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Anne Mather - Born Out of Love

Anne Mather - Born Out of Love

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Published by: anon_71243099 on Mar 19, 2011
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BORN OUT OF LOVECharlotte had married Matthew Derby eleven years ago, to give her baby a father —after Logan Kennedyhad deserted her. Now Matthew was dead, and Charlotte had met Logan again and realised that the pastwas by no means dead. And that Logan attracted her as much as ever...
Books you will enjoy by ANNE MATHER
THE MEDICI LOVER When Suzanne went to Italy for a short holiday with her friend Pietro, she hadn't foreseen that she wouldfall in love with his forbidding cousin Mazzaro di Falcone. And Mazzaro was an aristocrat, married, with achild—and divorce was out of the question. Was there any solution to Suzanne's problem?ALIEN WIFEWhen Abby trapped Luke Jordan into marrying her, her motive was revenge—on Luke's girlfriend, Abby'sglamorous aunt Ella, who had wrecked her parents' marriage. But Abby wasn't yet twenty, while Luke wasa thirty-eight-year-old man of the world. Hadn't she got herself into rather too deep water?WILD ENCHANTRESS
When young Catherine Fulton arrived in Barbados to spend the nest few months under the guardianship of Jared Royal, she was no more enthusiastic about the arrangement than he was—and she went out of her way to give him as bad an impression of her as she could. But she couldn't really disguise the fact that heattracted her now just as much as he had all those years ago . . .THE SMOULDERING FLAMEJoanna loved Shannon Carne and he loved her— but there was mure than one overwhelming reason whythey should not get married. Should Joanna steel herself to accept the situation—or was it worth trying tomake Shannon change his mind?
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyonebearing the same name or names. They are not gven distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all theincidents are pure invention.First published 1977 This edition 1977 
© Anne Mather 1977
For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.
ISBN 0263 72409 3
Made and Printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay {The Chaucer Press), Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk 
regarded the bus which was to convey them from the littletownship of San Cristobal to Avocado Cay with dismay. She had notknown such buses existed outside of museums. Jutting bonnet, thick-spoked wheels, wood-framed seats; was the fact that it was painted ina kaleidoscope of colours intended to distract attention from its lessfavourable attributes?'Hey, Mum, what a fantastic machine!'Robert evidently had no such misgivings, and Charlotte turned to hereleven-year-old son with faint resignation. 'Fantastic is right,' sheagreed dryly. 'I wonder if the brakes work.''Come on, Mum, of course they will.' Robert was optimistic. 'These oldbangers were built to last.''And last and last...' declared his mother, smiling her thanks to thedark-skinned West Indian who had hefted their cases out of the launchand into the luggage compartment of the vehicle which was totransport them the last few miles to their destination, before followingRobert's lanky figure up the steps. Tall for his age, and with anappetite which would not have disgraced a weight-lifter, Robert stillremained as thin as a lath, she reflected ruefully.There were few other passengers, fortunately, and at least they werenot to be crushed by the press of humanity, Charlotte approved withsome relief, subsiding into the seat beside her son. It was just as well.The contours of the bus did not allow for expansion, and although allthe windows were open, the air inside was still and humid.Through the windows, they could see the quay, and the launch whichhad brought them from Tortola rocking at its mooring. The stones of the quay were bleached white by the son, which was presentlybeginning its downward sweep towards the shadowy rise of thedensely wooded hinterland, and the water beyond was clear turquoiseshading to deepest blue. Whatever else San Cristobal lacked, therewas no shortage of colour, Charlotte had, reluctantly, to admit. White-painted buildings, overhung with flowering creepers were dazzlingwithout the protection of dark glasses, and she searched her bag forthe polaroid lenses she had bought in St Thomas. A station wagon wascoming fast down the narrow road towards the harbour, throwing up acloud of dust in its passing, drawing attention to the precipitous climbahead of them, and she hoped Robert was right in his casual assertionthat these vehicles were built to last.Then, realising how tense she was becoming, she forced herself torelax. There was no point in letting the situation play on her nerves. Itwas too late for that. She was here now; she was committed; andproviding Madame Faberge found her work acceptable, here theywould stay.All the same, it was impossible to rid herself of the bitterness she hadfelt these past few weeks since Matthew's death. Without it, she might

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