Images Of Love

  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.

  IMAGES OF LOVE

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.com.au

  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

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  THROUGHOUT the journey, Mark had been abnormally quiet for him, and while the ocean beneath the powerful aircraft changed from silver-grey to turquoise blue, Tobie had plenty of time to re-examine her feelings. She wasn’t just using Mark as an instrument of revenge, she told herself fiercely, she really cared about him, and her only reasons for agreeing to this trip were the usual ones of wanting to see his home and meet his mother. It was not an attempt to get even with anyone, and no matter what Laura might say, she was only trying to find the happiness that had so long been denied her. If—and here she allowed a tiny grain of self-justification to creep in —if she did feel a trace of mild self-satisfaction at the prospect of confronting Robert again, that was surely forgivable. After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of, and if she gave him a few uncomfortable moments, so much the better after the trauma she had gone through. It would be undeniably good to let him see that she had quite recovered from that wild infatuation, and she could even be grateful now that their relationship had not been legalised. A marriage, albeit a broken one, would have been that much harder to explain to Mark. As it was, he only knew there had once been someone else, but not that person’s identity. It was a gamble, of course, taking the chance that Robert would not betray her, but as it would also mean betraying his brother, she felt reasonably confident.

  Nevertheless, she could still hear her sister’s shocked reaction when she first learned who Mark really was.

  ‘So you’re actually going to Emerald Cay to see Robert Lang again!’ Laura had accused angrily. ‘Oh, Tobie, how can you? Hasn’t he humiliated you enough? What are you—one of those girls who enjoys punishment?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Tobie had denied the indictment indignantly. ‘That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? You know I care for Mark now. I’m going to Emerald Cay with him—to meet his mother. Whatever was between Robert and me is over.’

  ‘But you do expect to see him, don’t you?’ Laura had persisted impatiently. ‘How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out who you are?’

  ‘I imagine he knows,’ Tobie retorted tautly, bending her head so that the silken weight of straight dark hair fell about her ears. ‘After all, Mark and I are practically engaged! And my name’s not so common. I should think Robert realised from the beginning, but do you honestly think he could come right out and say I’m the girl he virtually abandoned?’

  Laura sighed, staring at her younger sister with troubled anxious eyes. ‘Even so,’ she said doubtfully, ‘the man’s unscrupulous, Tobie. We both know that. And this is his home you’re invading. Emerald Cay belongs to him, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Tobie had shrugged, hoping to conclude the conversation. ‘He went to live there—oh, about three years ago. Just after—just after the accident.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘Tobie! Change your mind. Don’t go. This trip—it isn’t good for you, I know it. You’re recovered now, I know, but I just feel it in my bones—you’re playing with fire! Tell Mark you can’t go. Give yourself more time. Don’t risk everything again…’

  ‘It’s no risk, Laura.’ Tobie had spoken purposely lightly, but as the blue-green waters of the Caribbean unfolded beneath her, she wished she still felt so sure.

  ‘We’re almost there, darling.’

  Mark’s voice spoke near her ear, his breath fanning the tender lip of flesh, its warmth melting the chilling goosebumps that had unexpectedly appeared. It restored her sense of balance, reminding her that she was not alone any more, reassuring her of his love and affection. She had been uncertain about the trip in the beginning, but Mark’s eagerness had persuaded her, and if she was going to marry him, sooner or later she would have to meet the other members of his family.

  ‘You seem—anxious,’ he said now, touching her chin, turning her face to his. ‘You’ve no reason to be. My mother’s going to love you. And Rob—’ Tobie stiffened. ‘Well, I guess we can talk about Rob tonight.’

  His words had a slightly ominous ring, and Tobie’s confidence faltered. ‘Tonight?’ she echoed, and Mark touched her nose with a playful finger.

  ‘You know we’re spending tonight in Castries,’ he reminded her, mentioning the name of the island capital of St Lucia, the nearest large island to Emerald Cay, but Tobie was still apprehensive.

  ‘Why—why should we have to talk about—about your half-brother?’ she persisted, circling her dry lips with her tongue, and with a sigh Mark relaxed back in his seat.

  ‘I’ve been trying to think of a way to explain him to you,’ he confessed, unknowingly supplying the reason why Tobie had thought he had been unusually silent during the flight. ‘Rob—well, Rob can be a law unto himself, and it isn’t always enough just to put it down to his artistic temperament.’

  Tobie’s palms smoothed the arms of her seat. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  She hesitated. ‘You’re—you’re saying—he’s conceited?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ Mark was swift to deny this. ‘No one could call
my brother conceited. But he can be rude—ignorant—bloody-minded, if you like. He—well, he doesn’t always mince his words.’ He sighed. ‘He used not to be like that. I mean,’ he hastened on quickly, ‘he never suffered fools gladly, if you know what I mean, but since the accident—’

  Tobie drew in an unsteady breath. ‘I thought he got over that.’

  ‘He did.’ Mark sighed again. ‘At least, as well as anyone could who was left in a wheelchair—’

  ‘A wheelchair!’ Tobie was all attention now, turning to stare at him with wide disbelieving eyes. ‘Robert’s disabled!’

  ‘Don’t use that word to him, honey, will you?’ Mark advised her gently. ‘It’s not the sort of term you use where my brother is concerned. He’s not an invalid, or so he says, he’s only—somewhat incapacitated.’

  Tobie could feel all the colour draining out of her face, and it was all she could do not to turn to Mark and beg him to take back his words. But she could say nothing. So far as Mark was concerned, she had not even met his brother, and although his revelation was both terrible and shocking, she must somehow sustain it without giving in to the shaking disbelief that gripped her. Yet she could hardly think straight as images of the man he had been flashed before her eyes. Robert—in a wheelchair! Robert—without the use of his legs! Robert, who had loved walking and driving, swimming and dancing …

  ‘I know it’s not generally known, that’s why I wanted to warn you.’ Fortunately Mark had warmed to his subject, and was paying her scant attention at the moment. ‘That was Rob’s idea, of course. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s sympathy, and you can imagine the worldwide reaction if it was discovered that Robert Lang had been crippled in a car crash. That was why he bought Emerald Cay, why he’s dropped his public image. Not because he wanted to devote more time to his painting.’

  Tobie felt totally drained of energy. Her whole body had slumped in her seat, and even her ankles felt weak. She couldn’t believe it; she simply couldn’t believe it. It explained so many things, and yet left so many others unexplained.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not so bad now,’ Mark added thoughtfully. ‘I mean, he still has the wheelchair around, but it’s not his only means of getting about. He manages pretty well on sticks these days. Not that he advertises that fact either. It’s a bit of a struggle, if you know what I mean, and like I said, Rob hates sympathy.’

  Then, as if just realising that after her first horrified reaction Tobie had said nothing, he half turned towards her, grimacing when he saw her white face.

  ‘Hey,’ he exclaimed generously, ‘there’s no need for you to feel so badly, honey. I know you’re a fan of his and all, but really, it hasn’t affected his work, and that’s the important thing, isn’t it? You’ve seen his latest exhibition. His talent’s still as great as it ever was.’

  Tobie knew she had to say something, but the words were so hard to articulate. ‘It—I—you should have told me sooner, Mark,’ she got out at last. ‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Mark made a sound of impatience. ‘Come on! It’s nothing to do with us, is it? I just didn’t want you to—well, say something you might regret.’

  ‘Regret?’ Tobie echoed weakly, wishing suddenly that she had listened to Laura.

  ‘Seeing him in a wheelchair for the first time,’ Mark explained softly. ‘I don’t want you to be hurt. And Rob can be so damned sarcastic to people who show any sign of compassion!’

  ‘Can he?’

  Tobie felt totally incapable of handling the situation. She only knew that if she had known about this before leaving London, she would never have agreed to come. She didn’t know why exactly. It didn’t change anything, so far as she and Mark were concerned. But somehow her presence seemed ghoulish now, an unwanted and unwarranted reminder of the past; and while she admitted that her feelings for Robert had died on the operating table more than three years ago, she was loath to arouse emotions that could only cause him bitterness.

  ‘You knew about the accident,’ Mark probed now, and she managed to nod. It would have been foolish to state otherwise. It had been in all the papers, and as Mark had said, she was a fan. ‘Anyway, it all happened a long time ago,’ he reassured her, and she guessed his patience was wearing a little thin. ‘There’s no reason for you to get upset about it. It was his own fault. He was driving too fast as usual. That damned car of his—’ He shook his head. ‘Who needs a car that can do nearly two hundred miles an hour on roads where the speed limit is seventy?’

  Tobie swallowed convulsively. ‘Some—some people like fast cars,’ she offered feebly, remembering the Porsche only too well. She remembered, too, the reason he had been driving fast, and that last terrible row before he left her …

  ‘If you had to patch them up afterwards, perhaps you wouldn’t speak so carelessly,’ Mark remarked now, his tone full of indignation. ‘We see them all at the hospital. Young men, girls, kids, most of them, with too much power under the bonnet and too little grey matter in their skulls. Losing a leg or an arm, or their sight. And they’re the lucky ones. Paralysis is the most likely result, and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.’

  Tobie shook her head. ‘I—I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ Mark’s smile suddenly illuminated his fair handsome face. ‘I guess Rob’s accident happened around the time we first met, didn’t it? And at that time you were in no fit state to be aware of anyone’s troubles but your own.’

  No fit state …

  Hysteria swelled inside her. If he only knew, she thought sickly. If he ever found out …

  ‘Not that I was involved with his recovery,’ Mark continued. ‘He wasn’t a patient of mine.’ He shrugged. ‘There was one consolation, though. It did bring him and my mother together again. You don’t know this, but before the accident they were a little less than close!’

  Tobie bent her head. She wondered how Mark would react if she told him that she had known that. That in fact she had been staggered when she learned that after all that Robert had told her about his mother, he had actually forgiven her at last. He had always maintained that would never happen. But circumstances alter cases, she thought unsteadily, the weight of what she had learned bearing heavily on her.

  ‘So …’ Mark’s smile appeared again, ‘I’ve told you. I knew I’d have to, but—well, it’s not easy, destroying an ideal.’

  An ideal! Tobie turned to stare out of the window, and as she did so, the stewardess advised the passengers to fasten their safety belts and put out their cigarettes ready for landing at Hewanorra airport. Was that how Mark imagined she thought of his brother? How differently he would have felt if he had known the truth. And how differently might she have reacted if she had suspected that Robert had not made a complete recovery?

  The hotel in Castries was air-conditioned and very comfortable, and Tobie had no objections when Mark suggested that they rested for a couple of hours before dinner. It had been a long flight, and a long drive, and although it was only early evening in the Caribbean, her body told her it was much later in London.

  Mark had booked adjoining rooms, but as yet he had not tried to force their relationship. He wanted to make love to her, she knew that, but being a doctor, he was also aware of the reasons why she had refused to allow him to do so. Since Robert, since the emotional impact of what had happened to her, she found it incredibly difficult to relate to any man in a physical way, and Mark was sensible enough to see that if he compelled her to respond to him, he might destroy the tenuous thread he had constructed. So they remained friends, but not lovers in the true sense of the word, and Tobie believed they were closer than she and Robert had ever been.

  Lying on her bed, however, with the blinds drawn against the lighted street outside, and the steady hum of the hotel drifting irresistibly to her ears, she found it impossible to relax. Everything Mark had told her went round and round in her head, until she felt almost dizzy with the perplexity of her thoughts. Robert was
an invalid, or he was crippled, at least. All those nightmares she had had during her illness, the women she had used to torment herself he was spending his nights with, had only existed in her imagination. She could understand why Mark had felt it necessary to warn her about the uncertainty of his moods. Robert had always been an arrogant devil, and even now she found it almost impossible to picture him any other way.

  She remembered the first time she had met him, when he came striding into the gallery where she worked. Her boss, Vincent Thomas, was staging one of his exhibitions, but she had not known that the tall lean stranger in the shabby denim shirt and jeans was Robert Lang. All she had seen was a man in his early thirties, a dark man, with untidy black hair, and skin with an olive cast. She had at first taken him for an intruder, not altogether trusting the way his dark eyes had swiftly appraised the layout of the gallery, and the general accessibility of the paintings, half suspecting he was checking the place out with criminal intent. Even when the dark eyes turned in her direction, and she found her own body betraying the dictates of her common sense, she was loath to admit that she found him disturbing, but when he spoke she was incapable of voicing any reproof. Robert had an attractive voice, low and mellow, with just a hint of the humour he had possessed in such measure, providing a lighter tone. And her nervousness had amused him, she had known that, even before he spoke to her and asked her who she was.

  She had answered him. How could she not? She was in charge of the gallery in Vincent’s absence, and for all she knew, this man might be a valued customer. But when it became apparent that he was more interested in her than the paintings, she had made a polite withdrawal, leaving him to browse around alone.

  He was gone before Vincent returned, and although she knew she ought to mention the suspicious circumstances of his visit, she was curiously unwilling to do so. Instead she kept the encounter to herself, and worried herself sick that night in case there should be a break-in.