Passionate Possession

Passionate Possession
PENNY JORDAN

He Had Misjudged HerLucy Howard didn't like arrogant men, and Niall Cameron certainly came into that category for her! He didn't even know her, but he quite happily jumped to all the wrong conclusions. She was rich, spoiled, uncaring and just the sort of woman he disliked most.Not that Lucy cared what he thought of her. She wasn't interested in stealing someone who was already committed to a long-term relationship with another woman. But Niall didn't seem to have any such scruples….

Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.

About the Author

PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Passionate Possession

Penny Jordan

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

CHAPTER ONE

‘OF COURSE I haven’t met him yet, but, from what Don has been telling me about him, he’s going to prove a marvellous asset to us locally. I mean, all that money, for one thing. It’s a pity he’s involved with someone, though. Not that they’re married, but they are living together, at least they will be once she comes back from New York. Apparently she’s over there on some kind of secondment. I’m arranging a small dinner party…just eight or ten of us, to introduce him into the local community, and of course we’ll want you to be there. Lucy, are you listening to me?’

Lucy forced herself to smile.

‘Yes, of course I am, Verity. You were telling me about Don’s new client.’

‘Yes, I was, but I don’t think you were listening properly,’ Verity complained. ‘I suppose you’re still worrying about that stupid old man. Honestly, Lucy, why don’t you simply sell the place and—?’

‘I can’t sell it because he’s a sitting tenant,’ Lucy interrupted her patiently, ‘and I haven’t got the money to do the repairs that are needed.’

‘He must know that. I’ll bet that’s why he’s complaining.’

‘He’s complaining,’ Lucy corrected her gently, ‘because he has every right to do so. The house is in a bad state of repair, but I can’t use it as security to borrow money against to have it seen to and I don’t have any other way of raising any money. Unless I sell my flat.’

‘But you can’t do that,’ Verity protested. ‘Where on earth would you live?’

Lucy shook her head. Verity was kind-hearted enough, but she was also a rather self-centred and slightly spoiled woman who had never had to confront any major kind of financial problem in her whole life.

Lucy knew she did not really understand her own position, and if it had not been for the fact that Don, her husband, was Lucy’s boss, coupled with the other fact that in her grandparents’ time Lucy’s family had been rather well-to-do and very well known in the neighbourhood, Lucy doubted that she would have been accepted socially by Verity.

Now both Lucy’s grandparents and her parents were dead, and all that was left of the assets her family had once owned locally was the small, very run-down cottage property which Lucy had recently inherited from a several-times-removed cousin.

Lucy had been appalled when she had first heard the news from her cousin’s solicitor. She knew the cottage, of course, but she had assumed that her cousin had sold it long ago to its long-time tenant. The news that she had not done so, and that she, Lucy, was now its owner and responsible for its appalling state of repair, had stunned her.

She had tentatively suggested that old Mr Barnes might wish to consider buying the cottage, but the letter she had received direct from him had made it plain that he had no intentions of doing any such thing…of wasting his money on repairing the cottage when it was her responsibility to do so.

Lucy had taken what advice she could, and as far as she could see there was no way out of the situation. She was undisputedly the owner of the cottage.

If she had been the type to give way to tears she would have given way to them then. She had struggled so hard to repair her life since the dreadful accident in which her parents had lost their lives. She had been seventeen then, with her whole future ahead of her. Her parents weren’t wealthy, but with careful management they had decided that it would be possible for them to send Lucy to university.

With their death that had become impossible. Her father had been a lovable and loving man, but a rather impractical one. He had not been properly insured; the house had had a large mortgage, and Lucy had quickly come to realise that her tiny inheritance was nowhere near enough to support her through university.

At first she had been too shocked, too filled with grief to think of the future…of her future, but, kind though everyone was, there had eventually come a time when Lucy had realised that she could not go on living with the family friends who had taken her in; that the pitifully small amount in what was now her sole bank account was not going to last forever and that it was time for her to make plans for her future.

She had taken a secretarial course, one that concentrated on the basic secretarial skills and computer familiarisation. It had been an expensive intensive course, but very worthwhile, giving her a thorough grounding in those basics. To them she added the languages she had learned at school and then polished at night school, so that she was proficient in both German and French.

Initially she had planned to look for work in London, but, excellent though the salaries had seemed, she had soon realised that with the very high cost of living she would barely be able to manage, and so instead she had taken a junior typist’s job locally, and, taking her solicitor’s advice, she had used her small inheritance to buy a tiny one-bedroom flat in a conversion development being built on the outskirts of the town in what had once been a large Victorian house.

That, she now acknowledged, had been one of the best pieces of advice anyone could have given her.

There was certainly no way now she could ever have afforded to buy even such a modest property of her own at present-day costs. Don paid her well, she lived comfortably, ran a small compact car, took her annual holidays abroad, entertained her friends, and even occasionally splurged on good clothes, but there was no way she could find the many thousands of pounds required to repair Cousin Emily’s run-down cottage.

Her only savings were the small insurance pension she had started on her twenty-first birthday, and the few hundred pounds she had in her building-society account.

Lucy did not consider herself poor nor hard done by; after all, she had a good and very pleasant job, working for a man she liked and who made it plain that he valued her professional skills. She had good friends, enough money to get by on, and she had her health. She also had her pride, something she had discovered in those awful months after her parents’ death, when she had abruptly come to hear herself being described as ‘that poor child’, and had realised sensitively that people felt sorry for her; that in some way they blamed her parents for not making better provision for her. There had even been whispered conversations about how dreadful it was that a family which had been so prominent locally and been so wealthy should have fallen so far, almost as though her poor parents had been responsible for the disappearance of that wealth, which Lucy knew was not the case at all.

She had longed to defend her parents, to tell their friends that neither her father nor her mother had considered money to be of prime importance, but at seventeen they were still treating her like a child.

She had resolved then to find a way of standing on her own two feet, and now her independence, as well as being something she privately cherished, was so much a part of her that occasionally the braver of her friends would tease her a little about it.

Perhaps she was a little over-independent, overdetermined to prove she could manage, but her friends had never been in her situation, had never discovered almost overnight that they were no longer a loved and protected only child with caring parents, but completely alone in the world with only themselves to rely on.

If anyone had asked her Lucy would have answered quickly, and she believed honestly, that at twenty-six she was completely over the trauma of losing her parents, and of the consequent discovery of her vulnerability emotionally and financially, but the shock of discovering all the problems attached to her unexpected and unwanted inheritance had shaken that belief. She felt vulnerable and afraid again, so much so that she had broken one of her unwritten rules and had confided her dilemma to Don.

As an accountant, he had warned her of the problems she was likely to face in view of the property’s run-down state and its sitting tenant; as a friend, he had consoled her as best he could, and unfortunately, as a husband, he had discussed the situation with Verity.

Not that Lucy had expected him not to. Verity, after all, was a good friend, but she was a terrible gossip, and Lucy suspected that there could be very few people who did not know about her problems with the cottage now, thanks to Verity.

The trouble with Verity was that she did not have enough to occupy her time or her mind. Their two sons were away at public school, and Verity spent most of her time either shopping or gossiping. She also had a tendency to embroider the facts, and Lucy tensed now as she heard Verity exclaiming sympathetically and indignantly, ‘It’s all Eric Barnes’s fault…trying to make all this trouble for you…he’s been living in that cottage for years. He should have complained to your cousin.’

‘He did,’ Lucy told her patiently. ‘But Emily was virtually senile. I doubt she even read his letters, never mind understood them. I used to go and visit her, you know. The people in the home were very kind, but she barely recognised them, let alone me.’

‘But there must be something you can do,’ Verity consoled.

‘Yes. There is. Sell my flat,’ Lucy repeated grimly. She got up, putting her fragile china teacup down.

Don was away on business, and she had called round with some papers she had been translating for him. Don had several clients who were investing in properties in France, and it fell to Lucy to translate the correspondence received from France concerning these properties.

‘Oh, you don’t have to go yet, do you?’ Verity complained. ‘I haven’t finished telling you about Niall Cameron. You’d never guess he was Scotch.’