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Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
The Judas Trap
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS certainly remote—Diane had been right about that. Remote and unfamiliar, and undeniably beautiful. In spite of the narrow roads and the high hedges, which gave her a claustrophobic feeling at times, the glimpses of the ocean she saw below the headland were as wild and as blue as she could have imagined. When she opened the car window the air smelt unmistakably of salt, but it was still chilly, and she was glad to close it again.
Sara had never been to Cornwall before; in fact, she had never been further west than Bristol. She had spent her holidays in Spain and Italy, the certainty of good weather inspiring more enthusiasm than the tourist resorts of her own country. Besides, she had never cared for those regular pictures of bumper-to-bumper traffic streaming into the West Country on every Bank and public holiday. Instead, she had gone abroad to some equally busy spot, the difference being that she could complete her journey in one easy stage—and avoid over-excitement.
This was different. This was escape. And she was fast learning there was still a part of England where the demands of the automobile did not hold sway. The villages she had passed did not cater to the tourist’s needs, nor did they seek to detain the passing motorist. On the contrary, she had felt a sense of intrusion, of being a trespasser into a world where she was the interloper, a strangely alien world that was as remote from London as it was possible to be.
It was strange to think that Diane Tregower had been born here, not in this particular spot, but in Falmouth, which was not so many miles away. Who would have dreamed that the daughter of a fisherman could aspire to such heights, could leave the quiet harbour town where she had grown to womanhood, and become one of the most sought-after actresses on the London stage? It was unusual, and unexpected, but life was sometimes like that. Her husband must have cursed the day he invited the famous producer Lance Wilmer, filming in the area, to dinner at Ravens Mill, and set in motion the events which were to end so disastrously.
Sara shivered. Poor Adam! He must have gone through hell knowing what Diane and Lance had become to one another, and then losing his sight like that … It was terrible, and humiliating somehow, recalling his eventual reconciliation to their affair, and his subsequent plea to Diane to continue to regard Ravens Mill as her home.
Not that she had ever taken him up on it. In the seven years since their separation she had seen him only once, and that was when he was in hospital, recovering from the accident which robbed him of his sight. She might not have seen him then, but Lance had insisted on it, Diane had told Sara, relating what a story it had made for the press.
‘It was quite a poignant little scene,’ she had said, with a slight curl to her lips, and Sara had marvelled that anyone who could portray such convincing emotion in public should in reality feel so little. Diane had no real sympathy, no compassion for the man she had married when she was sixteen and left without a qualm five years later, and it was doubtful whether her involvement with Lance Wilmer was anything more than a means to an end. Diane was ambitious, she had always been ambitious, and an innate aptitude for mimicry with a natural ability to act had given her the confidence she needed. The fact that she was also a very beautiful woman in no way detracted from the undoubted talent she possessed, and with Wilmer’s backing she had been an immediate success.
Sara’s slim fingers felt clammy against the steering wheel as a signpost warned her that the miles between herself and Ravens Mill had narrowed to single figures. Calm down, she thought. It’s only a house. A nice house with, according to Diane, a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean. A lonely house, a quiet house, a retreat, where she could go and soothe her own shattered emotions, sure in the knowledge that no one who knew her would guess where she had gone.
It had been Diane’s idea, of course. The house was standing empty, she said, virtually unused, Adam having abandoned his lonely vigil years ago to live in a warmer climate. He had inherited a villa in Portugal, she had explained vaguely, not specifying why or from whom, and since the Tregowers, like everyone else, were feeling the pinch, it was cheaper and easier to live out of the