Masquerade. 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.
Masquerade
Anne Mather
Table of Contents
THE letter from England came only one month after the sudden death of her father. Samantha was still living in the shocked daze which had taken a hold on her when she had heard that her father’s car had crashed on the autostrada while she was driving from Milan to Bologna. A sudden puncture of a front tyre had caused the old saloon to skid dangerously, crossing the dividing lanes and colliding with a touring autobus coming from the opposite direction. The passengers on the bus had been shocked but unhurt. John Kingsley was dead.
Samantha was desolate; she had lived here so long in the small Italian fishing village of Perruzio with her father, sharing the villa and sharing his life. They had been so close. Too close, for now he was dead she felt she had no one. Even old Matilde, who had been housekeeper at the villa for as long as she could remember, could not make up for the emptiness she felt inside. She thought she would never feel secure or happy again.
John, she had always called him that, had been to Milan to open his first exhibition of sculptures. For years his talent had gone unrecognized, and then a visiting art enthusiast had been impressed and had arranged for John to have this exhibition in Milan. He had been there two weeks, writing home to tell Samantha of the sucess he was having; the commissions he was hoping to fill. He was driving home when the accident occurred, and Samantha reflected bitterly that it was ironic that he should be cut off from life just when all he had ever worked for was being realized.
The funeral had taken place in Perruzio, with all the villagers turning out to the little church where the Catholic father had said the Requiem Mass. They were all so friendly, so sympathetic, and yet Samantha could hardly bear their kindness. She only wanted to be alone, to grieve in private.
Her father’s affairs were in a sorry state. The villa was rented and although the exhibition was the beginning of his success, as yet there was little to show for all his years of work. He had had a small military pension, but that had died with him, and after the funeral was paid for there was very little left for Samantha. For the time being she was content to stay on at the villa, but she knew it could not last. Soon she would have to do something. Get a job, or alternatively accept the offer she had already been made. Her thoughts shied away from this inevitable conclusion. For, after all, what job was she equipped to perform? She knew some typing and could look after a small house, she could cook a little, but she did not think these attributes amounted to much in a modern world where every girl seemed to provide herself more than adequately to fit any position.
And now, this letter had arrived from England, the country she had never really acknowledged as her birthplace. She had lived in Italy since she was four years old and spoke Italian like a native. This was the only country she really knew although her father had always insisted that they spoke English when they were alone together.
John had told her that her mother had died when she was a baby and that she had no other relatives. He had left his life in England and come to Italy after her mother’s death to enable him to have the time and inspiration for his work. They had never had much money, but what they had had sufficed and life was cheap in the fishing village. Fish was plentiful and easy to obtain and Matilde made all their bread. They grew vegetables in the small garden on the cliff top and Samantha had always been content.
She turned the letter over in her fingers before opening it. It was an expensive envelope, that much she knew and she was doubly intrigued to learn its contents. It could only be from some friend of her father’s in England who had heard only recently of his death.
The letter which emerged from the envelope was written on headed letter paper, with the address: “Daven House,