The Forbidden Mistress

  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.

  The Forbidden Mistress

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  O LIVER was standing staring out of the long plate-glass windows of his fourteenth-storey office when the intercom on the desk behind him emitted a low buzz.

  Sighing, he turned away from the view of the rain-wet Newcastle streets and strode across the wide expanse of dark blue broadloom to depress the button that connected him with his secretary next door. ‘Yes?’ he said shortly, not welcoming the interruption, and Mrs Clements cleared her throat before replying.

  ‘It’s your brother, Mr Ferreira,’ she said, momentarily stunning him into silence. ‘I told him you were busy, but he insists that you’ll see him.’ She paused. ‘Will you?’

  Oliver was still getting over the fact that his brother had had the nerve to come here when he heard the altercation in the outer office. Thomas Ferreira would resent being subjected to any delay and a moment later Oliver’s door swung wide. A tall broad-shouldered man stood belligerently on the threshold with the diminutive figure of Mrs Clements hovering anxiously behind.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded, his fair good-looking features flushed with angry colour. ‘Do I need an appointment to see you these days, Oliver? I know it’s a while since we’ve spoken to one another, but for God’s sake, lighten up, can’t you?’

  Oliver released the button of the intercom and straightened away from the broad slab of granite that topped his desk. Ignoring his brother, he looked beyond his stocky frame to the nervous figure of his secretary. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Clements,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I know you did your best not to let him in.’

  Mrs Clements clasped her hands together. ‘You won’t forget you’ve agreed to see Mr Adler at four o’clock, will you, Mr Ferreira?’

  ‘He won’t forget,’ stated Thomas rudely, taking charge of the door. ‘And I don’t intend to keep him long, so don’t look so worried. I’m only his brother, not the tax inspector.’

  Mrs Clements ignored that comment and managed to wedge herself between the closing door and its frame. ‘Is there anything I can get you, Mr Ferreira? Some tea or coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘So long as it’s not a bottle of Scotch,’ Thomas interposed caustically, but Oliver disregarded the younger man and said politely, ‘Some tea, Mrs Clements, if it’s not too much trouble?’

  ‘Of course it’s not too much trouble.’ Thomas mocked the woman’s reply as he closed the door and rested for a moment against the mahogany panels. ‘Honestly, Oliver, surely you know that woman would walk on hot coals, if you asked her.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Most women would, for that matter.’

  ‘But not all,’ observed Oliver, feeling a momentary twinge of bitterness in his gut. Then, his dark eyes narrowing impatiently, ‘What do you want, Tom? As you just heard, I don’t have a lot of time.’

  Tom’s response was to leave the door and walk towards his brother’s desk, pulling out one of the upright leather chairs used by visitors and lounging into it. ‘Let’s wait until the tea comes, shall we?’ he suggested tightly. ‘I’d prefer it if old Clements wasn’t a party to what I have to say.’

  Oliver suppressed his irritation. ‘Mrs Clements is perfectly trustworthy,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to worry that she’ll gossip about anything she hears.’

  ‘Even so…’ Tom shrugged, looking about him. ‘I’d forgotten what a view you have from this office,’ he continued obliquely. ‘I bet you missed it, too, when you were holed up at the Abbey.’

  Oliver’s nostrils flared and he was tempted to eject his brother from the office forthwith. But to do so would arouse more questions than answers and, until he’d heard whatever Tom had to say, he decided to contain his wrath.

  But that didn’t alter the way he felt about seeing him again. It had been almost four years since they’d had a serious conversation and, although he resented his gall in coming here, he couldn’t deny a certain curiosity as to why his brother was here.

  Yet, perhaps it was time that they put the past behind them. They’d been good friends when they were boys before Tom’s treachery, and the collapse of Oliver’s marriage, had driven them apart. The fact that it had been as much Sophie’s fault as his brother’s that the marriage had broken down was something he’d had to live with. After all, she had been his wife, while Tom had been a free man.

  Of course, that still didn’t alter the fact that he would find it hard to trust his brother again. Oliver’s divorce from Sophie had been painful and destructive and for months the only respite he’d found was at the bottom of a glass. Tom’s snide comments about the bottle of Scotch and his reference to Oliver’s stay at Blackstone Abbey—a well-known centre for those needing an escape from either drugs or alcohol—were evidence that his brother wasn’t here to make amends for his behaviour. He probably wanted something, thought Oliver bitterly. That was usually why he’d come to him in the past.

  Subsiding into his own chair behind the desk, Oliver leaned back and steepled his fingers, regarding the other man speculatively. Tom looked older, h
e decided without prejudice. But then, so did he. Trauma—particularly emotional trauma—did that to you.

  ‘How’s Sophie?’ he asked at last, deciding to get it over with, and was surprised at how little emotion he felt. For months after the divorce, even hearing her name could arouse the destructive desire for oblivion. But now he felt only a trace of regret for what might have been, a rueful reminder of the gullible fool he used to be.

  Tom looked surprised at the question. ‘She’s okay, I guess,’ he answered offhandedly. ‘Why don’t you ring her and find out?’

  It took an effort but Oliver managed not to look as stunned as he felt. ‘I think not,’ he said, his hands falling away to the arms of his chair as he sat forward. Then, as Mrs Clements reappeared with a tray he managed to summon a smile for her benefit. ‘Thank you.’ He viewed the plate of biscuits with feigned enthusiasm. ‘This looks good.’

  ‘If you need anything else, just let me know,’ the older woman declared warmly. Her eyes flicked briefly over his visitor, and Oliver could practically tell what she was thinking. Mrs Clements was intensely loyal and she had been shocked and angered by his brother’s betrayal.

  ‘We will,’ Tom answered now, deliberately bringing a flush of pink to her cheeks. He, too, had to be aware of the woman’s feelings and it was his way of reminding her that her opinion meant less than nothing to him.

  The door closed behind her, but Oliver made no attempt to touch the tea tray. If Tom wanted tea, he could help himself, he thought, once again leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, with a resigned sigh. ‘If it’s money, you’re wasting your time. Apart from the fact that my ex-wife did her best to clean me out, there’s been a downturn in the housing market.’

  ‘Don’t pretend your business relies on domestic contracts,’ retorted Tom with some energy. ‘I happen to know you’ve just made a deal to design the shopping complex they’re going to build at Vicker’s Wharf.’ He scowled, his fair features losing much of their attraction. ‘In any case, I haven’t said I want money, have I? Since Sophie invested most of her divorce settlement in the garden centre, it’s going from strength to strength.’ He paused, as if reluctant to continue, but eventually he went on. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought the smallholding that adjoins the centre and I’m hoping we can sell conservatories, too, in the future. They’re the accessory of choice these days, as you probably know.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Oliver was glad to hear his brother’s business acumen was paying off. He had no problem in applauding his success. The Ferreira garden centre had been their father’s business before his retirement, but Tom had been the only one of his sons to share his love of the soil. Since Tom had taken over the centre, the interest in gardening generally had enabled him to practically double the profits. That and Oliver’s ex-wife’s contribution, of course.

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ muttered his brother now, evidently hearing something other than simple approval in Oliver’s voice. ‘We can’t all be academic geniuses. Some of us have fairly modest ambitions.’

  Oliver refrained from arguing with him. This was an old grievance and one he had no wish to revisit. Tom knew full well that he was no genius, nor was he particularly academic. But he’d been good at maths at school and working with computers had been an automatic progression. The fact that his degree in computer science led to a career in design engineering had been just as natural to him as working in horticulture had been to his brother.

  ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘If it’s not money, what do you want? I can’t believe you’ve come here to enquire after my health.’

  ‘Why not?’ Tom’s response was swift and resentful. ‘You’re still my brother, aren’t you? Just because we’ve had our differences in the past—’

  ‘Seducing my wife and breaking up my marriage cannot be dismissed as “differences”,’ retorted Oliver curtly.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Tom looked sulky now. ‘Like I say, we’ve had our problems. I’m not denying it. And I’m not denying that I was to blame.’ He sniffed. ‘But, dammit, I couldn’t have seduced Sophie if she hadn’t been willing, could I? You were always hell-bent on becoming a partner in Faulkner’s. You neglected your wife, Oliver. Admit it.’

  Oliver’s jaw clamped. ‘I have no intention of admitting anything to you, Tom. And if this is your way of justifying what you did—’

  ‘It’s not.’ Tom interrupted him quickly, leaning forward in his chair, his expression rueful now, appealing. ‘Look, would it make you feel any better if I told you that—that what happened was a mistake? It should never have gone as far as it did.’ He chewed on his lower lip. ‘I was a fool, a selfish, arrogant fool. You can’t regret it any more than I do.’

  Oliver’s chair slammed back against the wall behind him as he got to his feet. ‘I think you’d better go,’ he said, the muscles in his jaw jerking furiously. Then he gave a short, mirthless laugh and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You really are priceless, do you know that? You actually thought that coming here and telling me you’d made a mistake—made a mistake, of all things—would be some consolation to me!’

  Tom’s chin jutted. ‘I thought it might be,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We all make mistakes, don’t we?’

  Oliver shook his head again. ‘Just go, Tom. Before we both say something we’ll regret.’

  Tom hunched his shoulders then, but he didn’t move, and Oliver glanced down wearily at the narrow watch on his wrist. It was half past three, he saw, half incredulously. Had it only been fifteen minutes since Tom appeared?

  He blew out an impatient breath, regarding his brother’s hunched figure with some ambivalence. What now? he wondered. Was the other man going to make him throw him out? He could, if he wanted to, he knew that. Although Tom was broad and bulky, Oliver was fitter and had at least four inches over him in height.

  Yet he baulked at the prospect. The idea of propelling his brother through Mrs Clements’ office and along the corridor that was flanked by other offices on either side was not something he relished. It had been hard enough suffering his colleagues’ sympathy when Sophie left him and his subsequent dependence on alcohol that had ended with his sojourn at Blackstone Abbey. He had no wish to revive those memories, or give anyone the impression that he still cared enough to want to do his brother some harm. He didn’t, he realised incredulously. All he felt was contempt that Tom should imagine he was fool enough to believe his lies.

  ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment shortly,’ he said, realising that getting angry wasn’t going to do him any good. For some reason, Tom was determined to stick it out until he’d said what he wanted to say. And Oliver had the uneasy suspicion that the worst was yet to come.

  ‘I know,’ said Tom now. ‘I heard what old Clements said.’

  ‘Then you’ll realise that you can’t stay here,’ declared Oliver crisply. ‘I suggest you go before you make a complete ass of yourself.’

  Tom looked up at him with accusing eyes. ‘You don’t care about me at all, do you? You don’t care what happens to me?’

  ‘What happens to you ?’ Oliver stared at him. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to somehow put things right between us?’

  Tom gave a shrug. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  Tom scowled. ‘You’re so smug. Why did I never realise it before? You don’t care about anybody, do you, Oliver? God, no wonder Sophie was desperate for affection. She never got it from a cold bastard like you!’

  Oliver was around the desk, with his hand fisted in a handful of the other man’s shirt, hauling him up out of the chair before he could stop himself. ‘You—misbegotten sonofabitch,’ he growled, his fist drawing back to deliver the punch his brother so rightfully deserved. But when, instead of trying to defend himself, Tom merely closed his eyes and prepared to take his punishment, Oliver found he couldn’t do it. With a stifled oath, he flung him back again and strode across to the windows, strugglin
g to regain his composure.

  There was silence in the room for several minutes after that. Oliver took the time to regulate his breathing, raking his fingers across his scalp, rumpling the thick mass of dark hair that brushed his collar at the back. He straightened the jacket of his light grey suit, checked that his tie fell smoothly against the pearl buttons of his white shirt. And did his best to remember that he was the victim here, not the apparently humbled man who still sat, unspeaking, in his chair.

  Finally, he was forced to turn round again. It was almost twenty minutes to four and he had to get Tom out of there before Sidney Adler arrived. Adler was a local politician who had been instrumental in Faulkner’s being given the contract to design the new shopping complex. He was also a close friend of Oliver’s partner, Andrew Faulkner, and unlikely to be impressed by Oliver bringing his personal problems into the office.

  Expelling another heavy sigh, he walked back to his desk and stood for a few moments looking down on Tom’s bent head. Then he said wearily, ‘What do you want, Tom? I can’t give you absolution. And I doubt if Sophie will appreciate hearing that you’ve been here, talking to me.’

  ‘She won’t care,’ said Tom, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and making a great play of blowing his nose. ‘I’ve probably beaten her to it, actually. She wanted out of our relationship just as much as me.’

  Oliver’s jaw almost dropped. ‘What?’ he exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘Did you come here to tell me you and Sophie have split up?’

  ‘What else?’ muttered Tom, with an indifferent gesture. ‘At present, she’s staying with her mother. Like I said before, it was all a terrible mistake.’

  It was almost six o’clock when Oliver left the office.