Hell Or High Water

Hell Or High Water
Anne Mather

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 (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Hell or High Water

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u2391c9ee-63a6-5ff9-952c-455b991feb1e)

About the Author (#ulink_9464a2c4-b2fa-5855-a746-03215b471a9d)

Title Page (#u632f04bf-0866-5b5c-b95f-51a2afc8f8d5)

CHAPTER ONE (#u69f42e5e-dfc2-57c1-b427-198ee67b0af6)

CHAPTER TWO (#u20582239-858a-5120-aa50-99a71554373a)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u4f8b2cf0-5c3b-536a-a884-209c646fb974)

THE apartment was silent except for the clatter of the typewriter, when the doorbell rang. It was a frustrating intrusion into the mood of the narrative, and the man seated at the machine stopped typing abruptly to rest his balled fists on the desk. Then, stilling the impulse to tear up the ruined page of the manuscript, he rose to go and answer it, a second peal grating in his ears as he crossed the floor. He was not in the mood for casual callers, and friends of long acquaintance knew better than to interrupt him at a time like this, but his suspicions as to who it might be were realised when he opened the door.

‘Jarret! The reluctantly-ageing blonde who crossed the threshold without waiting for his invitation caressed his cheek with an elegantly-gloved hand. ‘Mmmm, you haven’t shaved this morning, darling. But I love you anyway, rough or smooth!’

The sensuous tones of the woman’s voice had little effect on their recipient. With the grimness of impatience tightening his lean features, he leaned against the door frame, making no move to close it, and his feminine visitor allowed a slightly nervous trill of laughter to escape from her lips.

‘Darling, don’t stand there looking at me as if I wasn’t welcome …’

‘You’re not!’ he retorted.

‘… particularly when I came here with some rather exciting news for you.’

There was a controlled expellation of breath, and then he said flatly: ‘I’m not ready for this, Margot. As you can see, I’m working …’ he waved a careless hand towards the desk, ‘and I’d like you to go as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, we are a sourpuss today, aren’t we?’ she teased, showing no immediate inclination to obey him. Instead, she descended the two steps that separated the body of the apartment from the entrance on perilously high heels, and did a deliberate pirouette beside his desk. ‘What’s thematter?’ she asked, puckering her lips, gloved fingers flicking the pages beside the typewriter without interest. ‘Did we have a heavy night last night, or did we just get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’

‘Get out of here, Margot!’

The demand was made almost mildly, a narrow-eyed mask guarding his expression, and she chose not to respond to it.

‘Don’t be so grumpy, Jarret,’ she pouted. ‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink? The traffic in Knights-bridge was terrible, and I’m simply dying for something long and cool and satisfying. Just like you, darling.’

‘I warn you, Margot …’

The quietly threatening tone at last got through to her, and with a gesture of offence she tilted her chin. With the lines of her throat ironed out by the attitude, it was one of her best poses, and she knew it, but Jarret felt the tightness of repulsion in his stomach as he surveyed the deliberate come-on.

‘Can’t you at least have the courtesy to close the door for a moment?’ she demanded at last, when her ploy produced no reaction. Her mouth compressed. ‘You really are the most selfish bastard, Jarret. I don’t know why I care about you.’

‘Don’t you?’ Jarret’s expression was resigned, but after a slight hesitation he closed the door and came down the shallow stairs to where she was standing. ‘So?’ he said, brows arching enquiringly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Lady Margot Urquart’s lips twitched frustratedly. She did not like the forbearing tone of his voice, or trust the superficiality of his words. In spite of their different social backgrounds, he was still able to make her feel like a gauche ingénue, and despite the fact that she was more than ten years his senior, the cool blue-eyed stare reduced her to an open-mouthed sycophant.

‘You’re a brute, Jarret!’ she protested, running a deliberate hand into the unbuttoned neckline of her silk shirt. ‘Here I am, making a special journey just to do you a good turn, and you treat me like a—like a leper! I know you’re working, I know you want to get on with your book.But that’s why I’m here—to help you.’