Smokescreen

Smokescreen
Anne Mather

Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. Free at last… to lose her heart After years trapped in a loveless marriage, wealthy widow Olivia finally has her freedom. The world should be her oyster – but Olivia is troubled that her late husband’s estranged son Alex has been left with nothing. When she meets Alex for the first time, she is even more troubled by her powerful attraction to him!Olivia is determined to do the right thing by the divinely handsome Alex – but he is distrustful of her motives. She soon realises that despite her riches, what she desperately wants is the only thing that money can’t buy…

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

Smokescreen

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u84123b43-07ed-5174-81d8-9b85ec2af5a4)

About the Author (#u0ca55442-645d-5d04-af04-33c94989711d)

Title Page (#uf9689f0f-b74c-5e11-a427-6949336f2080)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#uad775cc0-d11b-53e8-8325-73d4dbb69ac7)

‘THE Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away … ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’

The words of the funeral service drifted over Olivia’s head. She was hardly aware of them. She was hardly aware of the sunny February day, an inappropriate contrast to the sombreness of the occasion, or of the covertly interested glances she attracted, as the young, bereaved widow. She appeared unconcerned that her sallow skin and ebony black hair were a startling contrast in this essentially English setting, or that the sable coat she wore with such indifference accentuated her almost alien appearance. She seemed remote from what was happening around her, careless that her manner might be misconstrued; the whispered speculations of her fellow mourners reaching her ears with no more consequence than the sound of the leaves shifting about her feet.

There were a great number of mourners gathered about the graveside, associates and business colleagues of Henry Gantry, his fellow directors in the huge chemical corporation he had founded, employees; anyone who thought that by being there they might prove themselves in some way. Henry Gantry had been a powerful man, in death he still commanded great respect, and although not one of them would admit to being afraid of him, they all had been, at one time or another.

Olivia was the exception. She had not been afraid of him. She had hated him before she even knew him, and latterly she had come to despise him, and herself. But fear, that was for people whose lives Henry Gantry had been able to control, and there had been many, she had to admit. Yet, strangely enough, living in his house, she had come close to respecting him, even if she could never forgive him for what he had done. She had even discovered in herself a mild contempt for people whose weaknesses Henry had exploited. It was a feeling she had fought to overcome, and now it was all over. Or perhaps it was only beginning …

The funeral service had ended. The heavy, lead-lined coffin had been lowered into the ground, and Francis Kennedy, who had been Henry Gantry’s personal assistant, touched her sleeve.

‘Let me drive you back to the house, Mrs Gantry,’ he offered, with the bland personable charm that seemed to have ensured his success with her sex. ‘You must be cold and tired. What you need is a stiff brandy—to take the strain.’

Olivia turned her long green eyes in his direction, their cool transparency startling in those dark features. ‘Thank you,’ she said, civilly enough, although experience had taught her to distrust too much subservience. ‘I think I can stand it, Francis. I shall ride back with Forsyth, as usual. As you can see, he’s waiting for me. But it was a nice gesture.’

Francis Kennedy inclined his head. ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Gantry. I’ll see you later, at the house.’

Olivia acknowledged his submission and then, with a faint smile for the priest who had conducted the ceremony, she turned in the direction of the cars. Poor Father Donovan, she thought cynically, as the heels of her long boots sank into the soggy turf that flanked the graves. Like everyone else, he had succumbed to the corrosive power of wealth and possession, and although Henry Gantry had never stepped inside a church in his life, his funeral Mass had been just as magnificent as that conveyed to the most ardent believer. But perhaps that was only right, she reflected, forcing her callousness aside. What was it she had read: that God rejoiced more over the repentance of one non-believer than over so many who had had faith? She shook her head. It was something like that. The trouble was, Henry Gantry had repented nothing. He had lived his life the way he chose to live it, and at the end he had had only gratification for his own shrewd reasoning.

The sun was hidden by a cloud suddenly, and the bright afternoon with its promise of spring became at once dull and overcast. Although it was barely three o’clock, it would be dark soon, and Olivia quickened her step to where the chauffeur, Forsyth, was standing beside the Rolls.

A flutter of condolences surrounded her as Forsyth opened the door of the Rolls for Olivia to ascend. Malcolm Birk, Henry’s managing director, and his wife, pressed forward to offer their regrets, Barry Freeman, the company secretary, Sean Barrett, another director; Mortimer Lloyd, Lane Grimond, Paul Sloane, James Farrell; Olivia acknowledged all their commiserations with unsmiling politeness, aware as she did so that each one of them was concerned for his own ends and no one else. Henry had been right about one thing, she thought, sinking back against the soft leather upholstery; they were like a pack of wolves, intent on the kill. And if her position had not been so secure, she would have been the first casualty.

Expelling her breath on a sigh, she became aware of Forsyth’s eyes watching her through the rear-view mirror. But his eyes showed concern, not avarice, and she allowed a slight smile to touch her lips in answer to his unspoken question.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, drawing off the black suede gloves which had hidden her narrow fingers. Examining the square-cut sapphire that nudged the broad gold wedding band on her left hand, she shook her head half disbelievingly. ‘I’ll be all right, Forsyth,’ she said again. ‘You’ll see.’

There were reporters at the gates of the cemetery, a gaggle of them, with notebooks and cameras, leaning dangerously close to the car as it passed to take yet another picture of the grieving widow. For it was quite a news story: a young woman, of only twenty-two years of age, whose marriage to a man more than forty years her senior had made her a celebrity; a bride of only six months, widowed by her elderly bridegroom, and suddenly one of the wealthiest women in the world.

Olivia could not hide from the flashing light bulbs, so she did not try. She sat there, cool and remote, her intense composure yet another source of speculation for the gossip-hungry readers of the gutter press. She knew everyone thought she had married Henry for his money, and she supposed she had, in a way. But not in the way they meant; not even in the way his business associates believed; and certainly not for the reasons Henry himself had put forward.