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 and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Act of Possession
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘DO come! It’s just going to be an informal affair,’ invited Celia warmly, her friendly smile brightening the rather gloomy hallway of the apartment building. ‘I’m sure it’s not much fun, living next door to someone who’s constantly giving parties!’ She grimaced. ‘That’s Liz’s fault really; but this time I’m to blame. It’s just a little celebration, you see, for a few friends. A kind of delayed birthday-cum-engagement party combined!’

Antonia’s eyes widened. ‘You’re engaged!’ she exclaimed, looking swiftly at Celia’s bare finger, and the other girl laughed.

‘I shall be after tomorrow evening,’ she confessed, with a contented sigh. ‘I’m going to marry Reed Gallagher. You may have seen his car outside. He drives a super black Lamborghini!’

‘Oh, yes.’ Antonia smiled. ‘I think I know the one you mean.’

‘How could you miss it?’ exclaimed Celia dramatically. ‘Well? Will you come? I wish you would.’

Antonia hesitated. Since moving into the ground floor apartment of the converted Victorian mansion six weeks ago, she had had little opportunity to get to know her neighbours. Her work at the institute kept her pretty much occupied, and besides, she had not come to London to enjoy a social life.

Nevertheless, she had not been able to ignore the occupants of the apartment above her own. They were the kind of people she had hitherto only read about in glossy magazines, their lifestyle totally different from her own. According to Mrs Francis—who was the caretaker’s wife and inclined to gossip—Celia Lytton-Smythe was the only daughter of the Conservative member of parliament for one of the south London constituencies, while her flatmate Liz, Elizabeth Ashford actually, was very well-connected.

Whatever the truth of it, and Antonia had no reason to doubt what Mrs Francis had said, they seemed nice girls. In fact, Antonia had only spoken to Celia, but she was not opposed to being friendly with both of them. Even so, she had no wish to get involved in a situation where she was obliged to return their hospitality. The salary she was getting at the institute was useful, but she did not fool herself that things were going to be easy. The rent for the apartment, for example, was still quite considerable, even if Uncle Harry had reduced the burden, and she wanted to be able to send some money home to her mother for Susie. Giving extravagant parties was simply beyond her means. Perhaps it would be more honest to admit that right away.

‘It’s very kind of you, Celia,’ she murmured now, shifting the carrier bag containing her week’s shopping from one hand to the other, ‘but I really don’t think—–’

‘Oh, don’t say no!’ Celia tilted her head disarmingly, the inverted bell of her hair swinging confidingly against her cheek. ‘I’m sure it can’t be much fun, sitting down here on your own every night.’ She dimpled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, if that sounds impertinent, but both Liz and I have noticed, you don’t get many visitors.’

Antonia coloured. She couldn’t help it. Even though she surmised she was at least five years older than the other girl, Celia’s remark had still had the power to strike a raw nerve. ‘No,’ she answered quietly. ‘No, I don’t. I’m afraid I must seem a very dull creature compared to your friends.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Celia touched her sleeve in protest, and Antonia guessed she had not intended to sound patronising. ‘But as you do go out so seldom, surely you’d enjoy a party, just for once! I mean, you wouldn’t have to stay long, if you didn’t want to. Just come and have a drink and wish Reed and me well.’

Antonia sighed. ‘Oh—–’

‘You’ll come?’ Celia took her indecision as a sign that she was weakening. ‘Of course, you will.’ Her warm smile appeared again. ‘Make it about eight-thirty, or thereabouts. There’ll be some food of sorts, if you’re hungry, and Daddy’s promised me at least a dozen bottles of champagne!’

Once inside her apartment, Antonia leaned back against the door with some misgivings. She should have been more decisive, she thought impatiently. She should have refused Celia’s invitation outright, instead of allowing the other girl to think she might change her mind. How could she go to their party? She didn’t know anyone; except Celia, of course. And besides, they were not her sort of people. Even Uncle Harry did not have Mercedes’ and Lamborghinis parked at his door.

Shaking her head, she pushed herself away from the panels and walked resolutely through the small living room and into the kitchen. Unpacking her shopping on to the drainer, she determinedly put all thoughts of the following evening’s activities out of her head. Concentrating instead on an examination of what she had bought, she quickly disposed of her groceries into the fitted cupboards, and then plugged in the kettle.

Pausing in the doorway to the living room, she surveyed her surroundings without emotion. When she had first seen the apartment, it had been unfurnished, and the rooms had seemed bigger then. Now, with her mother’s comfortable, chintz-covered sofa and armchairs taking up most of the space, there was hardly room for the gate-legged table she ate from. But then, her mother’s furniture had been bought to furnish a generously proportioned four-bedroomed semi, not a single person’s flat.

It was after six o’clock, she saw, with some surprise, the mellow rays of evening sunlight striking the face of the square carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece. The apartments were centrally heated, but the old-fashioned fireplace still remained in Antonia’s living room, modernised now by the addition of a rather ugly electric fire.

However, it was not the incongruity of the heating system that concerned her now. She must have spent longer with Celia than she had thought. Her mother would have been expecting her to ring at six o’clock, as usual, and abandoning any thought of dinner for the moment, Antonia picked up the phone.

These bi-weekly calls to Newcastle were going to prove expensive, Antonia reflected now, as she dialled her mother’s number, but they were the only way she could keep in touch with Susie. Letters were not a satisfactory means of expression to an almost six-year-old, particularly one who found it hard to understand why her mother should have to go so far away to work. It simply wasn’t enough to say there were no suitable jobs in Newcastle. Susie wanted to know why, if her mother had to live in London, she couldn’t do so as well.

Mrs Lord answered the phone after the first couple of rings, and over her: ‘Hello, Antonia? Is that you?’ the protesting sound of Susie’s voice was clearly audible.

‘Yes, Mum, it’s me,’ Antonia answered ruefully, guessing her daughter was being quite a handful. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was talking to one of the girls who lives upstairs.’

‘You were? Susie, behave yourself! How nice, dear,’ her mother responded disjointedly. ‘But otherwise, you’re all right, are you? Have you had a good week?’

‘A busy one,’ conceded Antonia, sinking down onto the arm of the sofa close by. ‘Mr Fenwick has been away, and I’ve had to handle any emergencies myself.’

‘Really? Susie, put Tuppence down, there’s a good girl! They must have confidence in you then.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Antonia’s tone was dry. ‘But there is no one else, is there? Except Tom Brandon, of course, and he won’t do anything he’s not being paid for.’ She paused, and then added reluctantly: ‘I gather Susie’s playing up again.’

‘Oh, you know she has these phases,’ exclaimed Mrs Lord tolerantly. ‘Perhaps I’d better let her speak to you. There’ll be no peace for either of us until I do.’

Antonia felt the familiar constriction in her throat when she heard her daughter’s voice. She missed Susie terribly. Not just her company, and the mischief she got up to, but also her untidyness—the simple absence of anybody’s occupation of the apartment but her own. At home, she had seemed to spend her time clearing up after the child, and she remembered grumbling about doing so. Now, she would have welcomed the activity with open arms.

‘Are you being a good girl?’ she asked Susie now, after the initial greetings were over. ‘I can hear what’s going on, you know. While Nanna was talking to me, you were making a nuisance of yourself, weren’t you?’

‘No.’ Susie spoke with the convincing logic of someone who didn’t regret her actions.

‘But you were tormenting Tuppence, weren’t you? You know she doesn’t like being picked up.’

‘Tuppence is fat!’ declared Susie irrelevantly, as if the cat’s weight had anything to do with it. Then, her voice taking on a heartbreakingly tearful note, she added: ‘When are you coming to see me, Mummy? I don’t like staying here with Nanna. Nanna won’t play games with me like you do, and I don’t like watching television.’

‘Oh, Susie!’ Antonia pressed her lips together tightly, fighting back a similar kind of emotion. This was the first time she and her daughter had been parted. When Simon walked out, she had worried for a time that he might try and take the child away from her, but her fears had proved groundless. Now, she had done what she had always declared she would never do: leave Susie without either of her parents.

‘Couldn’t I come and stay with you?’ persisted the little girl now, taking her mother’s prolonged silence as an encouraging sign, and Antonia hated to have to disappoint her.

‘Darling, you have to go to school,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘And you have to take care of Nanna, too. She wouldn’t like to live in that big old house on her own.’

Susie sniffed mutinously. ‘Nanna wouldn’t mind …’

‘Yes, she would.’

‘… and I could go to school in London, couldn’t I?’ she added reasonably.

Antonia shook her head. ‘And what would you do when you came home from school and I wasn’t here?’ she asked gently. ‘Susie, you know if there was any way we could be together, we would be so.’ She hesitated. ‘You know I’ll be home for your birthday in two weeks time.’

Susie sniffed again. ‘Why can’t you come tonight? It’s Friday. You don’t work on Saturdays and Sundays, do you?’

‘Well … no …’

‘There you are then!’

‘… but it would be too expensive,’ explained Antonia, sighing. ‘Darling, the train fare to Newcastle costs too much for Mummy to come and see you every weekend.’

There was more of the same, and then when Susie finally dissolved into tears as she usually did, Mrs Lord came back on the line. ‘Don’t worry, Antonia,’ she assured her daughter airily, ‘five minutes after I’ve put down this receiver, Susie will have forgotten all about it. And Howard and Sylvia are coming tomorrow, so she’ll have the twins to play with.’

‘Yes.’ Antonia wished she felt more enthusiastic about that. Her brother’s twin boys were seven years old, and in her experience Susie had never looked forward to their advent. Still …

‘Don’t worry, Antonia,’ said her mother again, more brusquely now. ‘Look, my dear, I’ve got to go. Susie has to have her bath yet, and I haven’t fed Tuppence, and … and …’

‘And it’s Friday night,’ remarked Antonia, with controlled irony. ‘I know.’ Her mother usually played bridge on Friday evenings. ‘Okay, Mum. I’ll ring again on Monday as usual.’

With the receiver replaced on its rest, Antonia found her will to go and make herself something to eat had been sadly diminished. The kettle had switched itself off in her absence, and allowing herself to slide disconsolately off the arm of the sofa, she subsided on to the cushioned seat. She always had this awful sense of emptiness after speaking to her mother and Susie, and it was incredibly difficult not to give way to a totally selfish desire to burst into tears.

But self-pity was not something she allowed herself to indulge in for long, and presently Antonia got up from the couch and went to make a cup of tea. A pizza she had bought in the supermarket on her way home, was soon heated under the grill, and putting her cup and plate on a tray, she carried them back into the living room.

The portable black-and-white television her mother had insisted she brought from home to keep her company held no interest for her, and propping the paperback novel she was presently reading on the cushions beside her, she tried to become involved with its cardboard characters. But it was no use. Susie’s face kept intruding, and after eating half the pizza, Antonia put the book aside and turned on the radio.

The music programme she tuned into was soothing, and depositing the tray on the floor, Antonia curled her long legs up beside her. Had she really done the right thing by taking this job? she asked herself, for the umpteenth time, feeling the familiar sense of melancholy stealing over her. Was the fact that she had been looking for suitable employment for over three years a reasonable excuse for accepting a position so far from home? Uncle Harry, her mother’s brother, had certainly thought so; but then, he had done the same more than twenty years ago, so he was biased.

‘It’s not as if you’re a slip of a lass,’ he had remarked candidly, when he drove up to Newcastle to offer her this flat. He was referring to Antonia’s height of five feet eight inches, of course, and to the fact that she was five years past her twenty-first birthday. ‘And you have been married,’ he added, as if that was some further qualification. ‘Your mother won’t have to worry that you’ll get yourself into trouble, if you see what I mean.’

Antonia did see, and Uncle Harry’s words were valid. Her marriage to—and subsequent divorce from—Simon, had certainly taught her to be wary of the opposite sex. But as she had no intention of allowing any emotional relationship to develop, he could have saved his breath. Once bitten, twice shy, she quoted a little bitterly. She was free now, and self-supporting. No man was worth the sacrifice of surrendering those basic liberties.

Saturday was not one of Antonia’s favourite days of the week. It was the day she cleaned the flat for a start and, like Sunday, it was inclined to drag. Uncle Harry, who lived in Wimbledon, had suggested she should go to them on Sundays, for lunch, but Antonia did not think it was fair on Aunt Mary. Their own two sons, and their wives and families, often turned up for lunch on Sundays, and although that first lonely weekend in London Antonia had taken them up on their offer, she had felt an intruder. They had tried to make her feel at home, but they had their own lives, their own friends; people they could talk about, but who meant nothing to her. After several awkward interludes, when Antonia had been excluded from their conversation, an awkward silence had fallen, and Antonia had never repeated the experience.

Perhaps she was too sensitive, she thought wearily, as she was vacuuming her bedroom. Perhaps if she had gone every Sunday, she would eventually have fitted in to their lives. The trouble was, they had not known what to say to her, beyond asking about her mother and Susie. The subject of Simon was apparently taboo, and when she would have explained that she had long recovered from the effects of his rejection, Aunt Mary had steered the conversation into other channels.

Later that afternoon, as she sat in an armchair drinking a well-earned cup of tea, she became aware of the sound of furniture being shifted in the room above. Apparently, Celia and her friend were getting ready for the party, Antonia reflected, half-enviously. It was years since she had attended anything but family get-togethers. Her marriage to Simon had cut her off from all her college friends, and when they split up, it simply wasn’t possible to pick up the threads of her social life as if nothing had happened. Besides, there had been Susie to consider, and Antonia had tried to keep her life as stable as possible. But, after the divorce, the house she and Simon had bought with their savings had had to be sold, and Antonia had had no choice but to take her mother’s advice and go back to living with her.

Realising she was allowing herself to sink into a state of depression, Antonia got up from her chair and carried her cup into the kitchen. Then, flexing her aching shoulders, she walked into the tiny bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Turning on the bath taps, she squeezed some scented bath gel into the water, and then turned back into the bedroom to find herself some clean underwear.

Ten minutes later she was soaking in the deliciously perfumed water, feeling the tensions she had been experiencing easing out of her. Even the uncertain weather beyond her windows, that sent raindrops pattering against the pane, no longer had the power to depress her, and she relaxed lazily, allowing her thoughts to drift.

Perhaps she should go to the party, she mused reflectively. After all, she had been invited, and she didn’t want to offend Celia. She was a nice girl, and she hoped she would be happy. No doubt this young man of hers—what was his name? Reed … Gallagher? No doubt, he was capable of supporting her in the manner to which she was accustomed. Celia would never be expected to do her own housework, or look after her own children, not unless she wanted to, of course. Antonia already knew that Mrs Francis paid a twice-weekly visit to the apartment upstairs: Just to give the place the once-over! as she put it; and whenever there was to be a party, the catering van from a very exclusive establishment was generally to be seen outside.

The water was cooling by the time she got out of the bath, and after drying herself vigorously to restore her circulation, Antonia slipped on the pink towelling bathrobe her mother had bought for her at Christmas. Her hair needed drying, and collecting the hand-drier from the cupboard, Antonia seated herself in front of the dressing-table mirror. Removing the towel she had wound around her head while she got dry, she surveyed her reflection wryly. At least, she had no problems about what to do with her hair, she thought, tugging a brush through the damp strands. Shoulder-length and straight, it defied any attempt she made to put curl into it; and although once she had gone so far as to try perming, the result had been so awful, she had never tried again.

Dry, the toffee-brown ends tipped silkily against her shoulders. Combed from a centre parting, the two shining swathes framed the oval contours of her face, a feathery fringe brushing eyebrows that were several shades darker. Examining her skin for any unsightly blemish, Antonia had to admit that the polluted air of London had done nothing to mar it. Hazel eyes, which could look green in some lights, looked back at her from between her lashes, their slightly elongated shape giving her face a mildly interesting look. She was not beautiful; she knew that. Although she had good bone structure, her mouth was too wide, the lower lip too full. In the early days of their relationship, Simon used to say she had a sexy face, but she had long since dismissed any claims he made. Simon had wanted to get her into bed, and he had succeeded. The result had been Susie, and the rest was history.

Abandoning this particular train of thought, Antonia got up from the mirror and expelled her breath heavily. What was she going to do? she asked herself. Go to the party; or consign herself to another night of self-recrimination? She was becoming far too morose and introspective, she thought; and dull, painfully dull! Just because she had had one bad experience, she was allowing its aftermath to colour her whole outlook on life. All right, so she didn’t want to get involved ever again. She didn’t have to. She could still enjoy a party, with no strings attached.

The problem of what she was going to wear if she did go loomed next on her horizon. What did one wear to an informal party of this kind? She could wear jeans, she supposed, or cotton trousers; but as she wasn’t absolutely sure how informal informal was, she decided it would be safer to stick with a skirt.

The fitted wardrobe easily accommodated her clothes with room to spare. One advantage of not leading a hectic social life was that one had less reason to buy expensive outfits, and Antonia’s needs were not extensive. She generally wore a suit or a tailored dress to the office, and casual wear at other times. In consequence, what choice she had was limited, and she doubted there was anything to completely suit her purpose.

A pretty green batiste dress was appealing, but it seemed too summery for an April evening. A cotton two-piece was discarded for similar reasons, and the dark brown corded trouser suit, which always looked good, was dismissed on two counts: it was too warm to wear indoors, and it didn’t have a skirt.

Sighing, Antonia eventually pulled out the only item she might regard as wearable. It was a cream shirt-waisted dress, with full sleeves and a narrow skirt, that ended just above her knees. Made of Thai silk, she had bought it in a sale in Newcastle the previous January, and since then, she had simply not had an occasion to wear it. Even in the sale, it had not been cheap, and her mother had thought her quite mad to spend her money on one item when she might have had two. Now, however, Antonia knew it was exactly what she was looking for, and stripping off the bathrobe, she put it on.

She had never realised how flattering the colour was, she thought, lifting her hair out of the neckline and turning this way and that. The low vee in front drew attention to the enticing swell of her breasts, and for once she did not deplore their fullness. Since having Susie, her breasts had become heavier, and she had seen no advantages in the contrast they posed to the narrowness of her waist. Now, however, she saw that the dusky hollow just visible above the buttons of the dress was not unappealing, and her lips parted a little wryly at her unwarranted enthusiasm. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She wasn’t going to the party in the hope of attracting some man. Nevertheless, there was a certain satisfaction to be found in knowing she was looking her best, and she was still woman enough not to want Celia to go on feeling sorry for her.

When she left her flat at eight-thirty to climb the stairs to the apartment upstairs, she joined several other young people, evidently with the same destination. But they were not on their own, as she was. They were in groups of two or three, all laughing and talking together, with the easy cameraderie of long practice. They cast faintly speculative glances in Antonia’s direction—not unfriendly actually, but not specially kind—and one or two of the young men eyed her with a more than passing interest. But generally they all regarded her with some curiosity, and Antonia became increasingly convinced she should not have come. Perhaps if she turned round now, she thought, having reached the first floor landing where the buzz of music and conversation coming through the open door of the apartment was quite overpowering. Who would notice? she asked herself. Who would care? But the realisation that she would have to run the gauntlet of several more people climbing the stairs behind her drove her on, and because she had no alternative, she was obliged to take the plunge.

At least, what she was wearing was acceptable, she mused, with some relief. Although it was raining outside, it was not a cold evening, and she had seen one or two girls wearing dresses similar to her own. There were girls in trousers, but not as many as she might have expected, and the men’s clothes reflected their girlfriends’ casual tastes.

It soon became apparent that the apartment Celia and her friend occupied was approximately twice the size of Antonia’s. Unlike the floor below, which was divided into two flats—the other being occupied by the caretaker and his wife—the first floor was given over entirely to the apartment leased by the two girls. Halting on the threshold of a warmly lit entrance hall, Antonia was immediately impressed by an atmosphere redolent with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, Havana tobacco, and fine wines; and she didn’t need to see the banks of flowers or feel her feet sinking into the Persian carpet to know that everything Mrs Francis had hinted must be true.

Ahead of her, the young men and girls who had preceded her up the stairs were soon absorbed into the welcoming surge of people swelling through the matching doors that gave access to the living room. The amplified projection of the song that was presently topping the popular music charts made any formal introductions impossible, and the couple behind Antonia were compelling her to move forward. Almost without her own volition, she was propelled through the doors, and was soon engulfed by that noisy jostling throng.

The room was literally full of people, spilling over the arms of brocade-covered sofas and squashy leather armchairs on to stools and bean-filled cushions, and even the floor. The living room was large by anybody’s standards, but although Antonia had heard of its silk-hung walls and high moulded ceilings from Mrs Francis, it was difficult to appreciate its elegance tonight. The rhythm emanating from the hi-fi system and its accompanying speakers created a constant vibration, and the smoke from more than a dozen cheroots and cigarettes was sending a hazy cloud drifting irresistibly upwards. Those people who had just arrived, or perhaps those who simply preferred to circulate, made up the relaxed gathering that swelled from the entrance into the middle of the floor; and Antonia found herself a part of that gathering; anxious, and decidedly not relaxed. Where was Celia? she wondered, turning on heels that were a little higher than she usually wore. Surely she had to be here somewhere! But where?

‘Are you looking for somebody in particular, or will I do?’ enquired an attractive male voice close to her ear, and Antonia swung round with incautious haste to face the questioner. Incautious, because her heel caught in the shaggy pile of the carpet, and had her inquisitor not been there to grab at, she might easily have disgraced herself completely and landed at his feet.

Instead, she clutched rather wildly for his arm, her grappling fingers barely registering the subtle softness of his suede-covered sleeve. As she struggled to disentangle her heel from its infuriating cohesion with the carpet, she was scarcely aware of him using his free hand to help her regain her balance until, in doing so, he brought her up against the lean hardness of his body. Then, as her heel came loose, she was able to look up at him, and the humorous gleam in his grey eyes made her quickly put some space between them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, colouring hotly as she apprehended what had happened. ‘I caught my heel …’

‘I know.’ The amused grey eyes were regarding her with frank appreciation. ‘But I guess I was responsible. I did attract your attention.’

‘It was you …’

‘… who spoke to you? Yes, it was.’ He smiled, his lips parting to reveal even white teeth. ‘You looked—lost. I wanted to help you.’

‘Not bring me to my knees?’ countered Antonia wryly, the humour of the situation restoring her composure. ‘Well—thank you, anyway. I’m all right.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ But he did not move away as she had expected. Instead, he collected two long-stemmed glasses of a beige, bubbling liquid, from a tray being held by a passing waiter, and handed one to her. ‘Be my guest!’

Antonia took the glass reluctantly, but a surreptitious glance about her assured her that their exchange was not attracting any unnecessary attention. On the contrary, the music and the buzz of conversation was going on as before, and it was only in her mind that she and this man who had rescued her from instant ignominy had isolated themselves from the rest.

Licking an errant drop of champagne—for that was what it was, she realised—from her lips, she cast covert eyes in his direction. Disconcertingly, he was watching her, but that didn’t prevent her hastily averted gaze from noticing how attractive he was. Straight dark hair, rather longer than was fashionable; a lean, narrow-boned face; skin that still bore the tan of a winter holiday; even without the fact that he could look down at her from the advantage of at least three inches, notwithstanding her high heels, he was a disturbing man. But it was his eyes that really disrupted her carefully composed indifference; grey, as she already knew, they were fringed by thick straight lashes, that gave a wholly sensual appeal to an otherwise ascetically handsome face.

‘Do you like it?’ he enquired lazily, and Antonia controlled her colour with difficulty.

‘Like what?’ she asked, rather too sharply for politeness.

‘Why—the champagne, of course,’ he replied smoothly, and Antonia concentrated on the wine in her glass to avoid his knowing gaze.

‘It’s—very nice,’ she answered, determinedly taking another sip. It was infuriating, but he was making her feel as gauche as a schoolgirl, and she had to remind herself that she was a divorcee with a six-year-old daughter.

‘You’re different from what I expected,’ he remarked suddenly, surprising her into looking at him again. ‘Cee said you were shy and rather ordinary. But you’re not. Though I suppose another female might not realise it.’

Antonia caught her breath. ‘Has she been discussing me with her friends? Is that why she invited me here? To satisfy their curiosity?’

Her voice had risen slightly as she spoke, and the man beside her expelled his breath a little impatiently. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he told her evenly. ‘And if you knew Cee, you wouldn’t accuse her of it. She’s not like that.’

‘She told you, didn’t she?’ asked Antonia hotly, her eyes sparkling with resentment. His words seemed to confirm all her worst imaginings, and she thought how right she had been to have doubts about coming here. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’

‘Where are you going?’

His hand circling her wrist was the final humiliation, and she was on the point of threatening to throw the remainder of her champagne in his face if he didn’t release her, when another hand touched her shoulder.

‘Darling,’ exclaimed Celia, as Antonia was abruptly released. ‘You’ve met my downstairs neighbour already. Antonia,’ the other girl circled them to slide a possessive arm over the man’s sleeve, ‘what do you think of this Irish rogue who’s asked me to be his wife?”

CHAPTER TWO

ANTONIA’S office adjoined that of Martin Fenwick’s. It wasn’t much of an office really, just a desk and a chair and a filing cabinet, in a room large enough to accommodate them and her, but at least it offered her some privacy. And her work was interesting.

Seven years ago, when she had had to give up all thoughts of a career to have Susie, she had been in the second year of a sociology degree at Durham university. Working with people and for the community had always interested her, and her intention had been to try and get a job in some branch of the social services. But Simon’s advent into her life had interrupted her plans, and afterwards, when she had found it necessary to look for work, her qualifications were sadly limited. Of course, had she had the money, she could have returned to university as a mature student and taken up her studies again, but that was out of the question with Susie to support. Instead, she had applied for any job that had offered the chance of working in a similar field, and in spite of its disadvantages in terms of distance, she had been delighted to accept her present position.

The institute, where she worked as Assistant to the Director, was an independently operated youth training establishment, offering skills in various manual trades, as well as academic qualifications. Courses in book-keeping and accountancy, shorthand and typewriting, competed with mechanical engineering and carpentry, and the students were encouraged to try more than one course before deciding on the one that suited them best.

Antonia considered herself very fortunate to have been offered the post, and she felt she owed a debt to her past tutor at Durham for giving her his backing and support. Without the reference he had been able to supply, she felt sure she would not have been so lucky, and the doubts she had had about leaving the north of England had been stifled by the faith he had had in her.

To her relief Mr Fenwick, who had been absent the previous week due to an apparently seasonal attack of lumbago, was back at work on Monday morning, and Antonia was able to return to her own duties. Her experience at the job had not yet equipped her to handle all the hundred and one little problems that could occur in the course of a working week, and there were several outstanding difficulties she was going to have to discuss with him when he had the time.

But to begin with, the institute’s director had enough to do handling the enormous backlog of mail, which had required his personal attention, and Antonia spent most of Monday morning trying to catch up on her own duties.

Even so, she did not find it easy to apply herself to practical matters. It wasn’t that her work was difficult or anything. It was simply that her mind kept drifting away from what she was doing, and several times she found herself staring into space, totally detached from her surroundings.

It was the remembrance of Saturday night that was troubling her, of course. The party, which she had not wanted to attend, and which was now lodged painfully in her memory. Just thinking of that scene in Celia’s living room caused Antonia’s face to flood with colour, and it still amazed her that she had stayed so long when all she had really wanted to do was escape.

She should have made her apologies as soon as a decent interval had elapsed, she thought, and hurried back to her own apartment. Certainly, Celia’s flatmate, the Honourable Elizabeth, Liz, Ashford, had thought so. It had soon become apparent that the other occupant of the first floor apartment did not share her friend’s enthusiasm to mix with their neighbours, and her greeting had been distant, to say the least. The other female guests seemed to take their lead from her, and regarded Antonia with something less than cordiality, and it was left to Celia and the male contingent to try and put her at her ease.

That it hadn’t worked was mainly due to Antonia’s own behaviour. She had not come to the party to be propositioned, and she was not used to finding herself the centre of attraction. Besides, if she was honest she would admit that the awareness of Reed Gallagher in the background, watching her embarrassed attempts to break free of her admirers, had coloured her attitude towards them, and what might have been an amusing situation turned into a trial of nerves.

Learning that the man she had been so arbitrarily crossing swords with was really Celia’s fiancé had been a shock. Not that she had any interest in him personally, she assured herself, but his attitude towards her had not been that of a man desperately in love with his fiancée. At least, not in her experience it hadn’t. Perhaps their sort of people behaved differently. Perhaps, even in this day and age, it was to be a marriage engineered for convenience. But then, remembering the way Celia had clung to her fiancé’s arm and the adoring looks she had cast in his direction, Antonia felt convinced that for her part, Celia cared madly for her handsome Irishman. And probably he did, too, she reflected cynically, refusing to admit that initially she, too, had been disarmed. Whatever his feelings, she was unlikely to discover them, though she had the distinct suspicion he was not as careless and superficial as he would have had her believe. And when he had taken hold of her wrist …

Shaking her head to dislodge the irritating recollection of the cool strength of Reed’s fingers against her skin, Antonia endeavoured to apply herself to the application forms in front of her. The institute was always oversubscribed on all their courses, and it was to be part of her duties to consider each application on its merit, and winnow them down to a more manageable thirty-five or forty from which Mr Fenwick could make his final choice. New trainees were admitted in September, and interviews were apparently held in May and June to reduce the eventual intake to approximately twenty in each department. It promised to be an interesting part of her work, particularly as Mr Fenwick had informed her that in his opinion aptitude for a particular occupation was worth more than any number of academic qualifications.

This morning, however, Antonia’s brain refused to function, and by eleven o’clock she was still studying the second form. When Martin Fenwick appeared to ask her to come into his office, she abandoned her task with a feeling of relief, following him into his room with an enthusiasm untempered by her usual impatience to get on with her own job.

Blowing his nose before taking his seat, her boss regarded her rather speculatively. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Sheldon?’ he asked, gesturing her to a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘You’re looking rather tired. Did you go home at the weekend?’

Not entirely relishing his probably well-meant enquiry, Antonia shook her head. ‘If you mean to Newcastle—then, no,’ she answered politely, wondering if she had bags under her eyes. ‘I … er … didn’t sleep very well last night.’

Martin Fenwick nodded. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well myself,’ he confessed, sinking down into his chair. ‘Lumbago’s the devil of a thing. Wakes you up, every time you turn over.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Antonia summoned a small smile. ‘But you’re feeling better now.’

‘Well—it’s bearable,’ he essayed heavily, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘I suppose at my age I have to expect something. Be thankful yours is not a chronic condition.’

‘Yes.’

Antonia conceded his point, although lying awake in the early hours it had felt very much as though it was. She had blamed the fact that on Sunday she had done nothing but laze around the flat, but that wasn’t entirely true either. What she was really doing was coming to terms with the rather unpalatable realisation that in spite of her unfortunate experience with Simon, she was still not immune to sexual attraction.

‘So—shall we get down to business?’ suggested Mr Fenwick now, smoothing one hand over his bald pate as he read through the report she had prepared for him. ‘This is good, very good. Very comprehensive.’ His slightly rheumy eyes twinkled as he looked up at her. ‘I knew you were the woman for the job, as soon as I set eyes on you.’

Antonia was grateful for his confidence, and she did her best to satisfy all his enquiries, and learn how to deal with problems in his absence in the process. The failure of the hydraulic lift in the motor repair workshop had caused her some difficulties, she confessed, and the trainee joiner who had cut his hand badly on an electric saw deserved a reprimand she had not felt able to give him. Nevertheless, on the whole, there had been no insurmountable set-backs, and she knew by the end of their discussion that Mr Fenwick felt his belief in her abilities had been justified.

The afternoon proved rather less traumatic. After a snack lunch in the dining hall with Heather Jakes, Mr Fenwick’s secretary, Antonia returned to her desk to find her concentration was much improved. Determining not to waste any more time weighing the pros and cons of her attendance at the party, she put all thoughts of Celia Lytton-Smythe and her fiancé aside, and applied herself instead to the relative merits of a certificate in woodwork and an ability to type.

It was nearing six o’clock when Antonia reached the stone gate-posts that marked the boundary of Eaton Lodge. She had been grateful to find there was a short drive leading up to the house. Her rooms, being on the ground floor, would have adjoined the street otherwise, and she was still not accustomed to the sound of traffic at all hours of the day and night. Her mother’s house, in a suburb of Newcastle, was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac, and it had not been easy for her to make the transition.

Even so, she was glad that she did not have expensive train fares to add to her living expenses. The flat, in Clifton Gate, was only a bus ride from the institute in the Edgware Road, and on summer days she planned to walk to and from work. The exercise would do her good, and the resultant savings might enable her to pay more frequent visits to Newcastle—and Susie.

As she walked up the short path to the house, the black Lamborghini overtook her, and for the first time she saw Reed Gallagher at the wheel. It was early for him, she thought, aware of an unwelcome tightening of her stomach muscles. She couldn’t remember seeing the car in the drive much before seven-thirty or eight o’clock in the past, though she had to admit that until Celia pointed it out, she had paid little attention to their visitors. Now, however, she was all too aware of its occupant, and it took a certain amount of stamina to continue up the drive as if nothing untoward had happened.

By the time she reached the entrance, Reed had parked the powerful sports car, crossed the forecourt, and was waiting for her. In a dark blue three-piece business suit and a white shirt, he looked little different from the less formally dressed individual she had met at the party. With a conservative tie narrowly concealing the buttons of his shirt, and his hands pushed carelessly into the pockets of his jacket, he appeared relaxed and self-assured, confident in his cool male arrogance—and Antonia resented his somehow insolent supposition that she might be pleased to exchange a few words with him.

‘Hi,’ he said, as she came up the steps, his lean frame successfully blocking her passage. ‘How are you?’

Antonia held up her head and without looking at him, made her intentions evident. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Gallagher,’ she responded stiffly, edging towards the door. ‘Do you mind?’

Reed regarded her steadily for a few moments—she could almost feel those disturbing grey eyes probing her averted lids—then he politely stepped aside. ‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, allowing her to precede him into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘It’s cold out tonight, isn’t it? Very chilly!’

Pressing her lips together to suppress the immature retort that sprang into her mind, Antonia rummaged in her handbag for her key. If only she’d thought to do this before she came inside, she thought frustratedly. It was difficult to see what she was doing without the benefit of a light.

Aware that Reed had not continued on upstairs as she had expected, her fingers were all thumbs, and when she eventually found the key, it slithered annoyingly out of her grasp. With a little ping, it landed on the floor at Reed’s feet, and with a feeling of helplessness, she watched him bend and rescue it for her with a lithe graceful movement.

‘Let me,’ he said, avoiding her outstretched hand, and she stood stiffly by as he inserted the key in the lock and deftly turned the handle. ‘No problem,’ he added, dropping the key into her palm, and knowing she was behaving badly, but unable to do anything about it, Antonia gave him a curt nod before scurrying into the flat.

She was still leaning back against the closed door, her heart beating rather faster than was normal, when she heard the brisk tattoo on the panels behind her. Realising it could be no one else but him, she was tempted to pretend she hadn’t heard his knock, but she knew that would be childish. There was no likelihood that she might not have heard his summons, and by not answering her door she would look as if she was afraid to do so.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered together the two sides of her camel-hair jacket, which she had just unbuttoned, and turned. With carefully schooled features, she swung open the door again, holding on to the handle, as if there was any chance that he might try to force himself inside.

Reed was leaning against the wall to one side of the door, but when she looked out he straightened, and turned to face her. ‘Yes?’ she said tersely, unable to keep the hostility out of her voice, and his dark features took on a rueful aspect.

‘Can I come in?’

Antonia could not have been more surprised, and it showed. ‘I beg your pardon …’

‘I said, can I come in?’ he repeated levelly, glancing over her shoulder into the small apartment. ‘I want to talk to you, and I’d prefer not to do so in Mrs Francis’s hearing.’

‘Mrs Francis?’ Antonia’s tongue circled her lips, and Reed nodded.

‘Any minute now, her door is going to open—just a crack,’ he confided drily. ‘So?’

Antonia cast a half-glance behind her, suddenly conscious of the enormous contrast between her modest apartment and the luxurious rooms occupied by his fiancée. And she realised she didn’t want him to see where she lived. She didn’t want him coming into her flat, comparing her shabby furnishings with the designer fabrics upstairs. This was her home, such as it was, and she didn’t want his disruptive influence invading its sanctuary.

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said now, endeavouring to maintain a politely indifferent tone. ‘I can’t think of anything we have to say to one another, Mr Gallagher. If Celia’s not at home, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you can’t wait here.’

Reed expelled his breath noisily. ‘I don’t know if Cee’s at home or not,’ he retorted, his lean face losing its humorous expression. ‘Look—I’m not about to ravage you or anything. I simply wanted to apologise if you think I was indiscreet.’

Antonia looked at him unwillingly, her diffident gaze drawn to the clean-cut lines of his face. ‘Indiscreet?’

‘By telling you what Cee had said,’ he inserted flatly. ‘And by not telling you who I was.’

Antonia’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly. ‘It’s not important …’

‘I think it is.’

‘Why?’ Her fingers tightened on the metal handle. ‘We are hardly likely to meet again, are we?’

‘Why not?’ The long straight lashes narrowed his eyes. ‘Cee likes you. She told me.’ He paused, and when she made no response, he added: ‘Well—I guess that’s all I came to say.’

Antonia drew an unsteady breath. ‘Is it?’ she murmured, her long fingers fidgeting with the collar of her coat. Suddenly, she was disappointed. ‘I—is your fiancée at home?’

Reed glanced carelessly up the stairs. ‘I doubt it,’ he responded, pulling one hand out of his pocket and combing his fingers through the dark vitality of his hair. ‘The shop doesn’t close until six, and it’s barely that now. But don’t worry about it,’ he finished with some irony. ‘I have a key.’

Antonia hesitated. ‘I—I was just going to make some tea,’ she offered, regretting the words almost as soon as they were uttered. Whatever had possessed her to offer him her hospitality? she asked herself impatiently. Did she want him carrying tales upstairs of the straightened circumstances in which she lived? ‘I mean,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I don’t suppose you—drink tea.’

‘Well, I don’t survive on honeydew and nectar,’ he responded, his grey eyes gently teasing. ‘Thank you, Miss Sheldon. I’d love a cup of tea.’

She had to step aside then, and treading silently on suede-booted feet, Reed entered the flat. Unlike the apartment occupied by Celia and her friend, there was no entrance hall. One stepped directly into Antonia’s living room, and her colour deepened embarrassingly as Reed looked about him with evident interest.

With the door closed behind him, Antonia did not linger to correct his assumption of her status. Shedding her coat on to a chair as she passed, she walked through the living room into the kitchen, leaving him to make what he liked of the flat. She simply wasn’t interested, she told herself, filling the kettle at the tap and pushing in the electric plug. The sooner he had his tea and departed, the better. And after all, Celia might not approve of his making a detour, when he was evidently on his way to visit her.

She was examining the contents of the biscuit tin when his shadow fell across her. ‘A watched pot never boils, isn’t that what they say?’ he remarked drily, surveying the pristine neatness of the kitchen. ‘Come and sit down. You must be tired.’

‘Do I look tired?’

After what Mr Fenwick had said earlier, Antonia’s tone was unnecessarily tense, and Reed regarded her with rueful tolerance. ‘I guess I always seem to say the wrong thing, don’t I?’ he averred, running a lazy hand around the back of his neck. ‘Now, how can I redeem myself? By telling you I was only being polite, or by assuring you that you look pretty good to me?’

Antonia bent her head. ‘Neither. It doesn’t matter I—you go and sit down. I’ll join you presently.’

‘Okay.’

With a careless shrug he left her, and Antonia took cups out of the cupboard above the drainer, and set them on their saucers. By the time she had put milk into a jug and set it, along with the sugar bowl, on a tray, the kettle had boiled. Filling the teapot, she put it on the tray, too, and then after checking she had everything, she carried it through to the living room.

Reed was lounging on the sofa, flicking through the pages of a self-help magazine she had bought to learn how to do minor repairs. In her absence, he had loosened the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled his tie a couple of inches below his collar, and the slightly dishevelled appearance suited him. But then, anything would, thought Antonia woodenly, refusing to respond to his lazy smile. He was vibrant; magnetic; the kind of man one could not help but be aware of, his unconscious sexuality a challenge in itself.

Conscious of this, she seated herself on the armchair opposite him, and made a play of pouring the tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she enquired, the jug poised just above the cup, but he shook his head, and responded lightly: ‘As it is.’

Belatedly, she guessed he was used to taking it with lemon, but in any case, she didn’t have any. And besides, her tea was not Lapsang or Orange Pekoe. It was just common-or-garden quick-brew that she bought at the supermarket.

Still, he seemed to enjoy it, resting his ankle across his knee, emptying his cup and accepting a second. She should have known he would feel at ease anywhere, she thought, going to cross her legs and then thinking better of it. Like a chameleon, he adapted to his surroundings, totally indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own. He was making her feel a stranger in her own apartment, and she resented his easy manner almost as much as his sex appeal.

‘Why don’t you like me, Miss Sheldon?’ he asked suddenly, setting his cup back on the tray while Antonia’s clattered noisily in its saucer. ‘Do I frighten you? Is that it? Are you afraid of men, perhaps? I’d be interested to know what I’ve done to provoke such a reaction.’

Antonia replaced her cup on the table with rather more care than she had picked it up. ‘I think you’re imagining things, Mr Gallagher.’

‘Am I?’ His eyes were shrewdly assessing. ‘We may not know one another very well—which I’m sure is your next line of defence—but I can sense hostility when I feel it, Miss Sheldon.’

‘It’s not—Miss Sheldon,’ she corrected him abruptly. ‘It’s Mrs I am—I was—married.’

‘Ah!’

His long-drawn sigh infuriated her, and abandoning any further attempt at politeness, she sprang to her feet. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, Mr Gallagher,’ she declared hotly, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. ‘I’m not afraid of the opposite sex. I don’t hate all men, or anything like that. I simply—I simply don’t care for … for men of your type, that’s all!’

‘My type?’ he prompted softly, and she felt the instinctive thrill of knowing she was getting into deep water without any means of saving herself. ‘Men like your ex-husband perhaps?’

Like Simon! Antonia knew an hysterical desire to laugh. No one less like Simon could she imagine. Oh, Simon himself might have seen himself as being attractive to women, as knowing all the answers, but compared to Reed Gallagher, he had only been an amateur. And she had probably been at least partly responsible for the high opinion Simon had had of himself. Although it had meant giving up her degree at university, she had been flattered that the local heart-throb should have chosen her as his girlfriend, and she had fallen for his good looks without ever questioning what might lie beneath the surface. Until it was too late.

‘You’re nothing like my husband!’ she retorted now, suddenly losing enthusiasm for the argument. The reason she resented Reed Gallagher had nothing to do with Simon’s defection, and she felt ridiculously gauche for having lost her temper. ‘I—I shouldn’t have implied that you were.’

Aware of her discomfort, Reed got resignedly to his feet and tightened the knot of his tie once again. ‘I think I’d better go,’ he remarked, stepping sideways round the low table on which she had set the tray. ‘Thanks for the tea. It was—delicious.’

Antonia was sure it had been nothing of the kind, and her own behaviour had been unforgivable, but there was nothing she could say. Short of offering an apology, which she had no intention of doing, she could only spare him a tight smile as he walked towards the door, and with a knowing inclination of his head, he let himself out of the flat.

Conversely, as soon as he had gone, Antonia wanted to call him back. Sinking down on to the edge of her chair, she cupped her chin in her hands and stared humiliatedly at the spot on the sofa where he had been sitting. What a fiasco! she thought bitterly. What an absolute fool she had made of herself. She hadn’t wanted him to leave with that impression of her, particularly not when she thought how amusing it would seem when he related the incident to Celia—and Liz.

The disturbing dampness of a tear sliding down to touch her fingertips brought Antonia a measure of relief. It wasn’t that important, she told herself, dashing the tear away and making a concerted effort to pull herself together. Putting the teapot and her cup on to the tray, she picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. It wasn’t as if she and Celia were close friends or anything. It would teach her to be more wary of them in future. They were not like her, and she should remember that.

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