All The Fire. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
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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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
All the Fire
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DIMITRI KASTRO thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thick sheepskin coat, his collar turned up against the unaccustomed chill of an English spring. The grim environs of the cemetery were stark against the grey sky from which a smattering of rain was beginning to fall, and the trees, skeletal bare in the fading afternoon light, gave little protection. Dimitri hunched his shoulders and thought longingly of the warmth and light of his hotel suite and the bottle of Scotch that awaited him there. But, of course, they would have to wait. He began to walk slowly along the path to where a small gathering of mourners were gathered round an open grave. Standing in the shadow of a stooping oak, he regarded the group sombrely, speculating which of them was Joanne Nicolas.
He glanced at his watch. Matt had said three-fifteen and it was already long after three-thirty, but obviously he was in time. He should have arrived sooner but he had been caught up with a business telephone call at the hotel and his departure had been delayed.
He looked again at the group. There were not many of them; a couple of middle-aged women, a middle-aged man and a boy, a young man of perhaps twenty-five, and a girl who was without doubt Joanne Nicolas. Dimitri’s expression hardened. From here he could see very little. She was tall and slim, but her features were turned away from him and her hair was concealed beneath a black headscarf. He imagined she would look a little like Matt; round features, dark hair and eyes, an amiable disposition. He felt a surge of contempt as he wondered again why she had chosen to contact her father after all these years, just to tell him his first wife, her mother, was now dead. What could it matter to her father who had been denied seeing her for twenty years? Dimitri felt that in Matt’s place he would have ignored the letter altogether, but Matt was made of gentler tissue and despite Andrea’s doubts he had determined to contact his daughter. It was natural of course that Andrea should have doubts. She had had to bear his disappointment in being denied access all these years. And there was Marisa. Obviously, she was bound to feel something when for eighteen years she had been the apple of his eye.
Dimitri stamped his feet impatiently. The service was almost over. The priest was intoning the last rites, throwing the first handful of earth on to the coffin. This was something Dimitri was familiar with, although the rest of the service had been alien to him.
He watched the girl, studying her reactions. She stood very straight and still, showing no emotion, and he wondered if she was as cold as she appeared. Surely the involvement in burying her own mother must have left some pain in her heart? He shrugged. British people were unlike his own countrymen. They were so reserved, so afraid to show their feelings. Didn’t they realize that that was what life was all about? That being involved, sharing pain and ecstasy, was part of the joy of living! Back home in Greece they would not have been afraid to cry, to shout their grief aloud. Just as in times of gaiety they were not afraid to show their excitement and pleasure. But his was a warm land with warm people, not cold and bare like this England of today.
He glanced round. His car was parked by the gate and he wondered whether the rest of this group had provided themselves with transport. He didn’t want to go to the girl’s home. Matt had said: speak to Joanne; that could be done almost anywhere. At his hotel, for example, which seemed much more suitable than someone’s living-room.
The service was soon over. The priest turned and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm, and then led the way back through the rows of headstones to the path. The girl followed him, her head bent, and Dimitri moved forward, allowing the priest to pass him before putting a restraining hand out and catching the girl’s arm.
‘Miss Nicolas?’ His voice sounded alien, even to himself, with its rather deep accent.
The girl halted and turned her face up to him, staring at him with wide curious eyes. Dimitri felt a muscle jerk in his cheek; she was so vastly different from anything he had imagined. She was not like Matt at all, except perhaps that she had his height and slenderness of build. Her face was oval, her skin creamy soft and flawless, while the widely spaced eyes were an