of a floating restaurant moored at the quay. How Jason Montefiore might or might not be conducting his private affairs was no concern of hers.

The cab was approaching Kalakaua Avenue, and Laura gazed out at the towering hotel blocks. There seemed more than she remembered, even the ‘Pink Palace’, as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel used to be called, was overshadowed now by the looming curve of the Sheraton. But the market place was still there, where Jason had once bought her a string of real pearls and the engraved gold medallion, she still carried in her handbag.

Just beyond the imposing towers of the Hyatt Regency, the cab turned into a side street and a hundred yards down, past an intersection, came to a halt outside the modest façade of the Kapulani Reef Hotel. Laura climbed out, dragging her suitcase after her, and handed over the necessary dollars. Thank goodness she had remembered the name of this place, she thought, looking up at its faded exterior. The paint was chipping on the balconies, and the sun had yellowed its colour-washed walls. But so far as she knew, its reputation was still intact, and one of the girls at the agency used to recommend it. Of course, that was more than three years ago now, but it could not be helped. Hotels in Waikiki were expensive, and those Jason had taken her to were quite beyond her means. The Kapulani used to be both clean and reasonable, and she did not have a lot of choice in the matter. Besides, with luck, it might only be for a couple of nights.

She had ‘phoned ahead from San Francisco, and she was expected. A polite receptionist had her sign in, and then a Chinese porter was summoned to take her to her room. The lift transported them three floors up to room number 409, and Laura felt obliged to tip the man, even though his manner was anything but friendly. Still, he had carried her suitcase, she reflected, as she took a proper look at her surroundings.

It was clean and neat, she had to admit, the bed one of the wide divans she had become used to during the time she had worked in Honolulu. There was a chest of drawers and a fitted closet, a round glass-topped table and a chair, and the ubiquitous colour television, standing by the open balcony doors. There was also a telephone, the one object Laura most wanted to see, but she put her immediate impulses aside and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged, considerably cooler and fresher after a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she threw her soiled clothes on to the chair, and then rescued the key to her suitcase from her handbag and deposited the case on the bed.

There was a definite disorganisation to the contents of the suitcase, but it couldn’t be helped. For the past three days, she had thought little about her appearance, and the garments she had packed with reasonable care in London, were now muddled beyond belief. That they were not more creased was due to the resiliency of modern fabrics, and she drew out the short-sleeved shirt and pants that were first to hand.

Running a brush through the fine silky hair, that she generally plaited and wore in a single braid for working purposes, Laura contained her impatience and walked out on to the balcony. It was getting dark, but the air was as soft and velvety as a moth’s wing. The temperature stayed balmy most of the time, only becoming hot and sticky in the summer when the wind called the kona blew. Usually, the climate was perfect, a delicious blend of sun and trade winds, that made the islands a garden paradise.

Away to the right, Laura could hear the sound of the surf, as it creamed along the shoreline, and she was tempted to leave what she had to do until the morning and go for a walk along the beach. It would be so nice to forget her troubles for a while, and enjoy the exotic beauty of her surroundings. But then, the memory of Pamela, lying in the hospital in San Francisco, returned to haunt her, and putting the brush aside, she quickly threaded her hair into its neat queue.

Crossing the room to where the ‘phone sat, on the low bureau beside the bed, Laura reflected that even that image was not as disturbing as the scene which had met her eyes on her arrival in San Francisco. If she hadn’t responded to Pamela’s ‘phone call so promptly, if she hadn’t ignored Pierce’s complaints about her ingratitude, and taken the first available flight from London, she might never have found her sister alive. As it was, Pamela had been unconscious, the terrible meaning of the empty bottle of sleeping tablets on the table beside her, telling their own tale. Laura shivered, even now. Without her unexpected intervention, Pamela would be dead—and all because of Mike Kazantis.

Before picking up the ‘phone, she reached for her bag, and drew out the handful of letters she had found scattered about her sister’s body. Without them, she might never have learned the name of the man who had caused her sister so much heartbreak. Pamela could have refused to tell her. Indeed, at first, she had denied any connection between the letters and her attempted suicide. But when the doctors at the Mount Rushmore Hospital had informed Laura that her sister was pregnant, she had immediately understood the situation.

Of course, Mike Kazantis’s name would have meant nothing to Pamela. It was less than two years since she had applied for a nursing post in Sausalito, and her work with the elderly, and very rich, Mrs Amy Goldstein, had seemed far removed from the commercial success of Jason Montefiore.

Naturally, after her own experiences in the United States, Laura had tried to persuade her younger sister not to leave England. But short of explaining exactly why she had returned to London, there was little she could say; and besides, it had seemed unlikely that Pamela would make the same mistakes.

Laura shook her head now, and reached for the ‘phone. It was not a situation she had ever expected to have to deal with. When she was making her arrangements to accompany Pierce to the Camargue at the beginning of March, Pamela had been writing, saying how happy she was, and there had been no mention of her relationship with Jason’s brother-in-law. Had she known he was married? Was that why she had not mentioned his name to her sister? The little Laura had read of his letters, gave no evidence one way or the other. All that was clear was that the letters had ceased, approximately six weeks ago. The most recent postmark was March 14th, and Laura had had no difficulty in making the association.

She rang the club first, guessing that as it was after six o’clock Jason was most likely to be there. If he was in Honolulu, of course, she reflected, crossing her fingers. There was no absolute guarantee. Just her own recollection of his movements, and the fervent hope that this trip to Hawaii had not been a fool’s errand.

A man answered, a man whose voice she didn’t recognise, and adopting her most confident tone, she asked to speak to Mr Montefiore. ‘It’s a personal matter of some urgency,’ she explained, hoping that by mentioning the personal nature of her call, the man would at least be curious.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, and the line went dead, indicating she assumed that she had been dealt with by a switchboard, and that her call was receiving more serious attention. Come on, come on, she urged impatiently, running first one, and then a second, moist palm over the knees of her trousers. Jason wasn’t the Pope, after all. What on earth could be taking so long?

‘Yes?’

Another male voice had taken the place of the switchboard attendant, and Laura tried to identify the brusque address. It wasn’t Jason, that much was certain, but there was something vaguely familiar about that clipped inquiry.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said again, swallowing her uncertainty. ‘I—er—I’d like to speak to Mr Montefiore, please. This—this is Laura Huyton.’

‘Laura!’ The voice definitely exhibited surprise now, and the warmer vowels gave her her first clue.

‘Phil?’ she ventured, and hearing his swift intake of breath: ‘Phil Logan? Yes, it’s me; Laura.’ She took a gulp of air. ‘Is Jason there?’

‘Where are you, Laura?’ Without answering, he turned the question against her. ‘You sound pretty close. Are you here, in Oahu?’

Laura hesitated, and then she replied resignedly, ‘Yes. I arrived a couple of hours ago. Phil, I need to speak to Jason urgently. If he’s there, I’d appreciate it if you’d get him to the ‘phone.’

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Logan spoke again. ‘Does Jason know you’re coming?’ he inquired, his tone almost imperceptibly cooler now. And at her swift denial, ‘What are you doing in Honolulu, Laura? I have to tell you—I don’t think Jason will agree to see you.’

Laura’s lips compressed. ‘What I’m doing here I’ll tell Jason, and no one else,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you think you should at least give him a chance to refuse? It is important. You can tell him that.’

Again the silence stretched between them, and Laura could feel the nerves in her stomach tightening unpleasantly. She had eaten little since that morning, and the hollow feeling she was experiencing was partly due to her emptiness. But, she couldn’t deny a certain irritation at the attitude Phil Logan was adopting, and although she knew she had no right to expect anything of Jason, she resented being thwarted by one of his employees.

‘I can’t ask Jason to speak to you, because he isn’t here,’ Logan announced at length, and Laura expelled her breath on a sigh.

‘You mean—he’s at the apartment?’

‘Mr Montefiore doesn’t live in Honolulu any more, Laura,’ he responded reluctantly, his deliberate use of Jason’s surname creating a barrier even a fool could not overlook; and Laura was no fool. ‘He … er … if you’d like to give me the address of the hotel where you’re staying, and your ‘phone number, I’ll pass your message on. That’s the best I can do.’

Laura’s jaw quivered, and she clamped her teeth together to arrest the weakness. But it was anger, not emotion, that caused her breathing to quicken and the blood to run more thinly through her veins. How dare Phil Logan behave as if she was some pitiful hanger-on, desperate for a hand-out? she thought furiously. When had she ever treated him with anything less than courtesy, even when she had been living in Jason’s luxurious penthouse and Logan had been pulling beers in the nightclub bar?

‘Thanks,’ she said now, deciding there was no point in pursuing her frustration with him. ‘I’m staying at the Kapulani Reef Hotel. It’s on Haleiwa Avenue—’

‘I know where it is,’ responded Logan swiftly, evidently taking it down, and Laura contained her resentment at his tone.

‘Room 409,’ she added, just for good measure, and then rang off before he could make some comment about her choice of accommodation.

But with the receiver replaced on its cradle, Laura found that she was shaking. Somehow, she had never expected Jason’s employees to treat her like a pariah. Phil Logan had acted as if Jason had thrown her out, instead of the way it really was. Was that what Jason had told his men? That he had thrown her over?

Getting up from the bed, she walked nervously across to the open windows, rubbing her palms against the unexpectedly chilled flesh of her upper arms. So much for speaking to Jason tonight, she thought bitterly. He might not even get the message. If she didn’t hear from him within the next twenty-four hours, she would have to think of some other method of finding him. But how? Logan hadn’t even told her where he was living. He could be on the mainland for all she knew. Over two thousand miles away, and as remote as he had ever been.

She supposed she ought to go downstairs and find the coffee shop. Maybe, with something to eat and several cups of coffee inside her she would feel more capable of handling the situation. Right now, she had the horrible suspicion that her journey had been a waste of time, and she couldn’t help remembering that Pierce had threatened to fire her if she didn’t return within the week.

Stepping out on to the verandah, she rested her hands on the iron rail and looked down at the street below. There were few people walking, but there were plenty of cars using the connection between Kalakaua Avenue and Kapiolani Boulevard; long expensive limousines, driven by the more affluent members of the community, through to topless beach buggies, rattling along at a reckless pace.

But Laura hardly saw them. She was thinking about Pierce and his objections to her trip. Of course, he had not known before she left exactly what she would find in San Francisco, any more than she had. Even so, when she had ‘phoned him from Pamela’s apartment after her sister had been taken to the hospital, he had not shown a lot of sympathy. Pierce Carver was used to getting his own way, and that did not include losing his secretary at a significant point in his latest book.

Laura sighed. As the author of some fifteen novels, and popularly regarded as the doyen of psychological thrillers, Pierce would survive, whatever happened. Pamela might not. For the next few days, he would have to persevere with the dictaphone he had acquired some years ago, and if that was not satisfactory, he would no doubt make other arrangements. Whether those ‘arrangements’ would involve her dismissal, Laura could not be absolutely sure. Pierce was artistic and temperamental, and he tended to say things in anger he did not actually mean. Not that she considered herself indispensable, of course. No one was that. But she had worked for him for almost three years, and she knew his idiosyncrasies so well.

She remembered his dismay when she had told him about Pamela’s ‘phone call. ‘But you can’t just walk out on me, Laura,’ he had wailed. ‘We’re at the most crucial stage of the book. Whatever slough of despond your sister has got herself into cannot—simply cannot—be allowed to interfere with your obligations to me. Heavens, the girl’s not a child, is she? She’s over twenty-one. You’re her sister, not her mother!’

There had been more of the same, but Laura had had no time to listen. She had been too busy making ‘phone calls of her own, to the airport, to the mini cab service, and packing her belongings, to give him her undivided attention. She was sorry she had to leave him in the lurch. She knew how he depended upon her. But Pamela depended on her, too, and the apprehension she felt about her sister over-ruled her remorse.

She was so relieved they had been in England when the call came through. For the past four weeks, she had been staying in Aix, at the villa in Provence, which Pierce had rented to write his latest novel. Had he not grown bored with his surroundings, had he not felt the need for a change of scenery, he would not have suggested flying back to London, and there was no doubt now he regretted his decision to return home.

‘You know how much I enjoy our sessions,’ he had protested, when the issue of the dictaphone had been raised. ‘Without your reactions, how will I know if I’m on the right track?’

‘You managed perfectly well before I came on the scene,’ Laura had pointed out swiftly, but in so doing, she had given Pierce the opening he was looking for.

‘So I did,’ he had remarked acidly, folding his arms as he was prone to do in moments of stress. ‘So I did. Beware I don’t decide I can manage without you. There are plenty of out-of-work secretaries simply panting to take your place!’

He was right. Laura knew that; and it had been with a certain amount of trepidation that she had told him she was taking a week’s leave of absence with or without his consent. Pierce could be vindictive at times, and he might just decide to be awkward. She could only hope he would find it less easy to choose a replacement than he imagined, and that absence would achieve what reasoned argument could not.

With a feeling of anxious frustration, Laura abandoned this particular line of thought, and walked back into the bedroom. The hospital, she thought suddenly. She ought to ring the hospital and find out how Pamela was progressing. It had been eight o’clock, San Francisco time, when she last made an inquiry, and despite the doctor’s assurance that her sister would pull through, her mental state was so precarious, Laura couldn’t quite believe them.

The night staff at Mount Rushmore were reassuring. Pamela had had a reasonably good day and she was sleeping. The toxic level of her blood was falling, and if her psychological report proved satisfactory, she might be allowed to go home in a couple of days.

‘There’s no physical danger then?’ Laura persisted, remembering articles she had read about toxic hepatitis and stomach bleeding.