Anne Mather - The Night Of The Bulls

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.comand I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

About the Author 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!

Title Page The Night of the Bulls Anne Mather www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

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IN early April the mistral blows down the valley of the Rhone, gathering its chilling blast from the ice-clad slopes of Haute Provence, to howl its stormy way across the untrammelled marches of the Camargue with a shrieking vengeance. Then, neither man nor beast attempts to challenge its dominance, and only the brave heads of irises and daffodils, growing wild among the reeds, dare to suggest that spring is coming to the estuary.

But when the spiteful wind departs, with a suddenness which is in itself unnerving, the warmth of the sun is more than enough to banish the remembrance of ice-covered wastes where seabirds have striven desperately to find food, following in the tracks of the wild white horses whose hooves break up the packed ice. The whole delta comes to life, colourful as it is never colourful in high summer when the heat of the sun parches the marshes to cracked stretches of mud-flats, and there is life and activity everywhere. Placid lagoons and blue marshes teem with wildlife, the cheeky reed-warbler, clinging to the tall grasses, the brightly coloured plumage of the bee-eater, darting down to catch some insect skimming the surface of the water, and the almost exotic grace of the flamingo, walking the lagoons with regal elegance.

This was the time of year Dionne knew so well. This was the time when she had come to Provence, to this especial corner of France which had come to mean so much in her young life. And now she was coming back, and there was the same twisted tugging of her emotions troubling her as there had been when she had left here so precipitately three years ago. But how could there not be … in the circumstances?

The Caravelle tilted suddenly and she sank back in her seat, gripping the arms tightly, feeling nausea welling up inside her. She had to remind herself that she was still aboard the aircraft coming in to land at Marignane, and despite her vivid recollections of the Camargue, she knew there was no welcome waiting for her there.

A young man seated across the aisle from her leaned towards her anxiously. She had been aware of his speculative stare from time to time during the flight, but she had discouraged any attempt he might have made to be sociable. She wanted no involvement with any man.

But now he sensed her rising panic, the near hysteria that enveloped her when she seriously considered what she was doing.

Touching her arm lightly, he said: ‘ Pardon , mademoiselle , but are you ill?’

His accent was unmistakably French, and she wondered how he had known that she was English. Unless he had heard her talking to the stewardess, perhaps.

Struggling up in her seat, inside the securing strap of her safety belt, she managed a faint smile: ‘Thank you, monsieur , but I’m all right. The – the landing always unnerves me.’

‘Ah!’ The young man nodded understandingly, and she was struck by the clearcut lines of his profile. He really was a most attractive young man, and Clarry would say that she was a fool for repulsing every young man who showed an interest in her. But Clarry was not here, she was alone, and she had more than enough to cope with at the moment. So discouraging any further conversation she transferred her gaze to the window, seeing the tarmac of the runway seemingly rushing up to meet them. She closed her eyes, and there was a slight jolt. The plane’s undercarriage took the weight; they had landed.

Dionne unfastened her belt, ran a questing hand over the smooth chignon in the nape of her neck, and rose to her feet, gathering her belongings. From the brilliance of the sun on the tarmac, she did not think she would need her coat and she slung this over her arm, grasping the strap of her travelling bag.

‘May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?’

It was the young man again. Most of the other passengers were disembarking, wishing the stewardess goodbye, disappearing down the flight of steps to the formality of the airport buildings, but the young man had obviously waited for her.

Dionne smiled a dismissal, shaking her head, and without a backward glance walked swiftly down the aisle to the exit. The air outside was incredibly warm and sweet-smelling, and not even the roar of a jet overhead could wholly dispel the poignance of the moment for her.

Then, shaking sentimentality aside, she ran down the steps and walked towards the Customs building.

It was soon over. The officials smiled at her warmly with the inconsequence of Frenchmen faced with an attractive female, and she emerged feeling flushed and a little more confident to face what was ahead. She looked about her, unable to dispel a faint surge of excitement. The air smelt so deliciously of the perfumes of the flowers mingled with the tang of the sea, while the heat of the sun was warm upon her back. She wondered where she would find the car which she had hired in advance and which was to be awaiting her here at the airport. There were plenty of cars about as well as the buses waiting to take passengers into Marseilles.

The young man from the plane emerged and walked casually across to join her. Dionne bit her lip rather impatiently. She hoped he was not going to prove a nuisance. When he spoke to her again she turned to him with an expression of exasperation marring her smooth forehead above eyes which were an amazing shade of sea green.

‘ Yes, monsieur? ’

‘You are being met, mademoiselle ?’ he queried, and Dionne hesitated only a moment before nodding. After all, it was only a distortion of the truth. ‘Then you do not require a lift, mademoiselle ?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Dionne moved a few paces away, continuing to scan the cars parked by the kerb in an effort to find the one belonging to Inter-France Travel. There seemed a constant stream of cars coming and going, the glare of the sun glinting dazzlingly on paint and chromework.

Fumbling in her bag, Dionne drew out dark glasses and slid them on to her nose. They were huge squares of polaroid glass and successfully hid her expression. She hoped the young man would take the hint and disappear about his own business, but presently he was beside her again, saying: ‘I think you dropped this, mademoiselle .’