Who Rides A Tiger

Who Rides A Tiger
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.“He who rides the tiger, dares not dismount…”When Domique meets her enigmatic employer Vincente Santos, she is swept away on a torrent of feeling – ending in a whirlwind marriage! But soon there is trouble brewing in her Brazillian paradise…When she finds out that Vincente’s motives for making her his wife are not as clear cut as she thought, Dominique is devastated. But she is still willing to risk her heart on the man she believes is her destiny. Being with Vicente is as perilous as riding a tiger – Dominique knows she will never willingly let go, but what if she is thrown…?

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.

Who Rides A Tiger

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u8c77e571-c0c3-5e2f-b7d0-471429efd533)

About the Author (#uf48f06cf-5f8b-5d37-8031-3071d866e17f)

Title Page (#ue528c2c6-85c6-5661-83ce-480848bebf87)

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 (#ud8d3bcbe-a3b2-51e8-8b8a-e408e429f9fe)

THE international airport at Galeao was like all international airports; cool, efficient, but impersonal. Sitting in the airport bar drinking her second glass of Coca-cola, Dominique thought that she might have been anywhere in the world were it not for the predominantly Portuguese accent, and the dark skins of the men around her, who all seemed to find the silvery glint of her hair and the Scandinavian blue of her eyes rather arresting.

Sighing, she glanced again at her watch, wondering how much longer she was going to have to wait. The message which had been handed to her on her arrival had been less than explicit. It had merely stated that John had been unavoidably delayed, and would she wait at the airport if he was not there to meet her as arranged.

She lit a cigarette, conceded a slight smile to the youth who had been eyeing her avidly for the last half hour, and drew on it deeply. It was difficult not to feel impatient even though she knew that Bela Vista was some distance inland. After all, John had known for over a week the date and time of her arrival, so surely he could have arranged to stay overnight in Rio, rather than leave her waiting at the airport for an indefinite period.

Since arriving she had taken advantage of every facility the airport offered. She had visited the ladies’ room and showered and changed into a cool cotton shift, much more suitable to the heat outside the air-conditioned walls of the airport buildings than the mohair suit she had been wearing when she left London thirty-six hours ago. She had done her hair, taking time to loop it into the rather sophisticated style John preferred, and she had applied a light make-up to the smooth, creamy skin of her face, accentuating the curve of her cheeks and the curling length of her lashes. But now, as time wore on, she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered. She had explored the airport shops for genuine examples of Brazilian wood-carvings, had a meal, a modest European meal, in the airport restaurant, and had finally taken refuge in the airport bar, hoping her stay would be short-lived.

Earlier in the day when the giant Boeing had circled Galeao prior to landing excitement had held her in its thrall. There were so many exciting landmarks to see and exclaim at: the gentle Sugar Loaf mountain, and the peak of Corcovado with its vast statue of Christ, standing arms outstretched, as though encompassing the whole sweep of Guanabara Bay. The peaks beyond these two were so jagged and impressive that she almost lost sight of the white smear of Copacabana beach, faced by the skyscraper hotels that are such a violent contrast to the favellas, those slums that cling to the hillsides around Rio. She had sensed the atmosphere and known instinctively that all the weeks of waiting had been worthwhile. It was incredible to imagine that soon she would see John again, feel his arms around her, and find that security in his presence that had attracted her to him in the first place. The dismay she had felt when he had first announced he was going to work in Brazil had all disappeared, to be replaced with a sense of gratitude that through him she was to see a little more of the world. But six months ago, when he left England, she had still been in the process of recovering from the death of her beloved father, and maybe that was why she had been unable to look ahead with any degree of confidence.

Her mother had died many years ago, when she was only a baby, and her father had become the mainstay of her existence. That he should be killed on his way to attend a patient had seemed doubly painful, particularly as that patient had been one of his ‘regulars’, a man convinced he was capable of contracting every tiny ailment that might be about. But Doctor Mallory had never neglected to answer any call, and in the blanketing fog in which London had been wrapped that evening it had been only too easy to collide with another vehicle. For weeks Dominique had been numb with grief, unable to believe that her father was dead and she was alone in the world. There were distant relatives, an aunt and uncle and some cousins in the north of England, but Dominique had not wanted to share her grief with strangers who at the most could offer sympathy.

It was during these weeks of misery that she had first met John Harding. John was the son of Adam Harding, her father’s solicitor and close friend, and he had recently returned from the Middle East where he had been working in the laboratory of an oil company. He was a pleasantly attractive young man, in his late twenties, and Dominique was attracted by the warmth and gentleness of his manner.

Aware of her recent bereavement, John had gently prised her out of the shell she had wrapped about herself, and endeavoured to show her that life went on in the same way as it had always done. At first, Dominique was reluctant, unwilling to allow anyone to witness the painful apathy that possessed her. But gradually, in John’s presence, she began to smile again, to live again.

The worst part of all had been finding another job. She had always acted as her father’s receptionist and of course although another doctor was to take over the practice she couldn’t bear the thought of continuing in that capacity. It was John who found her another position. He had a colleague, a dentist in fact, who was looking for an attractive young woman to take charge of his records, do a little typing, and admit his patients. Dominique had accepted the job gladly, and when the house in which she and her father had spent so many happy years was sold she allowed John to find her a flat.

Adam Harding had encouraged their friendship, and Dominique knew that he and his wife were hoping that this friendship would blossom into something more binding. Dominique, who had always thought herself so self-confident, found it was very pleasant allowing someone else to do all her thinking for her, and when John obtained a position in a laboratory in London, she was content to allow her life to drift along smoothly.

However, after several months, John was offered another position – in Brazil.

Dominique was horrified. Somehow, she had imagined John would always work in England now, and sooner or later it was taken for granted they would get married. John’s parents were as keen as he was, and probably in other circumstances, if Dominique had not so recently lost her father they might already have been married. But the job in Brazil demanded an immediate decision, and although John was eager that she should go with him, as his wife, Dominique hesitated, too uncertain still to do anything impulsively. So they got engaged, and it had been agreed that as soon as John was settled there, and had an apartment suitable to accommodate a wife, Dominique should join him and they would get married in Brazil. Naturally, John’s parents were a little disappointed that they would not be at the wedding, but they understood Dominique’s situation.

During the weeks after John’s departure Dominique had suffered many pangs of regret that she had not taken the plunge and gone with him, but eventually she orientated herself to her new circumstances, and began to enjoy life again. She made friends with the two girls who lived in the adjacent flat to her own and went out with them from time to time, to the cinema or the theatre, and sometimes even to a party. Every week she visited the Hardings and most week-ends she spent with them, either visiting their country cottage in Wiltshire, or going down to Sussex to see their daughter who was married with three children of her own. Dominique adored the children and she felt an immense sense of gratitude to the Hardings for providing so many diversions to fill her days so that her life with her father was not a painful thing to recall, but rather a pleasant feeling of nostalgia. With their help she had erased the hopelessness which had engulfed her at the time of his death.

John wrote quite eagerly, his letters long and descriptive, providing Dominique with a pictorial record of his life in South America. She learned of the contrasts of the country where she was soon to live; the painful poverty and excessive wealth of its people, the extremes of climate it possessed, but most dramatic of all its savage beauty that assaulted the eyes and gripped the senses. Already Dominique felt familiar with the country, and with Bela Vista in particular, the area where John was living and working. This community was composed of a mixture of nationalities including North Americans, Germans and British, as well as the Brazilians themselves. The oil company was owned by the Santos Corporation who presently employed John, and according to his letters it was quite a large concern.

Dominique glanced at her watch. She had adjusted it to the local time scale, and it read a little after four-thirty. As her plane had landed at eleven that morning she was naturally becoming a little disturbed at the delay. Surely if John was going to be so late he could have suggested that she book herself into a hotel overnight and thus alleviate these hours of waiting?