Sandstorm

Sandstorm
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.

Sandstorm

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u7476c2e9-5fec-5df1-9f7d-205bf6fa78e6)

About the Author (#ude8d5644-0246-5dd8-8ced-49b7c6dad725)

Title Page (#uc865de41-9057-5b3b-9c46-e75e424ef275)

CHAPTER ONE (#ud4d28bc9-f465-5a34-832e-19f2813eb875)

CHAPTER TWO (#ueeb64cb1-c855-5361-9f8b-1bfcba1a31bb)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf47e317c-7dc1-5891-8d00-38a97fe668f6)

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)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a7486674-3579-5e80-b517-e0b0a88dfad1)

ABBY stood behind the kitchen door, with her hands pressed hard against her burning cheeks. She hoped no one had observed her hasty departure from the party, or if they had, that they assumed she was helping Liz with the washing up. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, and at least in the kitchen she could not be seen.

Dry-mouthed, she moved away from the door, glad that the caterers who had been here earlier had departed some time ago. It would have been awkward, explaining her withdrawal from the proceedings to them, and she supposed she ought to be grateful there was no one to witness her consternation. But how could she have anticipated that Rachid would turn up here, at Liz’s party, when she had not even known he was in London?

Taking long gulping intakes of air, she endeavoured to calm herself. It was ridiculous behaving like this, she told herself impatiently. She was a grown woman, not a child. She should be capable of handling any situation, including meeting the husband she had not seen for almost eighteen months. She was Brad’s secretary, wasn’t she? The cool collected recipient of his confidences, and no longer the wide-eyed innocent she had been when she first met Rachid. At just such a party as this, she thought bitterly—only in Paris, not at her friend’s apartment in London.

Liz!

With a puzzled frown she considered the possibility that Liz had known Rachid might appear. Liz knew everyone, and her job at the news agency ensured that she knew most of what they were doing as well. It was inconceivable that she should not have learned that the son of an eminent Middle Eastern prince was in town, so why hadn’t she told Abby? The answer was obvious. Because if Abby had suspected her husband might be here, she herself would not have come.

Nibbling at her lower lip, Abby braced herself against the sink. She supposed it had been bound to happen sooner or later, that she should meet Rachid again, if not socially then at least commercially. Since she had taken up the post of Brad’s secretary once more, her work brought her into contact with the oil barons of the world, and after all, it was through Brad that she had met Rachid in the first place.

But Liz! She and Liz had been friends since schooldays. She had known how she felt. Had known that she had no desire to meet her husband again—not yet. It was too soon. And she half wished she had not succumbed to her father’s pleas to her to return to England. Without his entreating letters, she would still be working at the trade mission in New York, and she felt a surge of frustration that she should have allowed herself to be persuaded to take up her old life.

And yet, she argued logically, couldn’t this have happened just as easily in New York? Rachid was not bound by the conventions and limitations which had restricted his ancestors. He was a man of the twentieth century. He flew all over the world on business for his father. He looked like a European, and he dressed like a European, and only in his own country did he shed the trappings of the Western world.

Nevertheless, Abby knew that the chances of her encountering Rachid in New York had to be less likely. Her work there had not afforded her the same opportunities she had as Brad’s secretary, and besides, so far as she knew, Rachid did not know where she was. All correspondence between them had been through her father’s house in London, and he had distinct orders not to give her address to anyone without first consulting her.

The door behind her opened and she swung round apprehensively, half afraid that Rachid had seen where she had gone and followed her. But it was Liz Forster who came into the room, viewing her friend with wry knowing eyes. She was a tall girl, about Abby’s height of five feet seven inches, with narrow bones and slightly angular features. She did not have Abby’s smoothness or roundness, for although Abby was slim—too slim, her father thought—she retained a lissom grace, that was evident in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.

Now Liz closed the door behind her, and leaning back against it, folded her arms. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, as Abby’s lips parted in involuntary protest. ‘You’ve seen him!’ She shook her head. ‘Is that why you’re skulking out here?’

‘I am not skulking,’ declared Abby, straightening up from the sink, and rubbing her chilled palms together. ‘I am merely trying to decide why you should do such a thing.’

Liz sighed, pushing herself away from the door. ‘You’re angry,’ she said flatly.