Carole Mortimer - Mediterranean Seduction

‘No—just someone who can keep up with you,’ Charlotte warned him, feeling happiness flood through her.

‘So much has happened in so short a time,’ Iannis said tenderly, brushing some strands of hair from her face. ‘You have turned my world around in a week, Charlotte Clare.’

‘And you mine, Iannis Kiriakos.’

‘It seems that even a man who appears to have everything in the eyes of the world has nothing until he knows the value of love,’ Iannis observed wryly, and, drawing Charlotte back into the safe harbour of his arms, he kissed her.

‘ MAMA, Mama! ’

Charlotte looked up fondly as the small dark-haired boy erupted out of the kitchen at the taverna, with Mikos hot on his heels.

‘ Papa! ’ the child cried, plucking at Iannis’s hand, where it had been resting on the swell of Charlotte’s stomach. ‘Listen to me, Papa,’ Manos Kiriakos insisted, putting his face very close to his father’s as Iannis swung him onto his lap. ‘I have something very important to tell you.’

‘Hasn’t Mikos fed you enough yet?’ Iannis murmured, dropping a kiss on his young son’s head and winking at Mikos, who had just arrived breathless and flustered at their table.

‘This is really important, Papa,’ Manos said seriously. ‘Mikos wants to take me fishing tomorrow. He says I can be a fisherman one day, like him. What do you say, Papa?’ he demanded excitedly. ‘Can I go?’

‘All true Greeks are fishermen at heart,’ Iannis agreed, planting a kiss on his son’s glossy black curls. ‘What does your mother say?’

Charlotte’s gaze met with her husband’s dark enquiring stare across the table, and she smiled deep into his eyes before she answered. ‘Yes, you can go, Manos,’ she said, reaching out to clasp the hands of her husband and her firstborn. ‘I have always had the greatest respect for the fishermen of Iskos. In my eyes they are, without doubt, the very best of men.’

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

IT HAD rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six o’clock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.

Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bed—or rather in Sanchia’s bed, as she had expected—instead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.

His long fingers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not altogether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.

Only to find that letter waiting for him…

He scowled. He didn’t want to think about that now. He’d spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadn’t been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enrique’s return the day before.

His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals of the morning glory that climbed the pillars beneath his balcony. Raindrops sparkled, creating a rainbow of colour on the pearly-white blossoms, drawing his eyes lower to where a veritable waterfall of jasmine and bougainvillaea spilled their beauty in the courtyard below.

Enrique had always believed his home was the most beautiful place on earth, but this morning it was difficult to empty his mind of intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts. Even the sunlight glinting on the spire of the church in the valley below the palacio brought him no pleasure today, and he turned back into his apartments with a barely controlled feeling of frustration.

The letter was lying on the floor beside his bed, thrown there after he had read it for the umpteenth time at three o’clock that morning, but he ignored it. Even though the temptation was to pick it up and read it once again, he put the impulse aside and, stripping off the silk boxers which were all he wore to sleep in, he strode into the adjoining bathroom.

He ran the shower hot at first, using its pummelling spray to warm his chilled flesh. Then, after thoroughly cleansing his hair and body, he turned the thermostat to cold. The shock of the ice-cold water sharpened his senses, and, feeling more ready to face the day, he turned off the taps and stepped out.

A pile of towels were stacked on a rack beside the shower cubicle and Enrique wrapped one about his hips before taking another to dry his straight black hair. His jaw was rough, evidence of the night’s growth of beard, and, slotting a towel about his neck, he studied his reflection in the mirror above the handbasin with a critical eye.

He looked as rough as his jawline, he thought grimly, scraping a hand over his chin. His olive skin had a sallow cast and his deep-set dark eyes were hollowed by the dark circles that surrounded them. Narrow cheekbones flared above thin lips that were presently set in a forbidding line, and although women seemed to find his appearance appealing he could see no attraction in his hostile face.