A Trial Marriage

A Trial Marriage
Anne Mather

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.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

A Trial Marriage

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u685c2760-ae2f-59b4-9430-5a4dfa2f1757)

About the Author (#u27190b3e-8b2d-51fd-b1e0-86af906e912c)

Title Page (#u223f81f5-fb91-591b-926f-2baae6b52e19)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2c6b0d84-4bee-512e-9b6c-4bf1e108b22c)

JAKE COURTENAY stood at the long windows of his first floor suite in the Tor Court Hotel, staring out broodingly over the harbour. In the height of summer, the quay was a hive of activity, with fishing smacks and pleasure boats and sailing craft all vying for space in the crowded inner harbour. But in November most of the sailing boats were shrouded with tarpaulin, and although a few hardy yachtsmen braved the autumn gales, most of their owners had packed up and gone away for the winter.

Jake’s mouth turned down at the corners. Who could blame them? Torquay in November was no seething Mecca of entertainment, and certainly had the choice been left to him, he would not have chosen this hotel. Of course, he could have stayed at the Boscombe Court in Bournemouth, or the Helford Court in Falmouth, or even the Fistral Court in Newquay, but they were all pretty much the same at this time of the year. His own choice veered more towards the Parkway Court in New York, or the Boulevard Court in Paris, and if he had to have sea air, then the Court Mediterranée in Cannes or the Court Italia in Juan les Pins was more to his taste.

But the choice had not been his. The specialist’s advice had been more than eloquent. Indeed, his words had been more in the nature of a dictate than an opinion. Complete rest for at least six months—no work, no travel, no business meetings, no hectic social gatherings, no alcohol—no stress.

Maxwell Francis was a friend, of course, as well as a very successful consultant to the rich and famous. He was used to high-powered business men, who lived on their nerves, and fed their ulcers with champagne and caviare. He was used to treating heart complaints and nervous disorders, brought on by the pressure of living always one step ahead of the rest.

The bite of it all was, Jake had never expected to need him. He had always felt a certain amount of contempt for people who cracked up under the strain. And he had always enjoyed his life. The tensions he had suffered had been quickly dispersed by the next obstacle in his path, and he had deliberately ignored the warning signals his overtaxed body was giving him. The string of Court Hotels was growing every year, and their reputation for good food and good service was the envy of his rivals in the field. His father’s dream had been realised, and the national reputation Charles Courtenay had handed on had been expanded by his son into an international one.

But owning hotels in all the major countries of the world required an immense amount of travelling, of entertaining, of sleeping on planes when he could no longer hold back the exhaustion that gripped him. He began to lose weight, he was drinking too much and eating too little, and inevitably the strain took its toll.

Even then he had fought against it. Sitting in business meetings, listening to his executives outlining their plans for the following year, he had suffered agonies over a loss of concentration, an inability to keep his mind on what was being discussed. Where once his head had been seething with ideas, every now and then a curious blankness invaded his brain, so that all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, and the table in front of him ducked and curved like a rolling ship at sea.

Maxwell had been perfectly understanding, but right from the beginning he had been adamant. If Jake didn’t slow up the pace of his living, he would kill himself. Strong words, particularly to a man who for all the forty-one years of his life had prided himself on his fitness. And naturally Jake hadn’t believed him; not then. Time enough to take a break when the Pearman deal was through, when the string of Pearman hotels had been added to the Court organisation.

It hadn’t worked out like that. For the first time in his life, Jake found himself unable to control the workings of his own brain. It was rather a case of the flesh being willing and the spirit being weak. That small, rather ugly mass of tissue inside his skull gave up the race and Jake found himself the victim of the disease he had so long despised.

He wondered when the pace of living had first begun to tell. When his marriage to Denise broke up, perhaps? And yet, even in those days, he had been working too hard. One of the reasons Denise had given for the irretrievable breakdown of their relationship had been his obsession for work, although she had been more than willing to enjoy the fruits of his labours. But she liked the high life, and when his work took him away from the jet-flight capitals she preferred, she had had few scruples about finding some other man to share her charms—and her bed.

Jake had been philosophical about her indiscretions. His own life was not so blameless at that time, and if Denise required that kind of stimulation, she could hardly object if he required the same. Until some obscure Italian prince came along and offered her his title as well as his fortune. The idea of being Princess Denise had appealed to her, and she had been able to overlook the fact that her Italian was at least forty years older than she was, and hardly able to stand the pace she set.

But that was Denise’s problem. For Jake’s part, he scarcely noticed her passing. Their association had drifted so far from any conventional marriage that he had mentally breathed a sigh of relief to be free again. It was a blessing they had had no children. But again, Denise had not wanted them, and although Jake had known his parents had been disappointed that he had not produced a son to follow in his footsteps, he himself knew how much a child of their marriage might have suffered. Nevertheless, after that, he had shared no lasting relationship with any woman. His work had filled his days—and his nights, as well.

And now he was here. A guest in one of his own hotels, identified to nobody except the hotel manager, Carl Yates, who was a personal acquaintance. This had been Maxwell’s idea, too, and he had to admit the consultant knew what he was doing. No one would look for Jake Courtenay here, and after that spell in the nursing home he had needed time to humanise himself again. The sense of panic which had epitomised the start of his illness had practically disappeared, but he knew, deep inside him, that the idea of returning to London and the hectic life he had led was still a terrifying prospect.

He drew his hands out of the pockets of the brown corded pants he was wearing and looked at them. The narrow bones showed through the brown skin, but they no longer trembled as they had before. With a sigh of impatience, he thrust them back into his pockets again, and moved away from the window.

It was late afternoon, and already lights were appearing across the harbour. It would be dark soon, and another long evening stretched ahead of him. His eyes flickered over the large square cabinet containing a colour television.

Television, he thought contemptuously. He was sick of television. In the past months he had watched everything from Coronation Street to The Book Programme, from Crossroads to Match of the Day. Everything except the news. That had been Maxwell’s stipulation. Avoid current affairs programmes and the news …

Jake’s face twisted bitterly. My God, he was like a child again, protected from anything which might upset or disturb him. To think he had come to this! Jake Courtenay—mental reject!

A knock at the door provided a momentary respite, but at his command only a waiter entered the room propelling a tea trolley. His afternoon refreshment! Jake pulled a note out of his pocket and handed it to the man with his thanks, although the idea of sitting here alone, drinking tea, was anathema to him. He had been here too long already and he was bored. Bored! A good sign perhaps, and yet anything more strenuous might have him weak and shaking in next to no time. It was galling!

The door closed behind the waiter and with a feeling of futility, Jake seated himself beside the trolley and uninterestedly helped himself to a cucumber sandwich. His appetite was still persistently absent, and food was no more than a rather annoying necessity to living. Living! An ironic humour curled his thin lips. Was this living? Or just existing? And what was at the end of it? Would he ever retrieve that enthusiasm for his work which had motivated his life? Without it, he was only half a man.