by Anne Mather
Harlequin 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.
The Baby Gambit
Anne Mather
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
EPILOGUE
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
GRACE stepped out onto the balcony of the appartamento and took her first real look at the blue waters of the bay. Breathing deeply, the shiver that shook her frame at that moment was induced more by excitement and anticipation than by the slight coolness of the morning air. She was here, she thought. She was in Italy. And for the next two weeks she had nothing more momentous to think about than what she was going to do to fill her time.
Below the faded grandeur of the old apartment building, the terraced slopes of Portofalco zigzagged their way down to the harbour. Portofalco was not the most well-known or the most exclusive resort on this section of the Ligurian coast, but it was one of the prettiest, and Julia had told her that many of its wealthier visitors came back year after year.
And she should know, conceded Grace sagely, resting her elbows on the balcony rail and feeling the chill of wrought iron against her slim bare arms. As yet, this corner of the Villa Modena was still in shadow, but she guessed that when the sun rose higher this balcony would be a veritable sun-trap, and she’d be grateful for the louvred shutters that bracketed every window.
She wondered what tune Julia would get back from Valle di Falco. Her friend, who lived all year in the small apartment, and who worked in one of the larger hotels along the coast, was away for the weekend, and Grace didn’t expect her back until tomorrow. But she didn’t mind. When she’d accepted Julia’s invitation to come here and stay with her, it had been on the understanding that her friend should not feel she had to entertain her while she was here. Julia had a busy social life, she knew, but Grace hoped not to get involved.
The two women had known one another since their college days, and although they hadn’t seen much of one another since Julia had come to live in Italy two years ago they’d kept in touch. There’d always been a casual familiarity between them that didn’t seem to be affected by the passage of time, which was why Grace had been grateful for the invitation, knowing that with Julia she wouldn’t be expected to do anything.
And all she really wanted to do was rest, she conceded ruefully, even if it had taken a bout of pneumonia to convince her of the fact. Holding down two jobs, and trying to look after her invalid mother into the bargain, had been exhausting, but she hadn’t realised she was neglecting her health until she’d collapsed.
It all seemed so obvious in retrospect, but at the time there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do. She was the only member of her family who was unmarried, therefore it was up to her to look after her mother, and she’d given up her own apartment and moved back into her mother’s house in Brighton.
And that was when life had become really hectic. Travelling up to London every day, trying to maintain her job at the museum, had been hard enough, but going out most evenings, working behind the bar at the local pub to supplement her income, had ultimately proved too much. She’d caught a bad cold, not a serious one, she’d assured herself, but it had rapidly developed into something else.
It had taken a stay in hospital to convince her that she couldn’t go on looking after her mother alone, with only a home help during the day to support her. So with some persuasion by a friendly doctor her two younger sisters had agreed to share the responsibility. But they had husbands and young families, and Grace guessed their assistance would only be temporary, so she intended to make the most of this holiday to build up her strength.
The alternative was to put her mother into a home, and she didn’t want that. Grace loved her mother dearly and it wasn’t her fault that she’d developed a crippling form of osteoarthritis only a couple of years after Grace had got her doctorate and started work at the museum. She’d managed to look after herself to begin with, but gradually, over the years, her condition had deteriorated. Now she could only get about in a wheelchair, and there’d been no way Grace could afford to provide professional care on her salary.
So, she had gone back to live at home. Grace had already begun to believe that she’d never get married anyway, so it was no great hardship. She was the perennial spinster, she thought drily, eschewing the more popular description of a bachelor girl. Euphemisms were all very well, but the fact was she’d given up believing she was ever going to meet a man who was not intimidated by either her appearance or her intellect. At a little under six feet in height, and with the kind of Junoesque figure most women would die for, Grace had always considered herself an oddity. She saw nothing attractive about her full breasts and generously curved hips and she kept her hair long and severely braided to quell the uncontrollable urge it had to tumble in a riotous tangle of silvery blonde curls about her heart-shaped face.
Of course, she hadn’t always been so cynical. When she was at college, and boys of her own age were falling over themselves to go out with her, she’d imagined that one day she’d fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. She’d been in no hurry to give up her single state, but the prospect had always b
een there, like a friendly beacon on the horizon.
It hadn’t happened.
She’d eventually realised that most of the men she dated wanted only one thing and that was to get her into bed. They didn’t seem either willing or capable of looking beyond the ‘dumb blonde’ image she presented to the world to the slightly shy and intelligent woman behind the sexy façade. The men who might have appealed to her were put off by her appearance. In their own way, they had judged her, too, and by the time she’d realised that the girls who found lasting relationships didn’t look like her she’d lost both her innocence and her trust.
She’d still dated from time to time, of course, but she’d changed, and she’d soon grown tired of defending her celibate state to men who still seemed to think that with her looks she must be desperate for sex. The truth was, her experiences of sex had not been particularly enjoyable, and she saw no sense in stressing herself over something she didn’t even like.
These days she was much more philosophical, she reflected comfortably, glancing down as the breeze that blew off the distant water caused the short hem of her nightshirt to flutter about her shapely thighs. She was thirty-four, with no prospect of a steady relationship in sight, and she’d finally come to the conclusion that she preferred it that way.
She sighed contentedly, feeling grateful that Julia had come to the rescue with the offer of this chance to share her apartment for two weeks. Booking a holiday at the height of the tourist season could have proved difficult, and she preferred the anonymity of private accommodation to the obvious disadvantages of a hotel. All she’d wanted was somewhere warm and sunny, with nothing to do but laze the days away.
‘I won’t be around much, I’m afraid,’ Julia had said, when Grace had phoned her from the hospital to tell her what was going on. “This is the busiest time of the year for me, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Portofalco is a pretty place, and if you get bored you can always hire a car and go exploring.’
Grace had assured her that it sounded like heaven and consequently here she was, the morning after her arrival, standing on Julia’s balcony just drinking in the view. And it was quite a view, she conceded, with the Bay of Portofalco below her, and the curve of the mainland sweeping round to Viareggio and beyond.
She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling at the mingled perfumes of the flowers that rose from the walled garden beneath the balcony. It wasn’t much of a garden, really, and it had been sadly neglected, but the tangled scents of jasmine and verbena, and the roses that clung tenaciously to the crumbling walls, were a heady delight. Somehow, even the overgrown garden had an enchanted air about it, hinting of assignations beside the lichen-studded fountain whose basin was crumbling, too.
Turning away from the view, Grace decided it was time she took a shower and got dressed. When she’d arrived the night before, she’d been too tired to do anything more than phone her mother to assure her she’d arrived safely, and strip off her clothes and tumble into bed. But it was eight o’clock in the morning now and her unpacking beckoned. Then breakfast, she thought with some anticipation, remembering that Julia had told her there was a bakery just down the street. The prospect of warm rolls and flaky pastries was appealing, and she strode across the rather overfurnished salotto into the bathroom beyond.
Fifteen minutes later, she felt considerably more energetic, and although she’d decided to put off her unpacking until later she put on a pair of cream silk shorts and a matching tank top to make her feel more like a holidaymaker. A glance in the bathroom mirror assured her that her mouth required little in the way of cosmetics, and she merely added a trace of blusher to give colour to her pale cheeks.
Her face was only too familiar to her and therefore nothing out of the ordinary, so that when she scraped back her hair into its usual braid and several rebellious loose ends curled about her temples she saw only the untidiness of it. But the old caretaker who looked after the building, and who had given her the key Julia had left for her the night before, greeted her with genuine pleasure, his rheumy old eyes glinting appreciatively as he watched her saunter off down the cobbled street.
The Villa Modena—Grace privately thought its title was rather flattering—stood halfway down a narrow street of similar dwellings. The street, the Via Cortese, wound up from the harbour, and she could see snatches of blue, blue water between vine-hung walls and over colour-washed roofs. Every now and then, an opening offered a tantalising view of the bay, with the masts of yachts moored at the jetty moving gently on the incoming tide.
She smelled the bakery before she reached it, the delicious aroma of newly baked bread making her mouth water. Which was unusual for her considering she hadn’t had much of an appetite at all since her illness, and she looked forward to enjoying a warm roll with the pot of coffee she’d left on the hotplate at the apartment.
The baker was red-cheeked and friendly, dismissing Grace’s attempts to make herself understood with a cheerful shake of his head. ‘Va bene, signorina,’ he assured her firmly. ‘I have the English, no?’ He smiled and gestured to the impressive array of bread available. ‘You tell me what you like.’
‘Grazie.’ Grace gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m not very good at learning languages, I’m afraid. But I’m staying for two weeks, so perhaps my Italian will improve.’
‘Prego!’ The man laughed. ‘We Itatianos will always forgive a beautiful woman, sì?’
Grace’s lips thinned a little at the familiar compliment, but she accepted his flattery good-humouredly. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said, pointing to a batch of crusty rolls. ‘I’ll have three of those, please, and two pastries. Grazie!’
She was pocketing her change before taking the bag of sweet-smelling pastries from his hand when, to her relief, the arrival of another customer distracted him. ‘A domani,’ he called after her. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And Grace lifted a hand in reluctant acknowledgement as she made her escape.
She could smell the pot of coffee as soon as she opened the door. The apartment, which was situated on the second floor of the villa, opened directly into the living room, with the tiny kitchenette occupying an alcove off the living area. A trellis of climbing greenery set in an earthenware container provided an impromptu screen, with a narrow counter at right angles to it where Julia evidently took her meals when she was at home.
Grace found some low-fat butter substitute in the small fridge and spread some on one of the warm rolls. Then, after pouring herself a mug of the strong black coffee, she perched on one of the tall stools that were pushed against the bar to enjoy her meal.
She was flicking idly through an old copy of Figaro when someone knocked at the door. She turned at once, guessing it was a visitor for Julia who didn’t know she was away. Hopefully, not a man, she thought ruefully, wiping a crumb from her lip. If she remembered correctly, Julia was spending the weekend with the current man in her life and, judging by her excitement when she’d mentioned him to Grace, it seemed that she hoped that this might be the one.
Grace grimaced. Her friend was much less cynical than she was. Even with a failed marriage behind her, Julia had still maintained that there was a man out there somewhere just waiting for her to come along. Perhaps this weekend’s amoroso, as they said in Italy, was different. Grace begged leave to reserve judgement until she’d met the man for herself.
But she was wasting time. As another knock sounded at the door, she slid off the stool and crossed the room. It could just be the old caretaker, she surmised. Perhaps he’d smelled the appetising aroma of the coffee, and found some excuse to come up here so that she could offer him a cup. If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention of inviting any strange man into the apartment.
But the man standing outside was not the caretaker. ‘Miss Horton?’ he asked, and although she was sure he was Italian there was no trace of an accent in his low, attractive voice.
There was a suitcase standing beside him, but Grace registered this only peripher
ally as she gazed at one of the few men who could give her a few inches in height. He was tall, extremely dark both in hair and skin, with a lean yet obviously muscular body. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, yet no one, not even his mother, could have called him handsome.
His eyes—dark eyes, what else? she mocked herself sardonically—were too deeply set, with hooded lids and thick black lashes hiding their expression. His cheekbones were harshly carved in a face that looked more inclined to severity than humour. Yet his mouth belied that conclusion, she reflected. Thin-lipped, perhaps, but with an obvious tendency towards laughter. Right now, she suspected he was laughing at her, and she felt a sharp tug of resentment at the thought.
‘Yes?’ she said coolly, unhappily aware that she had been staring at him far longer than she should have. She registered the suitcase properly now, propped beside one loafer-clad foot. A foot without any sock, she appended cynically, below loose-fitting cotton trousers that only hinted at the powerful thighs that flexed beneath.
Who was he? she wondered irritably. Surely Julia hadn’t invited someone else to stay to keep her company. Yet how else had he known her name? ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the violent urge she had to scream.
He bent and picked up the suitcase. ‘I just want to leave this for Julia,’ he said, as Grace was preparing herself to block his way. ‘It’s hers,’ he explained, evidently recognising her hostility. ‘She was my guest last evening and I agreed to deliver it back to her apartment.’
Grace’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, you’re—’
‘Matteo di Falco,’ he introduced himself easily as she stepped aside to allow him to set the suitcase down inside the door. ‘Unfortunately, Julia was obliged to cut the weekend short. She had to get back to the hotel.’
‘She did?’ Grace knew she sounded blank, but she couldn’t help it.
‘They phoned this morning,’ he agreed, straightening. ‘There has been some illness and they are short of staff. They asked if she could return immediately.’ He shrugged his shoulders, broad beneath the lightweight jacket he was wearing over a white tee shirt. ‘Cosi sia! So be it.’
