A Haunting Compulsion Read online

  Harlequin 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.

  A Haunting Compulsion

  Anne Mather

  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

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘DO COME, Rachel. You can’t possibly spend Christmas alone in London. Jaime won’t be home, you know that. We wouldn’t expect you to come, if he was. But you know how much Robert and I would like to see you again, so do come, do come, do come…’

  Rachel closed her eyes, as the words echoed through her head, over and over, like a relentless tattoo beating against her brain. Liz had been so persuasive, so sympathetic about her father’s death, so determined that she should not spend the festive season alone in her flat, that it had seemed churlish to go on refusing. Where was the harm, after all? Liz and Robert were nice people, and she liked them. And since Jaime spent so much time abroad, they would no doubt welcome some young company.

  Rachel sighed, and opened her eyes again, as the lights of Durham appeared through the hazy darkness ahead of the train. Only a few more miles and they would be in Newcastle, her destination, but despite her contention, the prospect was no longer so appealing.

  Perhaps she should not have come, she argued with herself uneasily. This was Jaime’s home, not hers, these were Jaime’s parents. All right, so they had treated her more like a family friend than their son’s—what? Rachel’s lips tightened instinctively. Secretary? Girlfriend? Mistress? A shudder ran over her. Whatever she had been, she was no more, so how could she talk to them as she used to do? How could she discuss her plans for a future in which they had no part? It was an impossible situation. She could envisage the awkward looks, the pregnant silences, the periods of introspection, while each of them regretted the impulse which had brought them all together. And they were committed to ten days of this purgatory. It was going to be awful.

  In an attempt to shake off the mood of melancholy which was settling on her, Rachel straightened up in her seat, and retrieving her handbag, extracted her compact. The compartment of the train was almost empty, so she flicked the case open and examined her miniaturised reflection in the mirror.

  Her lipstick needed renewing, she decided, but apart from that, the three-and-a-half-hour journey from King’s Cross had not wrought any dramatic changes in her appearance. The same calm Madonna-like features gazed back at her, her dark chestnut hair thick and smooth from a centre parting, her cheekbones high and lightly tinted with becoming colour, her nose firm and straight, her wide mouth, with its sensuous lower lip, deceptively vulnerable. Yet the delicate conformity of those features chilled her somewhat, the slight tilt at the corners of dark-fringed green eyes only emphasising their cool remoteness. Her beauty had long since ceased to please her; the gratification which came from knowing she was attractive to men had died when Jaime proved its worthlessness; and although she still attracted male eyes wherever she went, she had learned to keep the opposite sex at a distance.

  The train ambled through Durham station without stopping, and then picked up speed again between the two cities. Already the air felt fresher, colder, even within the air-conditioned comfort of the compartment. It was more than two years since she had been this far north, and longer than that since Jaime first brought her to Clere Heights, and introduced her to his family. But she remembered the sharpness of the air, and the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the house, and the tumult of the waves, spuming on the rocks beneath. Clere Heights was built on the very edge of the ocean, high above the unpredictable currents of the North Sea, and there was no place in the house where one could escape its savage thunder.

  Jaime’s room had been at the back of the house, Rachel remembered reluctantly, overlooking the bay, which in summer could be as calm and as blue as the Mediterranean. But on winter nights, the roar of the elements had been strongest here, and it took some determination for her to push away the memories her thoughts evoked now. It was all in the past, she told herself impatiently, but that didn’t prevent it from hurting.

  Of course, his parents had known, but she had not blamed them. They were not responsible for their son’s behaviour, and the friendship which had sprung up between Rachel and the Shards had survived in spite of everything. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling she was accepting their hospitality under false pretences, and if Jaime knew, she doubted he would approve.

  The train rumbled ponderously over the Tyne Bridge, and below her a ship’s siren hooted mournfully from the trailing vapours of the fog that shrouded the river. The station was just beyond the bridge, a cavernous edifice, blackened from the age of steam, and presently damp and misty, and heavy with the smell of diesel.

  The inter-city express which had brought Rachel from King’s Cross pulled into the platform, and tightening the belt of the dark red leather coat about her slim waist, she hoisted her suitcase and struggled to the carriage door. She guessed Jaime’s father would have come to meet her, and dismissing the proffered services of a young porter, whose keen gaze had alighted on the graceful lissomness of her figure, she walked as quickly as she could towards the ticket barrier.

  There was no sign of Robert Shard, however, in the press of people waiting to meet the train. Tall, like his son, his grey head
would have been instantly noticeable, she was sure, but there seemed mostly women standing in groups, watching the discharging passengers.

  ‘Rachel! Rachel, I’m here!’

  The slightly breathless feminine tones attracted Rachel’s attention as she was replacing her return ticket in the bag looped over her shoulder. Glancing round, she saw not Jaime’s father but his mother hurrying towards her, her attractive features flushed with anxiety, her ready smile breaking as Rachel saw her.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I was so afraid I was going to be late!’ Elizabeth Shard enveloped the girl in a warm embrace, bestowing a welcoming kiss on her smooth cheek. ‘It’s quite foggy out of town, and I got stuck behind a horse-box, and I was convinced the train would be punctual when I wasn’t.’

  Rachel laughed, returning the older woman’s hug enthusiastically, feeling her earlier misgivings melting slightly in the warmth of Liz’s greeting. ‘Actually, it is on time,’ she conceded humorously, glancing at her watch. ‘But so are you, so calm down. I’ve just walked off the platform.’

  ‘Have you? Have you really?’ Liz examined her face with a worried scrutiny, and then gave a little laugh. ‘Thank heavens for that! I can breathe freely again. Now, shall we get some assistance?’

  Before Rachel could protest, Liz had summoned the very porter she had refused earlier, but fortunately he seemed not to notice. Picking up Rachel’s suitcase, and the leather travel bag containing the book and magazines she had brought for the journey, he led the way outside, and tucking her arm through Rachel’s, Liz urged them to follow him.

  ‘At least I had no difficulty in parking,’ she remarked, as they emerged into the damp misty air, and detecting a trace of irony in her voice, Rachel wondered why. Perhaps it had something to do with Robert’s not meeting her, she reflected, and hoped her visit was not a cause for contention between them.

  ‘Did you have a good journey?’ Liz asked, supervising the loading of Rachel’s belongings into the boot of the sleek grey Jaguar that was awaiting them in the station yard. ‘It’s such a filthy night. Not at all like the day before Christmas Eve! I wonder what’s happened to all our white Christmases.’

  Rachel smiled, and made some suitable response, then coiled herself gratefully into the front seat of the car. It was good to feel warm again, and when Liz came to join her she said as much.

  ‘Yes, it is rather chilly,’ her hostess agreed with a grimace. ‘Never mind, we still have open fires at Clere Heights.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that,’ Rachel admitted, settling more comfortably in her seat, and again sensed a certain tenseness as Liz started the engine.

  ‘So, how are you?’ As if to dispel any such suggestion, Liz changed the subject. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘It was rather,’ Rachel agreed, with a sigh. ‘But it wasn’t so unexpected, you know. He’d had heart trouble for a number of years.’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz nodded. ‘I remember Jaime—that is—you spoke of it when you were here before.’

  Rachel nodded, aware of how difficult it was going to be to avoid using Jaime’s name, and added: ‘It’s over now. It’s almost four months since Daddy died. And thank goodness, I have my work.’

  ‘Yes.’ Liz slowed to accommodate traffic lights, then went on: ‘You’re an assistant editor now, aren’t you? You must find that more exciting than secretarial work.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ Rachel spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It means I can use my own initiative, instead of only portraying someone else’s. I find it very interesting.’

  ‘But not too hard, I hope.’ Liz gave her a swift glance. ‘You look—thinner. I hope they’re not working you too hard.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Thinner is hardly a flattering description,’ she commented teasingly. ‘You should say slimmer. Thinner implies skinny.’

  Liz gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Well, you’re not that. But you’re not as—rounded as I remember.’

  Rachel bent her head. That was true. But it wasn’t entirely due to her work, or to the shock of her father’s death. She had lost weight after the break-up with Jaime, and she had never really regained it.

  ‘That’s enough about me,’ she said now, refusing to become introspective. ‘How about you—and Robert? Are you both well?’

  ‘Rob and I?’ Liz spoke a little breathily. ‘Oh—why, yes. Yes, we’re fine, thank you, Rachel. Nothing seems to bother us. Except for the occasional cold, you know, and a twinge or two of rheumatics.’ She moved her shoulders dismissingly. ‘Old age, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re not old.’

  Rachel was quick to dispute it, but Liz shook her head. ‘I’m fifty-seven this year, and Rob’s sixty,’ she declared flatly. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘But that’s not old,’ Rachel argued affectionately. ‘Is Rob still working as hard as ever? Surely he doesn’t still go to the office every day?’

  ‘Not every day,’ Liz conceded, with a tight smile. ‘Since Robin joined the firm he’s taken a lot of work from his father’s shoulders, and I expect eventually he’ll take over.’

  Robin was Jaime’s younger brother. At the time Rachel had known Jaime, he had been at university, and she had only met him once. He was married now, she knew, and in her last letter Liz had mentioned that they had become grandparents at last. Rachel guessed they wished Jaime had been like his brother, content with running the family steel business, but an ordered life had never appealed to him.

  ‘I suppose your granddaughter must be two months old now,’ Rachel commented, needing something to say now and not quite knowing what, and Liz nodded.

  ‘Lisa? Oh, yes.’ She smiled. ‘She’s quite adorable. Her grandfather and I see a lot of Robin and Nancy.’

  Rachel acknowledged this, wondering how Jaime’s brother had reacted to the fact that she was to spend Christmas with his parents. Did that account for Liz’s occasionally taut countenance, the sudden air of enforced courtesy, so out of keeping with her normal uninhibited chatter? She was getting the distinct impression that all was not well at Clere Heights, and taking the bull by the horns she said:

  ‘Is something the matter, Liz? I want you to be honest with me.’ And as the older woman started to protest, she added: ‘I know you invited me here, and I am grateful, really, but if it’s causing any problems with the family—’

  ‘With the family?’ Liz interrupted her impatiently. ‘Rachel, what possible problem could your coming here create with the family?’

  She shook her head vigorously, and taking the opportunity, Rachel plunged in again. ‘I’d just hate for you to feel that you’ve committed yourself, and you can’t change your mind,’ she said. ‘I mean, I can easily stay at a hotel—’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Liz sounded as if she meant it, and Rachel sighed.

  ‘But something’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s not Robert, is it? I must admit, I expected it would be he who came to meet me—’

  ‘Jaime’s home!’

  Liz broke in on her attempted explanation, with flat deliberation, and Rachel felt all the blood drain out of her face.

  ‘What—what did you say?’ she echoed faintly, but she knew without Liz repeating it. She had said that Jaime was home, and the shock drove the strength from her body.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true.’ Liz was hastening on with her explanations now. ‘We didn’t know he was coming. How could we? It was totally unexpected. He only arrived the day before yesterday—’

  ‘You should have told me.’ Rachel only managed to articulate the words with difficulty. ‘You should have let me know. I would have made other arrange—’

  ‘He wouldn’t let us,’ Liz exclaimed helplessly. ‘And why should you, anyway? You were invited; he was not. And if he hadn’t been shot, he wouldn’t be here—’

  ‘Shot!’

  Rachel hadn’t thought it was possible for her to feel more shocked, but she did. She turned in her seat, gazing in horrified fascin
ation at Jaime’s mother, and Liz quickly told her what had happened.

  ‘He’s all right,’ she assured her urgently, while Rachel fought to control the overwhelming instinct she had to grasp Liz by the shoulders and shake the information out of her. ‘It’s a nasty wound, but he’ll survive. He’s fortunate not to have been injured before this, the places they send him! God knows, he was lucky to escape with his life.’

  Rachel endeavoured to assimilate what Liz was saying, but her mouth was dry, and there was a beading of perspiration dewing her forehead. Jaime had been shot, she told herself incredulously. Someone had tried to kill him, but miraculously he had escaped serious injury. How had it happened? Where had he been shot? And how long would it take for him to recover?

  ‘I know it must be a shock to you, Rachel,’ Liz was going on sympathetically. ‘You can imagine how we felt when he turned up on Tuesday afternoon. They flew him home from Masota on Monday, and I think they would have preferred him to spend a few days in hospital in London, but you know what Jaime’s like. He flew to Newcastle on Tuesday morning, and arranged for a hire car to bring him home.’

  Rachel expelled her breath heavily and forced down the sense of panic inside her. This was ridiculous, she chided herself angrily. She was behaving like an idiot. Why should it matter to her what happened to Jaime Shard? He meant nothing to her any longer, and of a certainty, she meant nothing to him. Why get upset, just because he was hurt? He deserved to suffer, for the way he had made her suffer; and Betsy, too, come to that. Perhaps fate was kinder than she thought. Perhaps retribution came to everyone in time.

  ‘You—you mentioned Masota,’ she said now, her brain working furiously as she tried to decide what she should do. Obviously she could not stay at Clere Heights now, whatever Liz said, but conversely, she could hardly demand that she turn the car round and take her back to the station tonight.

  ‘Yes, Masota,’ Liz agreed, accelerating as the outskirts of the city fell away behind them, and the fog enveloped them in its ghostly embrace. ‘You know where it is, don’t you? It’s one of those central African republics.’ She sighed, having to slow her speed again as visibility was reduced. ‘There was a coup. You may have read about it. That’s why Jaime was in Kamsuli.’ She shook her head. ‘It was one of those awful coincidences. The camera team were caught in an ambush, laid by the government forces, would you believe? He spent four days in a prison hospital before they would let him go.’