Snowfire. Anne Mather
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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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Snowfire
Anne Mather
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
HE WAS standing in the dining-room, by the window, gazing out at the rain that had been falling solidly ever since they left the church. Olivia guessed he must be thinking it was an omen. After weeks and weeks of dry weather, it had to be the day of the funeral that it changed.
She halted in the doorway, realising he was not yet aware of her presence, and dreading the moment when she would have to say goodbye. If only she were older, she thought. If only Sally had considered before blithely making Philip her son’s guardian. But who would have expected Sally and Keith to die before either of them was thirty-five? And Philip was Sally’s brother. He was obviously the natural choice.
Even so …
Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth as she stared at the boy’s drooping figure. Today had been more of a strain for him than for anyone, and his bent head and hunched shoulders spoke of a misery he could no longer hide. He had done well, she thought, handling himself through the tortuous rites of the burial with a dignity and self-possession enviable in a much older man. But now, believing himself unobserved, he had given way to his real feelings, and Olivia’s heart went out to him as she recognised his grief.
’Conor.’
His name was barely audible across the silent room, but he heard her. He turned then, dashing his hand over his face as he did so, struggling to resume the defensive posture that had kept his tears at bay.
’Oh—hi, Aunt ‘Livia,’ he said, forcing a smile that was determinedly bright. ‘I was just watching the rain. The garden’s waterlogged. Mum’s—–’ He broke off abruptly as the mention of his mother’s name disconcerted him, and then continued with an obvious effort, ‘Mum’s dahlias are really taking a hammering.’
’Are they?’
Olivia came to stand beside him, noticing almost inconsequentially that he had grown another couple of inches in the last twelve months. He was almost as tall as she was now, and at five feet seven inches—nine in her heels—she was considered above average height.
But now she feigned an interest in the flowers Sally had planted in the borders. The rain-soaked garden showed little of the colour it had flaunted earlier in the summer. The last time Olivia was here they had all had tea on the lawn …
She glanced at the boy beside her, more concerned about him than about his mother’s flowers. What was he really thinking? she wondered. Was he wishing he had gone with his parents on that fated day trip to Paris? He looked so pale and drawn, his sandy hair, which always seemed to need cutting, straggling over the collar of his dark suit.
If only they had made her his guardian, she thought helplessly. At fifteen, a boy needed to know who he was; he needed roots. Everything he knew and loved was here in Paget. He knew no one in the United States. He hadn’t even been to Florida for a holiday.
’Do I have to go?’