Tender Assault

Tender Assault
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. Claimed by the heir… Nathan Kittrick is determined to take control of what is rightfully his – his family’s multi-million dollar holiday resort. But his childhood friend India, who has been managing the estate in his absence, is now as business focussed as she is beautiful – and she won’t be letting go of the reigns without a fight!Scandal follows Nathan where-ever he goes, and India won’t succumb to his charms, no matter how surprisingly gentle they might appear. Nathan’s return brings up bitter memories of the past, and she has vowed never to trust him again. But she hadn’t expected her desire for him to be quite as strong as this…

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.

Tender Assault

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#ud431942b-98dd-5743-bb94-e0f8192643e9)

About the Author (#u4dd5cdb0-8978-560f-8a33-e73c0de3ea7f)

Title Page (#u2986d432-f4b8-58c0-a637-b80eff399a76)

CHAPTER ONE (#u285c07ee-abe5-507b-9370-c6f0745f8991)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua45355bb-caa8-5e66-840c-eb04239bad13)

CHAPTER THREE (#u3aa311a7-7d08-599e-b6fd-a197435e7fbd)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_83b932ed-d292-50d0-9b36-026a9c3d5461)

THE Cessna had been waiting for him when he landed at Nassau. He hadn’t been sure it would be, but when he walked through Customs an unfamiliar face was waiting, holding a strip of cardboard with his name on it. He wondered why Sam Nevis hadn’t come to meet him. The pilot his father had employed for the past twenty years was surely not old enough to be retired. But he knew nothing about his father’s affairs any more, he reminded himself. And Sam Nevis, like everyone else, was just a name culled from the past.

The plane was unfamiliar, too, he found. The old single-engined turbo-prop had been replaced by a sleek, twin-engined jet, with all the comforts expected of such a sophisticated machine. Of course, it was the guests’ first taste of the luxuries they could expect on Pelican Island, he conceded, and as such it had to be updated to meet an increasingly demanding clientele.

Or so he assumed, as he settled into one of the velvet armchairs that passed for aircraft seats. But, having read the island’s publicity handouts in places as far apart as London and Sydney, New York and Tokyo, it was a fairly educated assumption. He had even felt a reluctant admiration for his father’s enterprise, although he had suspected that Adele had been the driving force.

His lips twisted. How ironic, then, that all she had worked for should now be in jeopardy. How must she be feeling, knowing that the man she had tried to destroy was now capable of destroying her world? It was the ultimate humiliation. And, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why his father should have done such a thing. Unless …

But it was useless speculating. He had enough on his plate as it was without trying to second-guess something that might, just conceivably, turn out to be a mistake. It was always possible that his father had made another will. And where did India feature in this crazy scheme of things?

God! He ran a weary hand through the unruly darkness of his hair. And, because he had repeated this action frequently on the flight from New York, he wasn’t surprised to find it was a mess. Besides, it needed cutting—had needed cutting since before his last trip to England. No wonder the Cessna’s pilot had given him such a studied look when he’d turned up at the airport. In a worn Oxford shirt and jeans, and scuffed trainers, he was hardly the usual kind of guest welcomed at Kittrick’s Hotel.

His palm scraped over his unshaven chin, and he grimaced. He supposed he should have waited, grabbed a night’s sleep and a make-over, before presenting himself to his stepmother and his stepsister. He could have done it. His father was dead, for God’s sake! The knowledge still pained him, but he ignored it. There was no earthly need for him to catch the next flight to the Bahamas, as if some almighty ruling was waiting on his arrival. He had all the time in the world to claim an inheritance he still couldn’t believe was his. But when he had got back from Canada and found the cable waiting, giving himself time to think had not been on his agenda.

He gazed out of the window, wondering why it was that even after all these years he still felt such a knee-jerk reaction whenever he thought of home. It wasn’t as if it had been his home for the past eight years. His father had kicked him out, for God’s sake! He shouldn’t forget that. And India had believed every word her mother had said. So why should he feel any emotion about going back? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to do it, not deep down inside him.

But—and it was a big but—the present circumstances demanded that he at least should show his face. After all, it wasn’t every day he had a multi-million-dollar holiday resort dropped in his lap. Forget the fact that there were probably lawyers and accountants, public relations consultants and managers to handle all the day-to-day problems of the hotel and island complex. This had been his father’s creation. And, until he was twenty-one, he had shared it with him …

He grimaced. The tragedy was that he had never even known his father was ill. And he had been out of the country—and out of reach—when the news of the old man’s death had been reported. In spite of everything, he would have liked to attend the funeral. And he would had done it, too, with or without Adele’s and India’s consent.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t believe him. Or Adele might, but she’d make damn sure India didn’t. Right now, she was doubtless poisoning his stepsister’s mind with her version of why he was coming to the island. He hadn’t bothered to come before, she’d say. But now, when there was money involved—an immense amount of money, if the publicity was to be believed—he was coming to collect, like the vulture he was.