Strange Intimacy. Anne Mather
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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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Strange Intimacy
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ISOBEL wasn’t precisely sure when she decided she had made a mistake.
She had had doubts in the beginning, of course. But she had managed to dismiss them as cold feet. It was quite a step, moving from the familiar surroundings of the flat in Earl’s Court to the Highlands of Scotland. Even if she was going at the invitation of a friend. Even if there was a job waiting for her, and a comfortable house, into the bargain.
Cory thought she was mad. And perhaps, without her daughter’s constant carping, Isobel might have thought so, too. But, contrary to popular opinion, Cory’s attitude had only served to convince her she was doing the right thing. Anything that would remove her thirteen-year-old daughter from the unhealthy influences of the crowd she was running around with at school couldn’t be all bad.
Nevertheless, Isobel had faced the prospect of the move with some trepidation. In fact, since Edward passed away, she had faced most problems that way. For so long, he had insisted on making any decisions for her, and uprooting herself and Cory from the only home her daughter had ever known was quite an undertaking.
But then, no one had expected Edward to die. At forty-five, he had many years ahead of him, she had assumed. He hadn’t been a drinker; he hadn’t smoked; he had been a pillar of the community. And his mother had pronounced—without hesitation, when Isobel had first broached the possibility of their moving to Scotland—that it was a pity she, Isobel, hadn’t been driving, when the jack-knifing wagon had smashed through the barrier on the M25, killing Edward, but leaving Isobel with only minor cuts and bruises. After all, Edward had still had so much to do with his life, whereas she hadn’t even tried to share his faith.
Which was true, Isobel had admitted—though silently, to herself. And it was something she had berated herself for many times since Edward had died. Her unwillingness to accept the Jewish faith had been the source of so many arguments between them. But, although she supported any and every charitable cause they espoused, and she had many Jewish friends, her own feelings were too ambivalent to make such a momentous decision.
Besides, she had never believed that religion, of any persuasion, was more important than human compassion. Her childhood had been spent travelling with her father, from one impoverished part of the world to the other, and he had always maintained that faith in oneself was more important than faith in some mythical god. Isobel didn’t know if she believed him either, but she was sufficiently persuaded to give both beliefs a chance.
Edward, however, had had different views, although at the time of their marriage he had assured her he would never force her to do anything. But fourteen years, and numerous arguments, later, Isobel had been obliged to accept that his promises had been ambivalent, too.
And it was the main reason why she and his mother had never got on. Or was that carrying understanding a little too far? Mrs Jacobson had never wanted her son to marry anyone. She had been quite happy caring for him, and making his life comfortable. An orphaned teenager, without a penny to her name, who had been trying to come to terms with her father’s death at the time, had never figured in her scheme of things.
Looking back, as she had done many times in the months since Edward died, Isobel had had to admit that maybe Mrs Jacobson had had a point. Perhaps he had been too old for her. Perhaps she had been looking for a replacement for her father. Whatever, the years they had spent together had been mostly happy. At least as happy as most of their friends within their cloistered community.
Edward’s sudden demise had been a blow to all of them—even Cory, who had spent the last two years of her father’s life doing everything she could to frustrate him. Ever since she’d left the private school, which Mrs Jacobson had