A Trial Marriage. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
id="u6bf31d0e-d144-5da1-9b7c-ae85df41caf4">
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
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
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