The Smouldering Flame

The Smouldering Flame
Anne Mather

Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Passion that burns as fiercely as ever…Joanna never expected to see Shannon Carne again. But when family reasons lead her to seek him out in Africa – she is overwhelmed by the force of her emotions. And it is clear he still feels the same as her… But her renewed passion for Shannon couldn’t have come at a worst time – she is engaged to be married to another man. Dare she give up everything, and trust her heart to Shannon once more?

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.

The Smouldering Flame

Anne Mather

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

Table of Contents

Cover (#u86f4e610-f3d6-5538-9b2f-d82b5c390350)

About the Author (#u4e86aae0-a988-5ac8-8347-69e039cefb24)

Title Page (#u68974a17-bc69-5383-8ccb-7f8a87f124c3)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u81e7cfe7-6cb9-56e2-8782-5478caf910da)

JUST standing still on the concrete platform, Joanna could feel rivulets of sweat running freely down her spine. The thin denim shirt and pants, worn to protect her from the blistering heat of the sun, clung revealingly to her slender figure, and she was not unaware of the many speculative stares from dark eyes cast in her direction. She had been in hot places before, but none so hot as this, and the insanity of trying to find a man she had not seen since she was fourteen years old was rapidly beginning to mean more to her than actually succeeding in her quest. Her father could have had no idea of the conditions here in Lushasa, or he would never have permitted her to come, she told herself. Or would he? Lately, his powers of reasoning had suffered quite a setback.

It had not seemed so insane in the peace and seclusion of the Lakeland fells where she had her home. The idea of a trip to Africa had sounded exciting, a chance of adventure which had unexpectedly come her way, possibly her last chance to do something on her own before settling down to marriage with Philip.

And finding Shannon had not seemed such an impossible pursuit. They had his address—or so they had thought, and the journey to Johannesburg had proved every bit as exciting as she had imagined. But someone else was living in Shannon’s apartment in the high-rise block, and her visit to the government mining company there had proved fruitless. She had merely learned that five years before he had moved on to work for the Lushasan Mining Authority, and they had no forwarding address.

She had gone back to her hotel’ and cabled this news home, half hoping that Philip, who had not been happy about her making the trip in the first place, would be able to persuade her father that she had done all she could. But she ought to have known that Maxwell Carne would not give up so easily. The answering cable had given instructions for her to travel to Menawi, the capital of Lushasa, and contact the mining authorities there.

Menawi, she had found to her surprise, was a fast-developing community, with well laid out shops and offices, modern hotels set in tropical gardens, and air-conditioning. Joanna’s spirits had risen even more when, after checking into an hotel, she had telephoned the Lushasan Mining Authority and discovered that Shannon Carne was indeed employed by them. That he was working some two hundred miles distant at a place called Kwyana had not daunted her either, even though an elderly British couple staying at the hotel had warned her that conditions outside the capital were not half so civilised. She had been informed that there was an adequate train service running between Kwyana and the capital, built she assumed to accommodate the output from the mines, and she had looked forward to seeing something of the countryside.

It was not until she had emerged from the heat-laden atmosphere of the grimy carriage, hauled by a smoke-belching monster of an engine, and found herself on this desolate platform of concrete that she began to doubt the justification of her actions. Two hundred miles in distance meant a hundred years back in time so far as she could see. There was little evidence of the twentieth century here, with scrubland stretching towards purple shadowed mountains on one side of her, and close-set trees and creepers, noisy with the raucous cries of birds she could not begin to identify, encroaching almost to the iron tracks of the railroad on the other. The arrival of the train, and judging by the barriers this was as far as it went, was obviously quite an event. Dozens of Africans dressed in various garb thronged the platform, hauling out crates of supplies and loading other crates aboard. Joanna was amazed that anyone knew which crates had to go where. The confusion was so immense, the noise so deafening, and always the heat to burn through to her prickling skin.

Beyond the peeling station buildings, a collection of shacks could be seen, and Joanna realised that she could not stand here indefinitely. She wondered uneasily how long the train would remain at the station, and whether, if by some terrible coincidence she missed Shannon, she could get back to Menawi that night. She had brought only an overnight case with her, leaving most of her belongings at the hotel.

Near the station barrier, the lorry which was supplying the crates being loaded on to the train bore the lettering: LUSHASAN GOLD MINING AUTHORITY, and her drooping spirits lifted a little. Picking up her case, she endeavoured to thrust her way between the Africans who were causing such an uproar, brushing against gleaming black bodies, aromatic with sweat, striped tent-like garments, denims and ordinary European gear.

The man in charge of the off-loading was not African, but neither was he wholly European. Joanna guessed he was a mixture of both, with handsome olive-skinned features and curly dark hair. His dark eyes widened to an incredible degree when he saw a white girl pushing her way towards him, and he spat commands at the Africans still blocking her path so that she could reach him without further effort. In a mud-coloured bush shirt and shorts, his sleeves circled with sweat, he nevertheless represented sanity in a world gone mad.

‘Mademoiselle!’ he exclaimed, giving her a perfunctory bow. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez? Ce n’est pas——’

‘Oh, please,’ Joanna broke in, ‘do you speak any English?’ Her French, remembered from schooldays, was not very good, and she prayed that this man had some knowledge of her own language.

‘Yes, mademoiselle, I speak English.’ The man gestured to the gaping Africans to get on with the unloading. ‘But what is an English young lady doing here?’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘You cannot be travelling alone?’

His accent was attractive, but Joanna was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘I am travelling alone, yes——’ she was beginning, only to be interrupted by a flow of invective from his lips as one of the Africans dropped a crate right behind them. After a moment, her companion turned back to her and apologised, indicating that she should go on.