Dark Summer Dawn

Dark Summer Dawn
Sara Craven

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.The invitation held a pointed challengeLisa didn't have the heart to refuse her stepsister's request. Julie had never been very good at organizing matters, and she simply couldn't handle her wedding plans alone.But Lisa had no idea she was stepping into a viper's nest! Not only was Julie acting strange, but there was another problem: Dane Riderwood, Julie's brother.Two years before, Lisa had fled from Dane in shame and humiliation. Now he was even more handsome, more dangerous–and more determined than ever to have Lisa on his own terms.

Dark Summer Dawn

Sara Craven

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

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER (#u0d6b2e6c-24c6-5fef-a18c-3b52f8e43ae4)

TITLE PAGE (#u22147650-550d-5aeb-9bbb-2add7caeeadc)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u39186ca4-c464-518c-916a-02c24827063b)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ubd9574dc-2919-5ee5-b2dc-d5231864fa22)

SHE was so bone-weary that she could hardly fit her key into the lock of the front door. It had been a long and turbulent flight, and the landing had been delayed through fog. One of the younger girls had become almost hysterical with fright, and it had been Lisa who had sat with her and soothed her while the plane made its ultimate, laborious descent.

She closed the door behind her thankfully and stood for a moment, staring round the living room. It was scrupulously clean and tidy—Mrs Hargreaves had seen to that—but the air smelled stale and unused. Lisa opened the window and let the January evening air stream into the room.

Her body shivered a little, still nostalgic for the sultry heat of the Caribbean sun she had just left, but her tired mind welcomed the invigoration of the icy draught.

A pile of mail awaited her attention on the small dining table by the window, and she had picked up more envelopes from the mat on her way through, but that could wait until tomorrow, she thought, kicking her shoes off. She needed a bath too. She felt cramped and sticky after the long hours in the plane, and then the taxi ride, crammed in with the other girls—but that could wait as well.

She walked into the bedroom, shedding her clothes as she went. The bed waited, its covers invitingly turned back, and her nightdress arranged in a fan shape, because Mrs Hargreaves had once been a chambermaid in a hotel, but Lisa didn’t even bother with that. She simply cleaned off her make-up—the routine she would follow if she was dying, she’d often thought—and fell, naked, into bed and into profound sleep.

She stirred once or twice, even opened her eyes, disturbed by noises in the street outside, a vacuum cleaner operating in the flat above, but she did not wake. When eventually she moved, stretched luxuriously and sat up, yawning, a glance at her watch showed she had slept the clock round. She thought ruefully, ‘I must be getting old.’ She’d felt old on the trip. All the other models had been in their teens; she’d been the only twenty-year-old.

Jos had laughed at her. ‘Found any grey hairs?’ he’d jeered. ‘Don’t complain to Myra about your age. She’s two years older than you.’

Lisa didn’t bother to state the obvious—that Myra was not and never would be a photographic model. She’d been a plump, pretty art student with gentle eyes and a mass of waving hair when Jos had met and married her, and marriage and a baby hadn’t changed her, but neither her face nor her figure would ever be her fortune.

Nor are mine, Lisa thought as she got out of bed, but they’re a living.

She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror as she padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. There was nothing narcissistic in the action, but it probably wasn’t strictly necessary either. She had been in the West Indies with the others to model a range of very expensive swim-wear for a glossy magazine, and Lisa would soon have heard it from Jos if her slender body had gained or lost a vital pound anywhere. He had known her ever since she came to London looking for work two years before, and he’d taught her all she’d ever needed to know about facing a camera.

Not that she had ever seriously planned to become a model. She had never regarded her own looks as startling in any way, yet it was Jos who had first suggested the idea while she was still at school. He had come to the school to visit his cousin Dinah, who was Lisa’s greatest friend, and taken them both out to lunch. He was already a name in the photographic world, and Lisa wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been flattered by his interest, but at the same time she had seen her life running along very different lines.

It had been thanks to Jos that she had earned her first big break when she had been featured as the Amber Girl, advertising a new and exclusive cosmetic range. With her long golden brown hair, and wide hazel eyes which could take on green or golden tones depending on what colour she was wearing, Lisa had been a natural choice on which to centre the campaign. It had been an amazing experience for her. Special exotic costumes in shades of gold and amber had been designed for her, and the effect against the faint honey tan of her skin had been stunning. They had ranged from sinuous and semi-transparent caftans in silks and chiffons to the briefest concessions to decency in gold mesh and beading. Her face had stared from the pages of every glossy magazine, her eyes seeming to widen endlessly, while the delicate mouth curled a little, giving an effect which was at the same time innocent and sensual. The French fashion house which was launching the Amber range had been ecstatic, and sales had boomed.

But Jos had seriously advised her against taking part in any follow-up.

‘You’ll be typed if you do. Everyone will associate you with Amber and nothing else,’ he’d warned. ‘That’s fine for a while, but what happens when you get tired of it—or they do?’

She had taken his advice and never regretted it, because offers of work had come flooding in. But she liked working with Jos best. He had been the first to recognise her potential, and she would always be grateful for that. She’d been lucky. From stories she had heard from other girls, the fringes of the modelling profession were grubby in the extreme.

Finding the flat had been another piece of luck, she thought, stepping under the shower and letting the warm water cascade through her hair and down her body. It wasn’t cheap, but with Dinah, who shared it with her, landing a part in a long-running West End comedy almost as soon as she had left drama school, they had few financial problems.

Lisa reached for the shampoo and began to lather her hair. Her long sleep had done her good, and now she was hungry. Presently she would make herself a meal, and open her letters while she ate and dried her hair. Not that there would be anything very exciting in her mail, she reminded herself. Most homecomings were attended by bills and circulars. But she had other friends, besides Dinah, with whom she maintained an infrequent but faithful correspondence. Clare might have had her baby by now, she reflected, and Frances could have made up her mind whether or not she wanted that job in the States.

She rinsed her hair and turned off the shower. She dried herself and put on an elderly white towelling bathrobe. It wasn’t a glamorous piece of nightwear, but it was reasonably cosy for the sort of evening she had in mind, relaxing by the fire and maybe later listening to a radio play.

Mrs Hargreaves had stocked the fridge and the vegetable rack on her last visit, so Lisa, a towel swathed round her wet hair, grilled herself a steak and made a salad to go with it.

She hadn’t an enormous appetite—it had been something which had alarmed her stepfather when she had first gone to live at Stoniscliffe. ‘Doesn’t eat enough to keep a fly alive,’ he’d grumbled at each mealtime. But she liked simple food, well cooked, and was thankful she didn’t have to fight a weight problem.

When she had eaten and cleared away, she carried her coffee over to the sofa and curled up with her letters. As she had suspected, most of them were in buff envelopes, and she grimaced slightly as she turned them over. And then she saw there was a letter from Julie.

Lisa stared down at the square white envelope, and the familiar sprawling handwriting, her brows drawing together in a swift frown. Instinct told her that Julie would only be writing to her because of some kind of crisis, and reminded her that it would probably be something she would rather not know about. Such knowledge in the past had always worked to her disadvantage.

Unless it was about Chas, she thought, a sudden feeling of panic seizing her. He hadn’t been well, she knew from his own rare letters, and it had been a while since she’d heard from him, apart from the usual formal exchange of cards at Christmas.

She went on looking at the unopened envelope, concern for Chas battling with a desire to tear Julie’s letter into small pieces unread. She owed her young stepsister nothing, she thought vehemently. In fact, the boot was very much on the other foot.

But Chas was different. She had never met with anything but kindness and consideration from him, and she owed him something in return. Oh, not the money he had paid into her bank account each quarter, she thought fiercely, although she could have repaid it easily because she never touched it. When she had left Stoniscliffe, she had sworn she would never accept another penny of Riderwood money. She would be independent of them all, especially ….

She stopped abruptly, closing her mind, wiping it clean like an unwanted tape. She tried not to think of Stoniscliffe ever, because it was forbidden territory to her now. She had promised herself she would never go back, although her conscience would not allow her to lose all contact with Chas who had been deeply wounded by her decision to leave. And the awful truth was it had been impossible to tell him why she had to go.

Slowly and reluctantly she opened the envelope and extracted the sheet of notepaper inside.