The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      ‘Maxim!’ he exclaimed, his pale-blue eyes lighting up with the most obvious pleasure. He put the bottle of Cristal down with a clatter, hurried across the faded but highly valuable Aubusson carpet, grasped Maxim’s hand, put an arm around him, half embraced his oldest and dearest friend.

      Maxim returned the gesture.

      ‘It’s good to see you,’ Trenton said.

      ‘And you, Alan. It’s been too long this time. My fault.’

      ‘No problem. I understand.’ Alan’s face filled with sudden glee, and he beamed. ‘I know I’ve said it on the phone, but I feel I must say it to you in person … congratulations, Maxim, on your great honour.’

      ‘Thanks, Stubby,’ Maxim said, reverting to his old nickname for Trenton from their schooldays. He grinned hugely, punched Alan lightly on the arm. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

      ‘I would, Duke, that’s who,’ Alan shot back, following Maxim’s lead, using the name he had bestowed on the other man some forty-seven years before. ‘And thanks for coming at such short notice, I know how pressed you are.’

      ‘And why am I here?’ Maxim’s gaze turned quizzical. A dark brow lifted.

      Trenton did not at first respond. He stepped over to the console, lifted the bottle. ‘A drop of bubbly, old chap.’

      ‘Thanks, but not really,’ Maxim said, then instantly changed his mind, realising the champagne was in his honour. He added quickly, ‘Of course, why not? But do make it a drop. A quarter of a tankard, please, not a full one like yours, Stubby.’

      Maxim watched Trenton dispensing the champagne, waiting for him to open up, but when nothing was said about the reason for his presence, he casually strolled into the middle of the room and glanced around.

      Alan had recently finished redecorating his office and Maxim liked the new ambience. A sense of elegance and warmth had been created with pine-panelled walls, fine English antiques and bucolic landscapes of the English countryside hanging in elaborate carved and gilded frames. All bespoke Trenton’s life-long predilection for ancient objects and artifacts, which had developed into a very serious and consuming hobby. He had become a well-known collector, an avid bidder at mighty auctions. All that oil money to spend, Maxim commented to himself. North Sea oil money. Big Texas oil money. He had encouraged Alan to pursue his own ideas, to expand the family business after he had taken over from his father, had backed him to the hilt in every way, giving him moral and financial support. The combination had worked, and Alan’s great prosperity over the past fifteen years pleased him greatly.

      A moment later Trenton joined Maxim, handed him the champagne. They clinked tankards. Alan said, ‘Here’s to your title. Wear it in good health, old chap.’

      Maxim couldn’t help laughing. ‘Thanks. And here’s to you, Stubby. Your good health.’ Maxim savoured the icy Cristal, liking its dryness. He took another sip, then said, ‘So, Alan, what is this all about?’

      Trenton eyed him speculatively. ‘How would you like to be a white knight?’

      Maxim stared. A dark brow lifted again. This was the last thing he had expected.

      There was a small silence.

      ‘To come to the rescue of Lister Newspapers, I presume,’ Maxim said at last.

      Trenton was taken aback. ‘Someone else has already approached you!’ he exclaimed, managing to make his words sound like both statement and question.

      Maxim shook his head emphatically, the expression in his dark eyes denying. ‘Not at all. But that’s the only company in London facing a hostile takeover bid, at least that I’m aware of. Anyway, how come you’re involved?’

      ‘Actually, I’m not,’ Trenton was quick to say. ‘I’m sort of –’ he paused, half laughed, groped for a word, came up with ‘– a go-between. It’s John Vale, my merchant banker, who is the one involved. The merchant bank acts for Lister Newspapers and John is very close to the chairman, Harry Lister, and is seeking to help him. He’s aware we’re old friends and asked me to arrange this meeting.’

      ‘But it’s hardly my bailiwick, I’m not interested in –’ Maxim abruptly broke off, looked towards the door as it flew open.

      ‘Ah there you are, John,’ Trenton said, hurrying to greet the newcomer, his genial hand outstretched. ‘Come in! Come in!’

      ‘Hello, Alan,’ John Vale said, shaking Trenton’s hand. He was in his late thirties, of average height, wiry, very English in appearance, with a fair skin, streaky blond hair and light grey eyes behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. He allowed Trenton to propel him across the room to its centre, where Maxim stood.

      ‘Maxim, I’d like to introduce John Vale of Morgan Lane,’ Trenton said. ‘And, of course, this is Sir Maximilian West, John.’

      ‘Glad to meet you.’ Maxim thrust out his hand.

      ‘It’s my very great pleasure, Sir Maximilian,’ John Vale responded, almost wincing at Maxim’s vice-like grip, staring at him, yet trying to conceal, as best he could, his avid curiosity. Maximilian West was one of the world’s most brilliant tycoons, a buccaneer like Sir James Goldsmith and Lord Hanson, both shrewd operators in the takeover game. West more than outmatched them, at least in John Vale’s considered opinion.

      Leaving the two men standing together, Alan went over to the console, exclaiming, ‘Champagne coming up immediately, John.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Vale replied. He turned to Maxim and smoothly began to make small talk, all the while studying him surreptitiously. West had the effluvium of power; it seemed to emanate from him. Vale had not expected such a good-looking man, though. There was something rather spectacular about that wide engaging smile, the very white teeth, the dark eyes filled with vivid intelligence. And that tan! It was the golden tan of a playboy garnered in some exotic winter playground, not that of a workaholic conglomerateur who spent the majority of his time cooped up in boardrooms and circling the globe in his private jet. The clothes were equally unexpected, hardly the usual drab garb of a typical businessman. More like movie star clothes, Vale thought, eyeing the grey, pure-silk shirt, the pearl-grey silk tie, the superbly-cut black gabardine suit that hung on West with such precision that it had undoubtedly been engineered by the world’s greatest tailor for a large quantity of money. John Vale recognised at once that there was an intense glamour about Maxim West which had just as much to do with his personal magnetism as his dashing appearance.

      Trenton’s voice, booming out suddenly, interrupted Vale’s thoughts and the discussion he was having with Maxim West about the filthy English weather and other trivialities.

      ‘Here you go, John, a drop of the old bubbly for you,’ Alan cried. ‘And now we can get down to business. At least the two of you can. Although I’ve brought you and Sir Maximilian together, I intend to sit back and be the observer. The silent observer.’

      Maxim chuckled. ‘The day you do that I guarantee it’ll snow gold bricks. You haven’t drawn breath since you uttered your first word,’ he said, but there was no hint of criticism in his voice, only warmth and great affection.

      Alan threw back his head and roared. ‘I suppose there’s some truth in what you say. And you should know – after the years СКАЧАТЬ