Snowfire

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.

  Snowfire

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  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

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  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?’

  The low, impassioned words were uncannily like an echo of her own thoughts, and Olivia wondered if he could read her mind. Certainly her association with the Brennans had always been a close one, and only in the last couple of years, since she had gone to live and work in London, had their friendship suffered because of the separation.

  Of course, it was his mother with whom Olivia had had the most in common, she acknowledged. She had been ten when Keith and Sally Brennan had moved into the big old house next to her grandmother’s cottage. And, from the beginning, she had been a welcome visitor there. Naturally the fact that the Brennans had also had a baby son had been a great attraction, but as Olivia grew older it was Sally who had shared all the hopes and fears of her teenage years.

  Olivia had hardly known her own parents. They had been involved in a car accident when she was little more than a baby herself, and although her mother had lingered on in the hospital for several weeks after the crash there had never been any real hope of her recovering consciousness. In consequence, Olivia’s paternal grandmother had taken her to live with her and, although Mrs Holland had done her best, she had been too used to living alone to have much patience with a lively toddler.

  That was why Olivia felt such an enormous sense of empathy with Conor now. She had known him since he was two years old. She had watched him grow from a mischievous schoolboy into a confident teenager. She had combed his hair and scrubbed his knees, and sometimes told him off. And lately she had teased him about his girlfriends: the procession of budding Madonnas who hung around outside his gate. He was the closest thing to a nephew she was ever likely to have, and she was going to miss him badly.

  ’I—think so,’ she answered now, finding it difficult to say the words with his anxious eyes upon her. She struggled to sound optimistic. ‘Look at it this way—it’ll be a fresh start. And—where your Uncle Philip lives sounds really beautiful. Imagine being able to swim all the year round!’

  ’I don’t want to go.’ Conor’s response was desperate. ‘I want to stay here. Why can’t I stay here? This house is mine now, isn’t it?’

  ’Well, yes, but—–’

  ’There you are, then.’

  ’Conor, you can’t stay here alone!’ It wasn’t as if her grandmothe
r still lived next door. Last year Mrs Holland had had a stroke, and she had been moved into a retirement home. The cottage had been sold, and Sally had said they hardly knew the new occupants.

  ’Why can’t I?’ he demanded now. ‘I’ve stayed here on my own before.’

  ’Not for weeks you haven’t,’ replied Olivia flatly, finding it impossible to sustain his cornered gaze. ‘Conor, you’re only fifteen—–’

  ’Sixteen,’ he interrupted her swiftly. ‘I’ll be sixteen in three months.’

  ’No, Conor.’

  ’Then why can’t I come and live with you?’ he demanded, seizing on the idea. ‘I wouldn’t get in your way, honestly. I could get a job—–’

  ’Conor …’ She sighed. ‘Conor, you have to finish your education. It’s what your parents would have wanted.’

  ’In Florida!’ His lips twisted.

  ’Yes.’ Olivia knew she had to be firm.

  Conor sniffed. ‘I see.’

  ’Oh, don’t say it like that.’ She couldn’t bear his defeated stare. ‘If there was anything I could do—–’

  ’—you’d do it. I know.’ But Conor sounded horribly cynical. ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised. You’re going to be a hotshot lady lawyer! The last thing you need is a raw kid hanging around your apartment, cramping your style, when you bring clients home—–’

  ’Conor, I don’t have an apartment, and you know it,’ she protested weakly. ‘I have a room in a house that I share with three other women. It’s just a bed-sit, really. And there’s no way you could live there.’

  ’Well, why can’t you get something bigger? Something we could share? I’d help with the rent—–’

  ’No, Conor.’ Olivia squashed that idea once and for all. ‘I’m not your guardian,’ she explained gently. ‘Your Uncle Philip is. Even … even if it were possible—which it’s not,’ she put in hurriedly, ‘he wouldn’t allow you to stay with me.’

  ’And aren’t you glad?’ Conor’s expression changed to one of bitterness. He swung away from her, thrusting aggressive hands into his trouser pockets, rounding his shoulders against an unforgiving fate. ‘I bet you can’t wait to get in your car and drive away from all this, can you?’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘It’s not your problem, so why get involved? I don’t know what you came here for. You can’t help, so why didn’t you stay away?’

  ’Oh, Conor!’

  Olivia’s composure broke at last, and, as if her grief was all that was needed to drive a wedge through his crumbling defiance, he turned back to her. For a few tense moments he just stared at her, and she saw the glitter of tears on lashes several shades darker than his hair. Then, with a muffled groan, he flung himself into her arms.

  He was shaking. She could feel it. And his thin, boyish frame seemed even bonier than she remembered. One of the neighbours had told her he hadn’t eaten a thing since he had learned that the plane carrying his mother and father to Paris had exploded over the Channel. He had borne it all bravely, but inside it was eating him up.

  ’I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he muttered at last, dragging himself away from her. He rubbed the back of his hand across his cheek, looking at her rather shamefacedly. ‘I’ve wet the collar of your blouse.’

  ’It doesn’t matter.’ Olivia wished the dampness she could feel against her neck was all she had to worry about. ‘I just wish there was something I could do. Your mother was my best friend. I don’t want to let you down.’

  Conor’s lashes drooped to veil eyes that were presently a watery shade of green. He had long lashes for a boy, and they did a successful job of hiding his feelings. Dear God, why had this had to happen? The Brennans had been such a close family. They had come to live in Paget when Keith, who was a physiotherapist, got an appointment at the hospital in nearby Dymchurch. Sally, meanwhile, had been content doing social work and looking after her garden, and Conor had been the centre of their universe …

  ’What time are you leaving?’ he enquired abruptly, and she guessed what it must have cost him to ask that question. But he knew, as well as she did, that it would take her some time to drive back to London. And now that the nights were drawing in again …

  ’Um—pretty soon,’ Olivia answered now, putting out her hand to brush a thread of lint from his jacket, and then withdrawing it again as he flinched away from her touch. She linked her hands together instead in an effort to control her own anguish, and glanced behind her. ‘I—you will write and let me know your address, won’t you? You know where I live, and I’m looking forward to hearing all about Port Douglas.’

  Conor shrugged. ‘If you like.’

  There was a flatness to his tone now, an indifference, and inwardly Olivia groaned. It was foolish, she knew, but the thought of leaving him, of not seeing him again for God knew how long, was tearing her apart, and she realised she had to get away before she gave in and said something she would regret. He couldn’t stay with her. There was no way she could support herself and a boy of his age. And it was no use toying with the idea of abandoning her legal training, getting a job down here, and offering to live with him, in this house, as a kind of guardian-cum-housekeeper. Philip Cox would never allow it. And, in any case, the house was probably going to be sold to pay for Conor’s education.

  Biting her lip, she took a steadying breath. ‘So,’ she said, striving for control, ‘you’re going to be all right?’

  Conor’s mouth twisted. ‘Of course.’

  Olivia hesitated. ‘You do—understand?’

  Conor shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ’Of course it matters.’ Just for a moment Olivia lost her hard-won detachment, and a little of her own frustration showed in her voice. ‘I want you to be happy, Conor. And you will be. Believe me!’

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE small hotel, part of a row of wood-faced Tudor-type dwellings, many of which owed their origins to the days when the Cinque Ports provided ships to fight the Spanish Armada, stood at the end of the quay. Of course, the old buildings had been much renovated and repaired since Elizabethan times, but the Ship Inn’s low doorways and timbered ceilings were too attractive to tourists to be replaced, however inconvenient they might be.

  Not that Paget attracted as many visitors as Romney, or Hythe, or Dymchurch. It was too small, for one thing, and, for another, the salt-marshes were not suitable for children to play on. But, as a fishing village that hadn’t altered drastically since the sixteenth century, it was one of a kind, and many visitors, Americans particularly, came to take photographs of its ancient buildings and cobbled streets.

  But at this time of the year there were few tourists stalwart enough to brave the east wind that came in over the marshes. The first weeks of February had been wild and blustery, and only that morning there had been a sprinkling of snow over the fishing boats lying idle in their stocks. Storm warnings had been out all along the coast, and the few fishermen willing to venture out into the choppy waters had been driven back again by the gales.

  Standing at her bedroom window, her head stooped to accommodate the low lintel, Olivia felt no sense of regret at the inclement weather. On the contrary, it suited her very well that she did not have to put on a sociable face when she went down to the tiny dining-room for breakfast. She hadn’t come to Paget for familiarity or company. She didn’t want to talk to anybody, beyond the common courtesies politeness demanded. Because he hadn’t recognised her name, the landlord had assumed she was a stranger here, and it had suited her to foster that belief. As far as Tom Drake was concerned, she was one of ‘them crazy Londoners’, she was sure. Who else would choose to come to Paget while winter still gripped it in its icy grasp? Who else would book a room for an unspecified period when it was obvious from her appearance that she would have benefited from a spell in the sun?

  Of course, the fact that she looked thin and pale and tended to drag her left leg might have given the staff other ideas, Olivia acknowledged. After all, this was hardly the sort of place to come for a rest cure. Perhaps th
ey thought she had some awful terminal illness and had come to Paget to die. It was impossible to speculate what they might think, but in the week that had elapsed since she came here they had respected her privacy and left her alone.

  And Olivia was grateful. In fact, for the first time in more than a year she actually felt as if she was beginning to relax. Her leg was still painful, particularly if she walked further than the doctors had recommended. But her appetite was improving a little, and she didn’t always need barbiturates to sleep.

  Her lips curled slightly as she accorded that thread of optimism the contempt it deserved. Imagine needing drugs to enjoy a night’s rest, she thought bitterly. She was thirty-four, and she felt at least twenty years older!

  But her low state of fitness was not entirely unwarranted, she defended herself. The shock of learning that Stephen had been unfaithful had barely been blunted when the accident happened, and weeks spent in a hospital bed had served to exacerbate her sense of betrayal. If she’d been able to carry on with her work, lose herself in its legal intricacies, she might have weathered the storm fairly well. It wasn’t as if her marriage to Stephen had been ideal from the outset. It hadn’t, and it had taken her only a short time to acknowledge that she had allowed her biological clock to induce her into a situation that was primarily the result of pressure. Pressure from her friends, pressure from her peers, but also pressure within herself at the knowledge that she was twenty-nine, single, and facing a lonely future. In consequence, she had allowed herself to be persuaded that any marriage was better than no marriage at all, and it wasn’t until the deed was done that she had realised how wrong she was.

  She couldn’t altogether blame Stephen. Like herself, he had been approaching an early middle age without a permanent companion, and, if some of his habits had been a little annoying, and his lovemaking less than earth-moving, she had determined to make the best of it. No doubt there were things she did that annoyed him, too, and if her grandmother had taught her anything, it was that life was seldom the way one wanted it to be.