by 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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
A Trial Marriage
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
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 kno
wn 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.
He rose from his chair again and went back to the window, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the close-fitting dark pants that moulded his lean hips, and a tawny-brown sweater. Strands of silky-smooth dark hair overlapped his collar at the back, liberally streaked with grey. These past few months had laid their mark upon him, and he knew that no one would mistake his age at present as they had done in the past. There were lines etched beside his mouth and nose which had not been there before, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. Yet for all that, he was a man who would always attract women, and the hooded depths of dark eyes still proved an irresistible lure.
Along the parade, several shoppers struggled towards the bus ranks, and the light from shop windows spread out across the harbour. There were cars streaming towards the outskirts of the town and Paignton beyond, the curve of the headland a mass of winking lights. His own car languished in the hotel garage, only to be used on very rare occasions. Driving, like everything else he enjoyed, had become a strain.
The grounds fronting the hotel were not extensive. A low stone wall divided them from the promenade beyond, and within the circle the wall provided a few stout palms spread their leaves among less exotic specimens of greenery. Floodlights had been installed among the shrubs so that in summer the Tor Court could hold its own with the other hotels that flaunted themselves after dark in a welter of coloured lights. But during the winter they went unused—except at Christmas.
Looking down, Jake had a first-rate view of the entrance, and as he desultorily scanned the road, he observed two of the other guests returning to the hotel. They were two women—one about his own age, or possibly a little older, the other much younger.
He knew their names. Carl had told him who was staying in the hotel when he first arrived. They were a Mrs Faulkner-Stewart and her companion, Miss Lesley. Jake had seen them a couple of times already, in the hall of the hotel, and once in the restaurant, although mostly Jake took his meals in his own suite. However, now and then, he felt the need for companionship, and on those occasions he made his way to the restaurant, and suffered the agonies of feeling himself observed by a dozen pairs of curious eyes. That those occasions had so far been rare bore out Maxwell’s theory that any kind of mental stress would automatically retard his ultimate recovery.
Watching the two women now, although one of them could scarcely be termed as such, entering the gates brought a latent stirring of curiosity. The girl, she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, he guessed, seemed young to be the companion of a woman of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart’s age, and he wondered at her apparent acceptance of the life she was leading. There were no young people of her age staying in the hotel, and the little he had seen of Mrs Faulkner-Stewart had not given him the impression that she was the most patient of women. But the girl seemed happy enough, and had even smiled at him in a friendly fashion in the lobby of the hotel when she passed him on her way out to exercise her employer’s poodle. Tall, and not too slim, with long chestnut-coloured hair which was inclined to curl at the tips, she could have no shortage of boy-friends, he mused, yet she seemed perfectly content to pander to the whims of a woman more than old enough to be her mother.
He realised his tea was getting cold and turned back to the trolley with wry impatience at his thoughts. What on earth did it matter to him if some young female found running around after a middle-aged harridan better than doing a worthwhile job of work? It was nothing to do with him. Besides, judging by the amount of jewellery Mrs Faulkner-Stewart wore, and the expensiveness of her furs, she could obviously afford the best of everything, and probably the girl took her for every penny she could make. The only inconsistent factor was why she had chosen to winter at the Tor Court instead of in Cannes or Madeira, or any one of a dozen other fashionable locations.
By the time he had finished his tea it was dark outside, and on impulse, he decided to go for a walk. At least that was one pastime which had not been denied to him, but he obediently put on his thick, fur-lined duffel coat before leaving the room. The cold was something else he had to guard against, although he refused to put on the marathon-length woollen muffler his mother had crocheted for him.
The lift took him down to the lobby where Carl was standing, talking to his receptionist. The manager lifted his hand in greeting, but Jake had no desire to get involved in conversation with him and with a brief acknowledgement, strode towards the revolving doors. His hand had reached out to propel them forward when he became aware of the girl who had been occupying his thoughts earlier approaching over the soft grey carpet, pulled along by the enthusiastic efforts of her employer’s black poodle.
He paused, and the second’s hesitation was enough to create a situation where it would have been rude of him to barge ahead without acknowledging her presence. He guessed she would use the baggage door to let the dog out, and with a feeling of compulsion, propelled it open and waited for her to pass through.
Anticipating his intention, she had quickened her step, and her shoulder brushed the toggles of his coat as she said a breathy: ‘Thanks!’ passing him to emerge into the cool, slightly frosty air. In a waist-length leather jerkin and dusty pink flared pants she seemed hopelessly under-dressed for the weather, but Jake inwardly chided himself for his concern. She was young—and health
y; an enviable condition!
He had expected she would go ahead, and was half disconcerted to find her waiting for him outside, firmly reproving the animal for misbehaving. She looked up and smiled when he came slowly down the steps to join her, and an illogical feeling of unease swept over him.
‘It’s a cold evening, isn’t it?’ she commented, shortening the dog’s lead, and falling into step beside him, and Jake was obliged to answer her.
‘Very cold,’ he agreed, a little stiffly, and she glanced sideways at him, obviously speculating about him, as he had about her earlier.
‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’ she asked, and he felt a momentary impatience with her curiosity.
‘Not much longer,’ he replied shortly, and halted, going behind her to cross the road. ‘I’m going this way,’ he added. ‘Good evening.’
The girl stopped beside him, however, and looked obligingly up and down the road. ‘I’m crossing, too,’ she told him, and he wondered if she knew how much he wanted to get away from her. He was angry with himself for getting into such a position, but angrier still with her for trying to pick him up like this. Had no one ever troubled to explain the facts of life to her? Didn’t she realise the potential dangers inherent in attaching oneself to men about whom she knew absolutely nothing? She was young, but she was not a child, he thought, irritably aware of the firm breasts outlined against the thin jerkin. Unless she was more knowledgeable than he knew. His lips tightened. This was one alternative, but somehow he didn’t care to draw those conclusions. Besides, girls these days had different sets of values.
The wide pavement edging the foreshore gave him plenty of scope to put a comfortable distance between them, but after releasing the dog she seemed quite content to stride along beside him, matching her steps to his, albeit with some effort.
‘You’re Mr Allan, aren’t you?’ she asked after a moment, and the alien designation fell strangely on his ears. Allan was his middle name—James Allan Courtenay—and it had seemed a good idea to use that and avoid possible recognition. But it still gave him a moment’s pause. He wondered how she knew his name, and decided he would have a few harsh words to say to Carl Yates the next time he saw him.
