Who Rides A Tiger. 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.

      Who Rides A Tiger

       Anne Mather

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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       Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE international airport at Galeao was like all international airports; cool, efficient, but impersonal. Sitting in the airport bar drinking her second glass of Coca-cola, Dominique thought that she might have been anywhere in the world were it not for the predominantly Portuguese accent, and the dark skins of the men around her, who all seemed to find the silvery glint of her hair and the Scandinavian blue of her eyes rather arresting.

      Sighing, she glanced again at her watch, wondering how much longer she was going to have to wait. The message which had been handed to her on her arrival had been less than explicit. It had merely stated that John had been unavoidably delayed, and would she wait at the airport if he was not there to meet her as arranged.

      She lit a cigarette, conceded a slight smile to the youth who had been eyeing her avidly for the last half hour, and drew on it deeply. It was difficult not to feel impatient even though she knew that Bela Vista was some distance inland. After all, John had known for over a week the date and time of her arrival, so surely he could have arranged to stay overnight in Rio, rather than leave her waiting at the airport for an indefinite period.

      Since arriving she had taken advantage of every facility the airport offered. She had visited the ladies’ room and showered and changed into a cool cotton shift, much more suitable to the heat outside the air-conditioned walls of the airport buildings than the mohair suit she had been wearing when she left London thirty-six hours ago. She had done her hair, taking time to loop it into the rather sophisticated style John preferred, and she had applied a light make-up to the smooth, creamy skin of her face, accentuating the curve of her cheeks and the curling length of her lashes. But now, as time wore on, she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered. She had explored the airport shops for genuine examples of Brazilian wood-carvings, had a meal, a modest European meal, in the airport restaurant, and had finally taken refuge in the airport bar, hoping her stay would be short-lived.

      Earlier in the day when the giant Boeing had circled Galeao prior to landing excitement had held her in its thrall. There were so many exciting landmarks to see and exclaim

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