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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
The Smouldering Flame
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
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
JUST standing still on the concrete platform, Joanna could feel rivulets of sweat running freely down her spine. The thin denim shirt and pants, worn to protect her from the blistering heat of the sun, clung revealingly to her slender figure, and she was not unaware of the many speculative stares from dark eyes cast in her direction. She had been in hot places before, but none so hot as this, and the insanity of trying to find a man she had not seen since she was fourteen years old was rapidly beginning to mean more to her than actually succeeding in her quest. Her father could have had no idea of the conditions here in Lushasa, or he would never have permitted her to come, she told herself. Or would he? Lately, his powers of reasoning had suffered quite a setback.
It had not seemed so insane in the peace and seclusion of the Lakeland fells where she had her home. The idea of a trip to Africa had sounded exciting, a chance of adventure which had unexpectedly come her way, possibly her last chance to do something on her own before settling down to marriage with Philip.
And finding Shannon had not seemed such an impossible pursuit. They had his address—or so they had thought, and the journey to Johannesburg had proved every bit as exciting as she had imagined. But someone else was living in Shannon’s apartment in the high-rise block, and her visit to the government mining company there had proved fruitless. She had merely learned that five years before he had moved on to work for the Lushasan Mining Authority, and they had no forwarding address.
She had gone back to her hotel’ and cabled this news home, half hoping that Philip, who had not been happy about her making the trip in the first place, would be able to persuade her father that she had done all she could. But she ought to have known that Maxwell Carne would not give up so easily. The answering cable had given instructions for her to travel to Menawi, the capital of Lushasa, and contact the mining authorities there.
Menawi, she had found to her surprise, was a fast-developing community, with well laid out shops and offices, modern hotels set in tropical gardens, and air-conditioning. Joanna’s spirits had risen even more when, after checking into an hotel, she had telephoned the Lushasan Mining Authority and discovered that Shannon Carne was indeed employed by them. That he was working some two hundred miles distant at a place called Kwyana had not daunted her either, even though an elderly British couple staying at the hotel had warned her that conditions outside the capital were not half so civilised. She had been informed that there was an adequate train service running between Kwyana and the capital, built she assumed to accommodate the output from the mines, and she had looked forward to seeing something of the countryside.
It was not until she had emerged from the heat-laden atmosphere of the grimy carriage, hauled by a smoke-belching monster of an engine, and found herself on this desolate platform of concrete that she began to doubt the justification of her actions. Two hundred miles in distance meant a hundred years back in time so far as she could see. There was little evidence of the twentieth century here, with scrubland stretching towards purple shadowed mountains on one side of her, and close-set trees and creepers, noisy with the raucous cries of birds she could not begin to identify, encroaching almost to the iron tracks of the railroad on the other. The arrival of the train, and judging by the barriers this was as far as it went, was obviously quite an event. Dozens of Africans dressed in various garb thronged the platform, hauling out crates of supplies and loading other crates aboard. Joanna was amazed that anyone knew which crates had to go where. The confusion was so immense, the noise so deafening, and always the heat to burn through to her prickling skin.
Beyond the peeling station buildings, a collection of shacks could be seen, and Joanna realised that she could not stand here indefinitely. She wondered uneasily how long the train would remain at the station, and whether, if by some terrible coincidence she missed Shannon, she could get back to Menawi that night. She had brought only an overnight case with her, leaving most of her belongings at the hotel.
Near the station barrier, the lorry which was supplying the crates being loaded on to the train bore the lettering: LUSHASAN GOLD MINING AUTHORITY, and her drooping spirits lifted a little. Picking up her case, she endeavoured to thrust her way between the Africans who were causing such an uproar, brushing against gleaming black bodies, aromatic with sweat, striped tent-like garments, denims and ordinary European gear.
The man in charge of the off-loading was not African, but neither was he wholly European. Joanna guessed he was a mixture of both, with handsome olive-skinned features and curly dark hair. His dark eyes widened to an incredible degree when he saw a white girl pushing her way towards him, and he spat commands at the Africans still blocking her path so that she could reach him without further effort. In a mud-coloured bush shirt and shorts, his sleeves circled with sweat, he nevertheless represented sanity in a world gone mad.
‘Mademoiselle!’ he exclaimed, giving her a perfunctory bow. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voul
ez? Ce n’est pas——’
‘Oh, please,’ Joanna broke in, ‘do you speak any English?’ Her French, remembered from schooldays, was not very good, and she prayed that this man had some knowledge of her own language.
‘Yes, mademoiselle, I speak English.’ The man gestured to the gaping Africans to get on with the unloading. ‘But what is an English young lady doing here?’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘You cannot be travelling alone?’
His accent was attractive, but Joanna was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘I am travelling alone, yes——’ she was beginning, only to be interrupted by a flow of invective from his lips as one of the Africans dropped a crate right behind them. After a moment, her companion turned back to her and apologised, indicating that she should go on.
Joanna tried to gather her thoughts, but this was all so strange to her, not least the way this man could switch from smiling urbanity to obviously crude abuse in seconds.
Forcing herself to ignore their faintly hostile audience, she said: ‘Could you direct me to the mine, please?’
‘The mine, mademoiselle?’
‘You are from the gold mine, aren’t you?’ Joanna made an involuntary movement towards the lettering on the cab of the lorry.
He looked in that direction himself, and then swung his head curiously back to her. ‘You want to go to the mine, mademoiselle?’
Joanna tried not to feel impatient. ‘Obviously.’
He shrugged, tipping his head to one side. ‘The mine is over there, mademoiselle.’ He indicated the distant mountains.
Joanna stared in dismay towards the purple-shrouded range. ‘But that must be—five or ten miles away!’
‘Seven, to be exact,’ her companion informed her, thrusting his hands into the hip pockets of his shorts.
‘Seven miles!’ Joanna’s echo of his words was anguished.
‘Why do you wish to go to the mine, mademoiselle?’ the man asked softly.
Discarding prevarication, Joanna sighed. ‘I’ve come to find my brother. I believe he works for the mining company. Shannon Carne?’
The man beside her looked surprised. ‘Mr Carne is your brother?’
‘My half-brother, yes.’
‘Half-brother?’ He frowned. ‘What is this?’
Joanna felt like telling him it was none of his business, but so far as she knew he might present her only chance of reaching the mine.
‘It means we had the same father—different mothers,’ she explained shortly. ‘He is there, then? You do know him?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’ The man bowed his head. ‘I know Mr Carne. But——’ His eyes flickered over her for a moment. ‘I did not know he had a—sister.’
There was something offensive in his appraisal, and Joanna felt her flesh crawl. But short of alienating the only person who might offer her a lift to the mine, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps he thought she was only masquerading as Shannon’s sister. Perhaps wives or girl-friends were not allowed at the mine, and he thought she was only pretending a relationship. It was her own fault. She should not have come here so precipitately. She should have cabled ahead that she was in Lushasa, waited at the hotel in Menawi, trusted that after having come so far, Shannon would at least have the decency to come and see her.
If only he had replied to her father’s letters, but of course, they had gone to Johannesburg, and he had left no forwarding address. He could have advised them that he had left South Africa. That awful row between him and his father had been all of ten years ago now. Had he never wondered about them in all that time? Never cared to know how they were? Little wonder if this man had doubts about their relationship. Since coming to Africa, Shannon had had no contact with his family whatsoever.
That was why Joanna had impulsively boarded the train and come to Kwyana. She could not have borne for Shannon to ignore her, and by coming here she had eliminated any excuses he might make. Besides, she was eager to see him again. He had always been her hero, someone she had looked up to and admired. He had appeared to accept the fact of his parents’ divorce when he was six years old without question, and when his father had married again and subsequently produced Joanna, he had shown no jealousy. Eight years her senior, he had taught her to swim and play games as well as any boy of her age, and she had idolised him. He had never talked about his mother or her rejection of him, even though they had known she was alive and well and living in America at that time, and that was why Joanna had found his rejection of the family so hard to take when it happened. She only knew that the row he had had with his father had something to do with his mother, and he had walked out of the house and never come back. For a while her father had been terribly bitter about the whole thing, but later on he had employed a private detective to find him. The man had traced Shannon to Witwatersrand, but although they had written, he had never replied to any of their letters. And now her father was sick, slowly dying in fact, and in spite of everything insistent that Shannon should inherit the estate.
Now Joanna squared her shoulders, and said: ‘Well, I can assure you, I am Joanna Carne. And I do need to see my brother.’
The man considered her for a few moments longer, and then he said: ‘Does—Mr Carne expect you?’
Joanna sighed. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘He doesn’t even know I’m in Africa. Does it matter?’ She controlled a momentary irritation. ‘Is there any vehicle I can hire to get to the mine?’
‘There are no taxis here, mademoiselle.’ The man’s lips twisted derisively. ‘But …’ His appraisal abruptly ceased as he slapped at an insect crawling across his cheek. ‘Perhaps I could take you there myself.’
Joanna expelled her breath with some relief. ‘Oh, would you? I’d be very grateful, Mr—er—Mr——’
‘Just call me Lorenz,’ replied the man, turning away to shout more abuse at the flagging porters. Then: ‘Is this all your luggage?’
‘Yes.’ Joanna felt obliged to explain: ‘I left the rest at the hotel in Menawi.’
‘You did?’ The man called Lorenz raised dark eyebrows. ‘Then let us hope it is still there when you get back, eh?’
This was one worry Joanna refused to consider. ‘I’m sure it will be,’ she said equably, and allowed him to take her overnight case from her sticky fingers.
Her handbag swinging from her shoulder, Joanna stood waiting nervously for the unloading and loading to be through. The sun was burning the top of her head, and although she had piled up the honey blonde hair for coolness, damp strands were tumbling about her ears. She hoped her hair would be thick enough to withstand the heat of the sun, but she somehow doubted it. She felt as though every inch of clothing was sticking to her, and she thought longingly of pools of cool water, or the stinging spray of the shower back in the hotel. The water there had not been really cold, but it had been refreshing, and she longed to feel her skin tingling with cleanliness again after that interminable train journey. She was hot and grubby, and only the knowledge that Shannon was only seven miles away stopped her from climbing back aboard the train to Menawi.
‘Perhaps you would prefer to wait in the cabin, Miss Carne?’
Lorenz was back, indicating the driving cabin of the lorry, and after a moment’s hesitation Joanna nodded her thanks. She was glad she was wearing trousers as he helped her up. There was nothing ladylike about scrambling up iron footholds on to a seat that scorched like a hot tin roof. But she managed to smile down at her rescuer, and after a few moments of discomfort she could relax.
Flies buzzed in and out of the open doors, the noise outside had not abated, and her mouth felt dry and sandy. She had had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast in the hotel that morning, and as it was now afternoon, she was beginning to feel decidedly empty. An opened can of beer rested on the floor of the cabin, but the flies invading the twist-off lid made her feel sick.
After what seemed like hours, but which was in reality only about twenty minutes, Lorenz appeared below her. ‘Almost finished now, Miss Carne. Soon we will
be on our way.’
Joanna forced a smile. ‘Oh, good.’ She shifted a little under that irritating scrutiny. ‘Will it take long? To get to the mine, I mean?’
Lorenz shrugged. ‘Twenty-five—thirty minutes, no more.’
‘So long?’ Joanna couldn’t prevent the exclamation.
Lorenz’s expression hardened. ‘Is not a good road, Miss Carne. You want I should break an axle?’
‘Oh, no, of course not.’ Joanna was quick to apologise. ‘You must forgive me. I—I’ve never been in Africa before.’
Lorenz shrugged and turned away, and Joanna looked frustratedly down at her hands. She didn’t want to antagonise the man, but thirty minutes to do seven miles seemed an exaggeratedly long time. She half wished there was some other way she could get there. She didn’t like Lorenz’s attitude towards her. She was convinced he did not believe that she was related to Shannon, and in his eyes, if she was not, what did that make her?
At last, a creaking and a heavy thud heralded the end of the delay. The lorry was loaded up, and Lorenz came to swing himself behind the wheel of the vehicle. The rank smell of sweat from his body as he levered himself into the cabin beside her made Joanna hold her breath for a moment, and his language when he accidentally kicked over the can of beer and sent a stream of brown liquid across his canvas-clad feet shocked and revolted her.
The engine of the vehicle started without trouble, and soon they were bumping over the siding, passing the shacks where groups of women watched them curiously, sounding the horn as almost naked children ran carelessly in their path. Then even those few signs of habitation were left behind, and they rolled heavily along a road split by the constant rays of the sun.
Joanna soon appreciated the wisdom of not travelling at speed. The lorry was built for carrying anything but passengers, and the end of her spine was soon numb from the buffeting it was receiving. From the somewhat sardonic glances Lorenz kept making in her direction, she guessed he knew exactly how she was feeling, and she determinedly put a brave face on it.
