Rich as Sin

by Anne Mather

  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 mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  Rich as Sin

  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

  IT WAS the thumping in his head that woke him. That, and the sour taste in his mouth, which was an unpleasant reminder of the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before. But what the hell? No one really cared whether he went to bed sober, or drank himself into a senseless stupor. He was unattached: a free agent. No longer the brunt of any woman’s dissatisfactions. He could please himself what he did; how he lived. And if the knowledge didn’t exactly please him, then tough! Given enough time, he’d get used to it.

  Or would he? Rolling over in the tumbled bed, Matthew cast a bleary eye at the clock on the nearby table. God! he grunted ruefully. It was after twelve o’clock! No wonder his head was thumping. As he hadn’t eaten a thing since noon the previous day, he was probably starving as well as dehydrating.

  Still, he defended himself, as he hauled himself into an upright position and sat for a moment, waiting for the sledgehammer in his skull to slow its pace, he had been working until after midnight. The new program he was devising was probably going to outsell all his other programs, and he shouldn’t be too hard on himself if he used alcohol as a stimulant. The fact that he hadn’t needed that kind of stimulation until Melissa walked out on him was something he preferred not to remember. Time would deal with Melissa as it had dealt with everything else. And at least he had his work to alleviate his misery.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he paused again before lurching across the expensive shag-pile carpet to the bathroom. After attending to his most immediate needs, he leaned on the porcelain basin and viewed his stubbled features without enthusiasm. His eyes were bloodshot; there was a distinctly unhealthy tinge of greyness in his skin; and, to cap it all, it was two days since he had shaved, so that he resembled nothing so much as a derelict, one of those homeless vagrants who wandered around the country looking for hand-outs.

  Which was probably unfair to them, reflected Matthew drily, rubbing a hand over his bristling jawline. At least they had a reason for looking the way they did. He had a decent home, and an occupation, and, because of his maternal grandfather’s business acumen, more money than he knew what to do with. No reason at all to behave like an alcoholic, and certainly no reason to look like one.

  Grimacing, he turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower stall. Deliberately ignoring the temperature control, he allowed a stream of cold water to cascade down on to his shuddering body. God! For a moment, the iciness of it almost stopped his breath. But then, squeezing shower gel on to his hands, he began to lather himself fiercely, abrading his protesting flesh, as the water pummelled his head and shoulders.

  He felt marginally better when he stepped out of the marble-tiled stall, and wrapped a huge cream bath-sheet about him. His head was still throbbing, but the dragging feeling of lethargy had dissipated somewhat. He didn’t feel good, and he knew better than to believe that he would improve as the day wore on. But at least he was awake and active. And the computer keyboard would take care of the rest.

  His razor beckoned, and with a sigh of resignation he picked it up. He wouldn’t suit a beard, anyway, he consoled himself, as he concentrated on not turning his face into a mess of bloody cuts. Which wasn’t easy, when his hand tended to shake at the most inopportune moments. God, he should have had a drink before he started this. It was amazing how a shot of Scotch could stabilise his senses.

  He managed to finish the job without creating too much havoc, and dropped the towel on to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Then, after another ironic grimace at his appearance, he walked back into the bedroom, wrinkling his nose at the sour smell of alcohol that hit him. Indifferent to the fact that he was naked, and the temperature outside somewhere in the low forties, Matthew unlatched the windows to his balcony and threw them open. Then, after withstanding the blast of cold air that hit him with what he considered was admirable fortitude, he groped for his denims and pulled them on.

  He was rummaging in his closet for a clean polo shirt when there was a knock at the bedroom door. Turning, he surveyed the closed door for fully fifteen seconds without answering, and then, stifling his impatience, he called, ‘Yeah? What do you want?’

  The door opened, just a crack, and a man’s bald head appeared. ‘Oh,’ he said, when he saw Matthew. ‘You’re up, sir. Will you be wanting some breakfast?’

  Matthew’s mouth compressed. ‘At half-past twelve, Jeeves? I don’t think so. I’ll just have a sandwich. I want to get to work.’

  The door widened to admit the intruder, a huge, giant of a man, whose massive shoulders and straining paunch were constrained beneath navy blue worsted and spotless white linen. The uniform of a gentleman’s gentleman sat oddly on such a big man’s shoulders, but Matthew knew better than to suggest an alternative. The other man was proud of his appearance.

  ‘Are you going to the office, sir?’ he enquired, his sharp eyes taking in the open balcony doors and the untidy state of the bedroom. ‘And I wish you wouldn’t call me Jeeves, Mr Putnam. I don’t like it, and you know it.’

  Matthew gave the man a resigned look, and then, having no luck in finding a clean shirt, he reached for the sweatshirt he had discarde
d the night before. ‘No, I don’t plan to go into the office today,’ he was beginning, when the manservant snatched the sweatshirt out of his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Victor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Well, judging by your appearance, I’d guess you’d just had a shower, sir,’ declared Victor mildly, ‘and I’m sure you didn’t intend to wear this rather—odorous—item. You have a whole drawer full of clean shirts in the closet behind you. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it out for you.’

  ‘I can dress myself, thank you—Creighton,’ drawled Matthew, with rather less patience. ‘Why don’t you get out of here until I’m finished? Go and make some coffee or something. I don’t need a nursemaid.’

  ‘Did I say you did?’ Victor rolled the offending sweatshirt into a ball, and stood his ground. ‘But, as it happens, you look as if you need someone’s assistance. Your mother isn’t going to like this. She’s not going to like it at all.’

  ‘My mother?’ Matthew paused in the act of choosing a shirt from the drawer Victor had indicated, and turned to look at him again. ‘What does my mother have to do with anything?’

  ‘Have you forgotten? You’re meeting her for lunch in a little over half an hour.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Matthew slammed the drawer with his hip, and pulled a black polo shirt over his head. The sombre colour only accentuated the pallor of his olive skin, and Victor’s tongue clicked his disapproval. But Matthew was indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own at that moment, and the prospect of eating lunch with his mother and enduring her condemnation of his lifestyle was enough to make him wish he’d stayed in bed.

  ‘A sandwich, you said, sir,’ murmured Victor, evidently deciding it would be politic to give his employer a breathing space, and Matthew cast him a brooding look.

  ‘Nothing to eat,’ he snarled, the jaw he had shaved so inexpertly clenched aggressively. ‘Just fetch me a beer, and no arguments. Oh, and call me a cab. With a bit of luck there won’t be any available.’

  Victor paused in the doorway, his broad features showing his dismay. ‘I can drive you, Mr Putnam,’ he protested, but his employer’s face was adamant.

  ‘I said I’ll take a cab,’ Matthew retorted. ‘Just do it, Victor. And hurry up with that beer!’

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Matthew stepped out of the minicab and bent to shove a five-pound note into the driver’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said, without meaning it, waving away the change the man would have given him. Then, with a tight smile at the doorman’s proffered greeting, he vaulted up the steps and through the swing glass doors into the Ritz’s elegant foyer.

  The dining-room was at the far end of the hallway, but guests took pre-luncheon drinks in the gilded splendour of the Palm Court. It was there Matthew knew he would find his mother, delicately sipping the Perrier water which was all she allowed herself in the middle of the day. Caroline Putnam—née Apollonius—guarded her appearance with almost as much reverence as her son disregarded his, and it was her proud boast that her wedding dress fitted her as well today as it had done more than thirty years ago.

  Of course, the fact that the marriage she had worn the wedding dress for had lasted a considerably shorter time she considered of little consequence. She had married Joseph Putnam when she was only eighteen, much against her parents’ wishes, and had soon come to realise her father had been right all along. A penniless Englishman, of good stock but little business acumen, Joseph Putnam had lingered only long enough to sire their only offspring, before taking off on a round-the-world yacht-race that had ended in disaster off the Cape of Good Hope. Of course, Caroline had been suitably grief-stricken when the news was delivered, but no one could deny she had been relieved. It had saved her the publicity—and the expense—of a messy divorce, and Aristotle Apollonius—who preferred the sobriquet of Apollo, for obvious reasons—had been more than willing to take his errant daughter, and her small son, back to Greece.

  But, from Matthew’s point of view, it had not been an entirely satisfactory solution. Despite the fact that ‘Apollo’ had had only one child, Caroline, and that therefore Matthew was the only heir to the enormous shipping fortune he had amassed, the boy grew up with a regrettable dislike of his grandfather’s use of his money. The politics of power didn’t interest Matthew; he saw no merit in controlling people’s lives for purely personal gain. And, because his father had left sufficient funds for him to be educated in England, at the same schools he himself had attended, where a spartan regime went hand in hand with a distinct need for self-preservation, he had acquired a cynical aversion towards wealth in all its forms. It was a constant bone of contention between Matthew and the other members of his family, and the fact that he had made his home in England was no small contribution to the continuing discord.

  Which was why Matthew was not looking forward to this particular lunch with his mother. Ever since the split with Melissa she had been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to persuade him to come back to Athens. Despite the fact that he had now formed his own company, specialising in computer software, and had no interest in taking his place on the board of the Apollonius Shipping Corporation, Caroline persisted in pursuing her goal.

  The trouble was, Matthew was very much afraid that sooner or later she might succeed. He might be able to evade the issue so long as his grandfather was alive, but Apollo was over seventy years old. In ten years, twenty at the most, he was going to die, and then what excuse would he have for avoiding his responsibilities? Whether he liked it or not, hundreds—thousands—of people relied on the Apollonius Shipping Corporation for their livelihoods, and there was no way he could sit back and let his grandfather’s relatives jealously tear to shreds what he had achieved.

  The head waiter recognised him as he climbed the steps into the brightly lit atrium. It might be a dismal early April day outside, but the Palm Court of the London Ritz was as cheerfully brilliant as ever.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Putnam,’ the man said, his eyes moving from Matthew to the elegantly dressed woman at a corner table. ‘Your mother is waiting for you.’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Matthew bestowed another brief smile, and started across the room. ‘Oh—bring me a Scotch and soda, will you? I see my mother’s already on the soft stuff.’

  The waiter smiled, and moved away, and Matthew continued on to where his mother was seated on a striped couch. ‘Mama,’ he greeted her formally, bending to brush his lips against hers. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  Caroline Putnam viewed her son with reproof mingled with reluctant pride. Tall, like his father, and dark, like his maternal forebears, Matthew attracted attention wherever he went. Particularly female attention, Caroline admitted, somewhat irritably. Not surprisingly, he had the lean good looks that had attracted her to Joseph Putnam in the first place, but the weaknesses she had not initially recognised in his father had been more than compensated for by her own father’s genes. Matthew might not want to accept it, but he was far more like his grandfather than he would admit. He was arrogant, and stubborn, and absurdly independent. He made arbitrary decisions, and expected other people to abide by them. And, allied to that, he had the hooded eyes and muscled strength of a predator: an irresistible combination of sensuality and brute strength.

  But he was letting himself go, thought Caroline tersely, viewing the slight thickening of his midriff that swelled above his belt. And jeans, and a leather jerkin! To have lunch with his mother! It was all that bitch Melissa’s fault. Announcing she had fallen in love with someone else! Probably because Matthew had been in no hurry to take her to the altar.

  ‘I should have thought you’d have had plenty of time to arrange your schedule so you wouldn’t be late,’ she remarked now, the attractive accent she still retained taking a little of the sharpness out of her tone. ‘I know you haven’t been into the office. I called earlier, and Robert told me you were not there.’

  ‘No.’ Matthew’s response was hardly satisfactory. ‘So—when did you arrive?’

>   ‘Here—or in England?’ Caroline enquired in a clipped voice, jewelled fingers toying with the triple string of cultured pearls that encircled her slender throat, and Matthew’s mouth took on a lazy slant.

  ‘In England,’ he replied, humouring her. ‘I imagine you’re occupying your usual suite upstairs.’

  ‘Yes, and you might have taken the trouble to arrive in time to escort me down,’ retorted his mother, the dark eyes she had passed on to her son flashing angrily. ‘Honestly, Matt, I think you go out of your way to humiliate me! Leaving me sitting here alone! What if some undesirable lout had approached me?’

  ‘The Ritz doesn’t admit undesirable louts,’ remarked Matthew mildly, nodding his thanks as his Scotch and soda was delivered to the table. ‘You could sit here all day and no one would trouble you. But—I admit I should have phoned. As I said before, I’m sorry.’

  Caroline sniffed, but her expression had softened somewhat, and although she observed the enthusiasm with which her son swallowed half his drink her reaction was more resigned than censorious.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said, taking a sip of the iced spa water in her glass, ‘you’re here now, and that’s what really matters. For myself, I arrived last evening, and went straight off to that charity gala at the Albert Hall. Your Uncle Henry escorted me. Aunt Celia is still indisposed.’

  Matthew nodded. His uncle’s wife had never enjoyed the best of health, although he privately believed that her many illnesses were self-induced. It was commonly known that Henry Putnam was inclined to enjoy the company of the opposite sex rather too well, and poor Aunt Celia had paid the price of being too trusting. Nevertheless, from his mother’s point of view, the situation could not have been more convenient. She had a ready escort, whenever she needed one, without the complications that an unfettered relationship might have created for someone in her position.

  ‘You, I imagine, were combing the less salubrious nightspots of the city,’ she added, as Matthew’s summoning of the waiter for a second drink reactivated her impatience. ‘Matt, don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly? For heaven’s sake, if you were so besotted with the girl, why didn’t you marry her, instead of just—sleeping with her?’