Kitabı oku: «The Women in His Life»

BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
The Women in His Life

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1990

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1990

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint lines from the following songs:

‘There’ll Always Be an England’ (Parker/Charles) Copyright © 1939, Dash Music Co. Ltd, 8–9 Frith Street, London, W1V 5TZ Used by permission. All rights reserved.

‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ (Kent/Burton) Copyright © 1941, Shapiro Bernstein & Co. Inc., USA Reproduced by permission of B. Feldman & Co. Ltd, London WC2H 0EA.

‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ (Fain/Kahal) Copyright © 1938, Marlo Music Corp., USA Reproduced by permission of Francis Day and Hunter Ltd, London WC2H 0EA.

Extract from Rich: The Life of Richard Burton by Melvyn Bragg is reprinted by kind permission of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN 9780586070352

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2013 ISBN 9780007401550

Version 2017-11-14

Dedication

This book is for Bob, who means all the world to me, and without whom it could not have been written.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Part Five

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Part Six

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Part Seven

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Keep Reading

Bibliography

Glossary

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Part One
Maximilian, London – New York 1989

A man who stormed and captured so many citadels which in his boyhood and youth must have seemed as fantastical and unobtainable as Ali Baba’s cave. A man of many lives.

Rich: The Life of Richard Burton

by Melvyn Bragg

Chapter One

He came out of the imposing house on the corner of Chesterfield Hill and Charles Street and stood for a moment poised on the front step. It had rained earlier and the dampness lingered and the air was raw on this chilly Thursday evening in January.

Normally oblivious of the weather, he found himself shivering and turned up the collar of his black trenchcoat. The weather underscored his morose mood, his sense of desolation. For a long time there had been a deep sadness inside him; tonight, for some reason, it seemed more acute than usual.

Pushing his hands in his pockets, he forced himself to stride out, heading in the direction of Berkeley Square. He walked at a rapid pace along Charles Street, his step determined, his back straight, his head held erect. He was dark-haired with dark-brown eyes, tall, lean, trimly built. There was an athletic hardness about his body, which was echoed in his lean and angular face, its raw-boned sharpness softened by a deep tan. He was an exceptionally handsome man, in his early fifties: his name was Maximilian West.

He cursed mildly under his breath, wondering at the heaviness he felt and suddenly regretting that he had agreed to this meeting set for such a late hour. He had done so impulsively – he who was rarely impulsive – out of deference to his old schoolfriend, Alan Trenton. Alan had made his presence sound so vitally important. But eight-forty-five was late even for him, renowned as he was for being ready to do business at any time of day or night, any day of the week, especially since he had another appointment that evening. What saved the situation for him was the fact that Alan’s office was only a stone’s throw away from the late-night dining club where he had a table booked for nine-thirty.

He circled Berkeley Square, dodging the traffic as he made for the far side, wondering why Alan needed to see him, what this was all about. When Alan had telephoned the house earlier his voice had vibrated with urgency, yet he had been curiously reticent. Intrigued, Maxim had agreed to stop by, but now he was acutely aware of the time, reminding himself that Alan was talkative, could be a bit long-winded on occasion. He would have to keep his eye on the clock, move the meeting along quickly if he was to stay on schedule.

Oh what the hell, he thought, as he reached the corner of Bruton Street. Alan’s been special to me most of my life. I owe him … we go back so far, he knows so much – and he’s my best friend.

Crossing the street, his eyes focused on the Jack Barclay showroom on the opposite corner, and when he reached the plate-glass windows he paused to admire the sleek Rolls-Royces and Bentleys gleaming under the brilliant spotlights. He was always promising himself one of these super-deluxe models, but he never seemed to get around to buying it. On the other hand, he did not have much need for a car for his personal use anymore. Corporate jets that sped around the world were more his style these days, and when he was on the ground there were always company limousines at his disposal.

He walked on past the Henley car showroom and Lloyds bank, and pushed through the doors of Berkeley Square House, the best commercial address in town and a powerhouse of a building. Here, floor upon floor, were housed the great international corporations and the multi-nationals, companies that had more financial clout than the governments of the world. Maxim thought of it as a mighty treasury of trade, for it did hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of business a year. And yet the buff-coloured edifice had no visible face, had long since blended into the landscape of this lovely, leafy square in the very heart of Mayfair, and most Londoners who walked past it daily were hardly aware of its existence. But it was the British base for an amazing number of mega corporations and the spot where the big bucks stopped.

Maxim crossed the richly-carpeted, white-marble hall, and nodded to the security guard who touched his cap in recognition. He stepped into the elevator and rode up to Alan Trenton’s offices on the sixth floor. Trenton’s secretary of many years responded to his knock and opened the door. She smiled warmly when she saw him standing there. ‘Good evening, Mr West. Oh dear, I’m so sorry, do excuse me. I mean, Sir Maximilian.’

He swiftly brushed aside her apologies, flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, Evelyn,’ he said, stepping inside briskly, shrugging out of his trenchcoat.

She took it from him, ushered him towards Trenton’s inner sanctum. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Maxim nodded, went in.

Alan Trenton was standing next to a carved mahogany console of Chippendale design, pouring Roederer Cristal Brut into a silver tankard. He was Maxim’s age, yet appeared older. His figure was stout, he was of medium height, fair of colouring, and slightly balding above a ruddy face.

‘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 we’ve been together.’ He ambled across the floor, brought the tankard of champagne to Vale. ‘Good health,’ he said.

The three men drank, and Trenton gestured to a group of chairs around a Georgian occasional table. ‘Shall we sit?’

Once they were settled, Trenton again glanced at John Vale, and continued, ‘I told Maxim why I asked him to come over this evening. I think you should elucidate further.’

Vale nodded, gave his attention to Maxim. ‘Firstly, I’d like to know whether you would be interested in being the white knight for Lister Newspapers?’

Maxim frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. Just as you were arriving, I had started to say to Alan that I didn’t think a newspaper empire was my bailiwick exactly.’

‘But why not, Maxim?’ Alan demanded peremptorily, forgetting his vow of silence of a moment ago. ‘Surely it’s a perfect acquisition for you at this stage of your career. Think of the added power and influence you would have if you controlled Lister. A national daily, a national Sunday newspaper, and a galaxy of prestigious magazines.’

Maxim threw Alan a swift look but did not respond. Instead he addressed John Vale. ‘What makes you think I’d be acceptable to the stockholders?’

‘Harry Lister is certain of it; so are the other members of the Lister board. I agree with them, as do the directors of Morgan Lane.’ Vale perched precariously on the edge of his seat, leaned forward, fixed his bespectacled, earnest gaze on Maxim. ‘You have the name, a formidable reputation, and an extraordinary track record. You’re not an asset stripper, far from it. The companies you have taken over have flourished under your good management. These things are tremendous points in your favour. Quite frankly, you’re impressive, very impressive indeed, and that’s why we’re absolutely positive you’d be acceptable to the stockholders. Incidentally, so are Birch, Rider, stockbrokers for Lister Newspapers. They’re as enthusiastic about you as we are, in point of fact.’

‘Those are very kind words. Thank you,’ Maxim murmured, and paused, steepled his fingers, brought them up to his mouth. He was thoughtful, then continued, ‘Arthur Bradley’s International Publishing Group has tendered an offer of five hundred million pounds for Lister Newspapers. As a white knight I would have to top that offer by at least two hundred million pounds.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Vale shot back. ‘It could be less.’

‘Two hundred million pounds, one hundred million pounds, what’s the difference … it’s still a big ticket,’ Maxim remarked coolly.

‘True,’ John Vale agreed, nodding his head. ‘But look at it this way, you stand to make a lot of money.’

‘I don’t always consider how much I might make,’ Maxim replied in a quiet voice. ‘Rather, I ask myself how much can I lose?’

‘Oh I’m certain you wouldn’t lose,’ John asserted, sounding confident. ‘I would like to give you some relevant information regarding Lister Newspapers, a few facts and figures.’

‘Go ahead.’ Maxim settled back in the chair, ready to listen.

At this juncture, Alan Trenton rose.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll attend to a bit of my own business,’ he murmured and went to the far side of the office where he sat down behind his desk. He studied the faxes and telexes from New York, which had come in earlier, wrote succinct replies to be dispatched in the morning, perused other urgent papers, making notations on them.

Once he had finished, he looked at Maxim and John Vale. He saw they were still deep in conversation, decided to leave them to their own devices for a short while longer. There was nothing pertinent he could say, little he could contribute to their discussion. It was best he remain out of it altogether.

Swivelling the desk chair, Alan sat gazing out of the window which overlooked Berkeley Square. His thoughts drifted aimlessly for a few seconds, and then inevitably they settled on Maximilian West, as they generally did when Maxim was in close proximity. It was difficult not to focus on him, so powerful was his charisma and his presence.

It delighted Alan to see him in such great form, such good spirits. If one judged him by his appearance, Maxim looked as if he led a life of ease and pleasure in one of his many beautiful houses or on his floating palace of a yacht. Nothing was farther from the truth. He worked around the clock, was never off a plane, kept up the most killing pace – and yet somehow managed to remain remarkably unscathed. In fact, Alan often thought that Maxim thrived on it all. In the past nine years Maxim had been under excessive pressure and not so readily available socially, travelling the world at large as he did. Also, London was more of a stopping off point for him these days, even though he had his head office here and the house in Mayfair. Greener fields, in the shape of Manhattan, beckoned most beguilingly.

And Alan sorely missed Maxim.

He wished he saw more of him. They spoke frequently on the telephone, grabbed a quick bite or a drink together occasionally, but this was not quite the same as lunching and dining in a leisurely fashion, the way they had in the past. They had been inseparable as boys, equally close in their teens, and their friendship had continued into full manhood.

Best friends ’til the day we die, they had sworn at boarding school, and curiously enough this boyhood vow was holding true. And that’s all that matters in the long run, Alan thought. To know in our hearts that we’re always there for each other, that we can rely on each other no matter what the circumstances.

Spinning the chair again, Alan peered the length of his office, fixed his eyes on Maxim, observed him carefully for a few seconds. His old friend appeared to be quizzing John Vale, asking some hard questions, no doubt. Vale was responding alertly, looking suitably impressed by his inquisitor. But then there was nothing unique about that. Everyone was impressed by Maximilian West. Startled, too, more often than not, when they first met him. He was never what anyone expected him to be. Nor did he ever do what people anticipated he would do. He had always been a maverick.

In his mind’s eye Alan suddenly saw Maxim as he had been at fifteen, remembered that ghastly day when two boys from another school, bullies both, had picked on Maxim, sneered at him, called him filthy names, been immeasurably cruel as only the young can be cruel. Maxim, ashen-faced, his dark eyes blazing with rage, had instantly turned combative, had raised his hands like a boxer about to go on the attack. Ready to do battle for his best friend, he had brought his hands up too, wanting to fight at Maxim’s side. And then the unexpected, the unanticipated, had happened, startling the crowd of boys, and him most of all. Maxim had dropped his arms to his sides and had walked away without uttering a word, his head held high, his immense pride, his uncommon dignity forming an unassailable shield around him. The group of boys who had been watching and jeering had fallen silent, had parted ranks with docility to let him pass, intimidated by the cold, implacable expression on Maxim’s face, his lofty demeanour.

Alan recalled how he had run after Maxim, wanting to give him comfort, to make him feel better. But Maxim had not needed sympathy; he had even refused to discuss the matter, had turned morose and moody for the rest of the day. It was only later that night, after lights-out in the dormitory, that Maxim had finally mentioned the incident. As if in answer to Alan’s unspoken question, he had hissed in the dark, ‘I walked away because those cowards weren’t worth fighting! I didn’t even want to soil my hands by touching them!’ He had expressed his contempt and disgust for the likes of the two bullies, and had gone on to proclaim, ‘One day I’ll be cock of the walk, just you wait and see, Stubby.’ And then in a fierce whisper he had added vehemently, ‘I’m nobody now! I have nothing now! But no matter how long it takes, I promise you I’m going to be somebody. And I’m going to have everything.’

He was. And he did. He had made it come true, perhaps beyond even his own wildest dreams.

Maximilian West was a man with the world in his arms.

Consequently he was envied by most men. Alan did not envy him. He was filled only with admiration for Maxim. He knew what a hard and difficult road he had travelled, the enormous leaps he had made, the chances he had taken. His was an extraordinary success story, an epic story, really, quite fantastical. He was a great magnate, his name was one to be truly reckoned with on the international business scene, and in the last fifteen years he had gone from millionaire to multi-millionaire to billionaire.

And only a couple of weeks ago, on the last day of December, the Queen’s New Year Honours List had been announced. Among those titles and honours put forward by the Prime Minister for the Queen’s approval was a knighthood for Maxim. It was for his enormous contributions to British industry at home and abroad, and he was now Sir Maximilian West, and could be thus addressed, even though his investiture at Buckingham Palace was not for three more months to come, in March.

Cock of the bloody walk indeed, Alan thought. And smiled. It was a deep smile, one of genuine pride and the greatest satisfaction. He revelled in Maxim’s successes and triumphs, was always there on the sidelines, applauding. Maxim had been his hero at school. In a way, he still was. Alan supposed he always would be.

He glanced at Maxim again, and admiringly so. How wonderful his dear old friend looked. No, he doesn’t, Trenton suddenly thought, startling himself, sitting up with a little jolt. He peered harder at Maxim. The dazzling facade was intact, but now, instinctively, he knew there was something terribly wrong. It was not possible to be close to a man for nigh on forty-seven years and not know him inside out. There was a shadow at the back of Maxim’s eyes that he had not seen there for years; he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it when Maxim first arrived. Perhaps because he’d been too busy congratulating him on his knighthood. Maxim’s got trouble, serious trouble, Stubby decided. Is it the women? I hope to God not, he’s had enough trouble with women to last him a lifetime. Well, whatever’s wrong, and there is something, I’ll offer to help. That’s what a best friend is for.

Now Alan looked quickly at the watch on his wrist, the gold Patek Philippe which Maxim had given him last year for his fifty-fourth birthday. He saw that it was exactly nine-fifteen. Earlier, on the phone, Maxim had said he would have to leave by nine-twenty. Alan knew that in one second, certainly not much longer, Maxim would stand up, make his goodbyes and be gone. He was precise in many ways, and punctuality was one of his strongest suits.

Anticipating Maxim’s imminent departure, Alan rose, went over to join him and Vale, as Maxim was saying to John Vale, ‘The figures you’ve given me are interesting. However, I’m still uncertain whether or not I want to jump into the fray, make a counter offer for Lister. I really will have to give the matter some thought.’

Vale swallowed hard, striving to hide his deep disappointment that this meeting had not been more conclusive. ‘Yes, of course, I understand perfectly, and I’m sure you understand that speed is of the essence. Lister are wide open right at this moment, exposed in so many ways. They’re a sitting target for other corporate raiders. That’s what worries us the most, that someone else, another company, might enter the bidding and go after Lister.’ Vale exhaled heavily. ‘You know what that could mean.’

‘Only too well. A bidding war.’ Maxim stood. ‘If you drop the documents off at my house tonight, as you suggested, I’ll study them later.’

Vale also rose, nodded. ‘Yes, I will. And thank you very much for your courtesy and for listening.’ He extended his hand, added, ‘I’m most appreciative, Sir Maximilian.’

Maxim took Vale’s hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I really must leave.’ He glanced conspiratorially at Alan, winked, said as an afterthought, ‘I have a dinner engagement and I would hate to keep the lady waiting.’

‘I’ll walk you to the lift, Duke,’ Alan said, taking hold of Maxim’s arm in a proprietary fashion, ushering him out. He wanted to get Maxim alone, to ask him what was the matter, what he could do to help.

When Alan Trenton returned to his office a few seconds later, John Vale peered at him myopically. Anxiety underlined his voice, as he asked with some urgency, ‘Well, what did he say?’

‘Nothing. At least not about Lister Newspapers and his intentions. He wouldn’t, you know, not even to me. He’s very secretive about his business, always has been. I can tell you for a fact that he shreds every document that passes through his hands. Afraid of leaks, I suppose.’

‘Nobody knows him better than you, Alan. What is your assessment? What do you think our chances are?’

Trenton pursed his lips, pondered briefly. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He sat down heavily and looked off into the distance, a reflective expression invading his face.

John Vale followed suit, sat across from Alan Trenton, waiting patiently.

At length Trenton said, ‘If it feels right to him, he’ll go with it.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘That’s what Maxim has always said to me … that a deal’s got to feel right. He goes on instinct. Gut instinct. He ignores analysts, reports, valuations, advisers. Gut instinct, that’s what guides him.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ Vale sounded doubtful.

‘Oh yes, I do! More importantly, Maxim believes it. But what he really means, of course, is that he relies on his experience, his expertise, his great knowledge. Plus his instinctive feel for the particular deal, the particular situation.’

Trenton picked up his silver tankard, swigged the last of his champagne, looked as if he was mulling something over.

‘You asked me what my assessment is, John,’ he went on at last, ‘and it’s this. If Maximilian West feels right about making an offer for Lister Newspapers he will do so. And if he feels wrong, or if he has no feeling about it whatsoever, then he’ll pass. That’s the way he is. Very cut and dried. Precise. It’s his nature. Certainly he won’t keep you dangling. You’ll get a decision, and an answer, very quickly.’

‘That’s good to know at least. And by the by, Alan, whatever the outcome is, I’m indebted to you. I don’t know how to thank you for arranging this meeting.’

‘Very easily, old boy. Take me to dinner as you promised. Now. I’m starving.’

John laughed. ‘That makes two of us. I booked a table at Mark’s Club. Let’s stroll over there, and after we’ve dined I’ll leave the papers at Maxim’s house in Chesterfield Hill. He said you’d give me the exact address.’

‘Of course.’ Alan pushed himself up. ‘I’ll clear my desk, then we can be off.’

Vale followed him across the room, hovered about.

At one moment, he remarked, ‘I hadn’t expected him to be such a handsome man. I’ve seen photographs of him in newspapers and magazines and none of them do him justice.’

‘No, they don’t. But then a lot of Duke’s appeal lies in his personal charisma. I don’t suppose you can take a photograph of that.’

‘Why do you call him Duke?’ Vale asked curiously.

‘After Archduke Maximilian of Austria who became Emperor of Mexico in 1864,’ Alan explained. ‘Maxim was being a bit imperious with me one day at prep school, and I dubbed him that. He thought it was hilarious … anyway, the name stuck.’

‘I see. Is it true what they say about him?’

‘They say a lot of things … what in particular are you referring to?’

‘That Maximilian West cares about only four things. The Prime Minister. The United States. Making money. And screwing.’

Alan glanced up, started to laugh. Recovering himself after a brief moment, he said, ‘I know he holds Mrs Thatcher in the highest regard, is a great admirer of her policies, especially when it comes to business. And let’s face it, old chap, he’s flourishing under her regime. She’s just had him knighted. Most certainly he loves the United States, he’s been straddling the Atlantic for a decade or so. He spends as much time there as he does here, you know.’

A mischievous gleam entered Alan’s eyes. ‘And for as long as I can remember, Maxim’s been very intense about making money, and making love to the ladies. Oh yes, he’s a bit of a lady-killer, our Maxim is. As for the ladies, they, of course, find him quite devastating. Drop like ninepins at his feet.’

‘All those wives, all those mistresses,’ Vale murmured, a hint of awe echoing. ‘How on earth has he managed to juggle them, and apparently with such adroitness?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

‘Good Lord, of course I haven’t! I’ve never had the nerve,’ Alan lied. He had no wish to discuss Maxim’s unorthodox personal life any further with John Vale. He had said enough as it was. Certain things must always remain private. There had been a great deal of gossip about Maxim over the years and he was hardly going to add to it. That would be the worst kind of betrayal.

I know far too much, Alan thought, dropping his eyes, locking the top drawer of his desk. All those confidences Maxim has shared over the years. And continues to share. But his secrets are safe with me. And he knows that, knows I will take them with me to the grave.

Chapter Two

For the second time that evening Maximilian West found himself shaking off a feeling of heaviness as he traversed Berkeley Square, heading back in the direction he had walked earlier.

Directly opposite Alan Trenton’s office building, on the other side of the plane trees in the park in the middle of the square, was number forty-four. This was his destination. Here, in the basement of the beautiful old house, was one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Europe – the famous Annabel’s.

Founded in the summer of 1963 by Mark Birley, and named after his wife Lady Annabel, from whom he was now divorced, it was the chicest of watering holes for the rich and famous, where the international jet set rubbed shoulders with movie stars and magnates and members of the British royal family. For the past twenty-six years it had remained very much the in spot, yet it had now gone beyond being merely fashionable. It had become legendary. And it was Maxim’s favourite place to dine in London.

Within minutes of leaving Alan’s office, Maxim was nodding to the uniformed doorman who hovered outside, ducking under the green awning and hurrying down the flight of steps into the club.

A bevy of familiar, smiling faces greeted him as he entered, and after shedding his trenchcoat he went over to the reception desk where Ted was waiting to welcome guests, as he was most nights of the week.

Maxim accepted Ted’s quietly-spoken congratulations, exchanged pleasantries with him, signed the book, sauntered through into the bar-sitting room. Glancing quickly about, he saw that it was still relatively empty, and he took a small table in the corner, to one side of the brightly-burning log fire.

A waiter was instantly by his side, and he ordered vodka straight with ice and a chunk of lime, then settled into the squashy sofa, enjoying the comfort and warmth and the sense of ease that always came to him here.

He had been a member since the club had first opened its doors, and he liked the atmosphere, the intimacy that sprang from the blazing fire, the soft lights and deep sofas, the cheerful feeling created by the masses of fresh flowers in antique containers, the dark-red Oriental rugs and the pumpkin-coloured walls covered with a diversity of paintings. Wonderful dog portraits, cartoons by Landseer, Munnings and Bateman, oils of elegant women, some nude, some clothed, hung cheek by jowl, and at first glance seemed to have been put together with some sort of careless abandon. Yet there was nothing haphazard about their placement, if one looked a second time and a bit more carefully. They never ceased to delight his eye, to amuse him, and they were a source of constant pleasure, frequently brought a quick smile to his face.

To Maxim, Annabel’s was more like an extension of Mark Birley’s own house than a restaurant and nightclub, and perhaps this was the key to its enormous success. The bar area had the feeling of a country drawing room in a manor house, could never be mistaken for anything but an English drawing room at that, what with its mixtures of chintzes and paintings and flowers, its mellowness and charm. Quite aside from the inimitable and inviting ambience, there were the gracious staff to be thankful for, the excellent service they gave, and finally the type of unpretentious food Maxim preferred to eat. For the most part, English cooking at its best with a few continental dishes thrown in.

In his opinion there was nowhere in the world quite like Annabel’s, and it was one of the things he sorely missed about London when he was away. He had not been in town for some weeks and he was glad to be back in his special haunt. Invariably, the tensions of the day left him the instant he stepped through its portals. He felt insulated against the world when he was at the club, cocooned within the familiar, pleasant surroundings, attended to by the discreet and congenial staff. A home from home, he thought, then added sardonically to himself: Except that I prefer this place to home. But I don’t have a home any more, do I?

Reaching for the drink, he took a quick swallow, leaned against the cushions, forced himself to focus on the meeting he had just had in Stubby’s office.

He was curiously ambivalent about going after the Lister newspaper empire, and he wondered why. Before he had a chance to focus on this properly, ponder the reasons further, he saw Louis, the manager, coming through the bar-sitting room, heading in his direction. Louis’s face was wreathed in smiles. They were old friends, had known each other for over thirty years, ever since the days Louis had been the maitre d’ at the Mirabelle Restaurant in Curzon Street, just around the corner from the club. There was a camaraderie between them that sprang from the past, many shared experiences, the genuine affection they held for each other.

Maxim jumped up, beaming.

They greeted each other warmly, shook hands. Louis congratulated him on his knighthood, and they stood chatting, catching up with each other’s news. After a few minutes, Louis was summoned to take a phone call in the dining room, and he excused himself. Maxim sat down on the sofa and picked up his drink, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself rising once more as his personal assistant came floating into the bar-sitting room on a cloud of perfume.

Graeme Longdon was an American, thirty-seven years old, tall, bean-pole thin, with curly brown hair shot through with a hint of auburn and the brightest of green eyes. Not classically beautiful in the given sense of the word, she was, nonetheless, a lovely young woman, very arresting, with a broad brow, high cheekbones above rounded cheeks, and a full, wide mouth that was forever smiling. She was from Richmond, Virginia, was independent, feisty, and outspoken.

Maxim considered her to be one of the smartest people he had ever known, and she was his good right hand.

Tonight she was dressed in a superlative black velvet suit, which to his discerning eye was most obviously an haute couture number from Paris. The excellently-styled jacket above the pencil-slim skirt was trimmed across the shoulders and yoke with jet-bead embroidery and silk tassels. Her long, shapely legs were encased in sheer black hose, her feet elegantly shod in a pair of black satin pumps. The only jewellery she wore were large diamond earrings shaped like flowers, and, on her wrist, a narrow diamond watch designed by Cartier in the thirties.

Maxim went to meet her, took hold of her elbow, guided her over to the corner table.

‘You look lovely,’ he said, forever appreciative of a pretty woman, always full of genuine gallantry, ready with a compliment.

‘Why thank you,’ she said, turning to him, widening her smile. It lit up her face. ‘I always feel I must get myself done up in my best fancy duds to come to this place. So I dashed back to the Ritz to change. That’s why I’m late. Sorry, Boss,’ she said with her usual breeziness and casual style.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ he replied, returning her smile, as usual faintly amused by her irreverent manner, her persistence in calling him Boss. When she had first come to work for him and had started to address him in this way, he had been irritated, had tried to make her stop. But she had ignored his protests, or they had flown over her head, he wasn’t sure which, and Boss it had remained since then. He had grown used to it by now, no longer minded. It was of no consequence to him, really. And he admired her for being herself, for not compromising her personality to suit somebody else’s idea of the proper corporate image. She was honest and forthright and rather blunt, unnervingly so at times. He laughed to himself. Graeme had nicknames for everyone in the company, at least those she dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Most of the names were highly appropriate, and some disconcertingly so.

‘What’s a few minutes between us,’ Maxim remarked as they sat down. ‘In any case, you’re worth the wait, Graeme. You’re positively blooming tonight. Let’s settle down, relax, have a drink before dinner and you can tell me what happened after I left the office. What would you like? A glass of champagne, as usual? Or something else?’

‘Champagne, Maxim, please.’ Graeme put her black velvet evening purse on the table, made herself more comfortable on the chair opposite him, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt. There was an air of expectancy about her; it was as though she could hardly contain herself.

Once he had ordered her drink, she bent forward, her manner suddenly grown confidential, her vivid eyes more alive and eager than ever, her intelligent face aglow, flushed pink with excitement. ‘I’ve come to a conclusion about the Winonda Group, after being on and off the phone with Peter Heilbron in New York for the last couple of hours,’ she exclaimed, her tone rising slightly. ‘I think we should go for it, Boss, make a bid! It’s a cinch for us. The perfect company for a takeover despite what appear to be certain problems. I’ve studied the last two faxes I received from Peter and –’

‘If they’re sensitive, I presume you’ve shredded them,’ Maxim cut in swiftly.

‘Of course! How can you think otherwise!’ She sounded astonished, looked at him askance. ‘Am I not your clone, Boss?’

Maxim bit back a smile, made no response.

Graeme rushed on, ‘Winonda has a number of unprofitable divisions, but these would be easy to liquidate. We would keep the profitable divisions, of course, and simply reorganise them, give them a bit of the West International streamlining.’

She paused when the waiter brought the flute of champagne to her, waited until they were alone before continuing, ‘What makes the deal so attractive to me is the real estate Winonda owns just outside Seattle. It looks worthless at first glance, and especially so on paper. Undervalued, actually. It’s run down, and it’s in a very bad area. However, I know it has great value, that it’s a big asset.’

Maxim raised a brow.

Graeme explained. ‘It’s an asset because a Japanese company wants to buy it. They’re in the process of buying up the entire area, actually, and they want the Winonda real estate so that they can tear down the existing buildings, redevelop the land by constructing a hotel, a shopping mall, and offices on it.’

‘Then why hasn’t Charles Bishop sold?’ Maxim’s brow furrowed. ‘That strikes me as particularly odd. He’s extremely shrewd, usually very fast on the draw.’

‘He turned them down flat. Didn’t want to know, apparently. And not because they weren’t offering plenty. I believe they went as high as two hundred and seventy million dollars.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘There isn’t one. At least, not for us. If we owned Winonda we could sell the real-estate holdings tomorrow. And to the same Japanese company. They’re standing in the wings. Waiting. They’ll wait in vain, of course, as long as Bishop’s the president of Winonda. You see, his father died in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, that’s why he won’t strike a deal with them.’

When Maxim said nothing, Graeme remarked in a low voice, ‘Put very simply, he’s letting his personal feelings get in the way.’

Maxim was thoughtful. After a moment he glanced at her. ‘You have good vibes about this deal, don’t you?’

‘Absolutely, Boss!’

‘So do I. And I have from the beginning, ever since you put forward Winonda as a possibility for us. Call Peter tomorrow, tell him to get the acquisition team moving at once. And good for you, Grae. I’m impressed. You must have done a great deal of research.’

Graeme shook her head. ‘A little, but not as much as you probably think. By one of those odd coincidences, my cousin Sara lives in Seattle now. She’s with a bank. I asked her about Winonda, after you’d told me to go ahead and analyse the situation. She mentioned that some Japanese company had been sniffing around. She’d heard about their interest in the Winonda real estate through her boyfriend, who’s a partner in an accounting firm. There was a nasty leak from somewhere, I suspect.’

She grinned at Maxim. ‘I guess you’re right about shredding machines, Boss. You can’t be too careful. In any event, I ran with the information Sara had passed on to me and had it checked out. It proved to be correct.’ Graeme stopped, cleared her throat. ‘The stockholders of the Winonda Group might not be too happy to learn that their president passed up millions of dollars for a parcel of real estate that nobody else seems to want. Poor judgement on Bishop’s part, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I can understand his reasoning in some ways. But yes, I suppose in the final analysis you’re right, Graeme.’

‘As the president and CEO of a public company he ought to have put personal sentiments aside,’ she stated in a voice that was surprisingly cold and deliberate.

Maxim gave her a swift look. He knew how tough, even ruthless, she could be at times. But her assessment of Bishop seemed harsh. Fleetingly, a faint shadow crossed his face. He frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said laconically, having no wish to continue this conversation, and reached for his glass.

Graeme sat back, gazed at him through appraising eyes. A muscle twitched on his cheek and he appeared strained all of a sudden and she wondered why. She was about to ask him if something was wrong and then changed her mind immediately. He was a very private man, never revealed much about himself or his feelings, and he hated anyone to pry, to try to winkle their way behind that powerful facade of his.

She lifted her flute of untouched champagne. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Here’s to the Winonda Group. May it soon be ours.’

Maxim said, ‘To Winonda.’

She took another long swallow of the Dom Perignon, began to relax for the first time that day. They fell silent for a short while, both caught up in the complexity of their own thoughts. It was Graeme who spoke first, breaking the momentary lull. ‘How did your meeting with Alan Trenton go?’

‘It wasn’t with Alan. Oh, he was there, of course, but he wanted me to meet his merchant banker, John Vale of Morgan Lane, who had a proposition for me.’

‘What kind of proposition?’ she asked, her eyes instantly lighting up. Like Maxim she was excited by business, and the prospect of cutting a new deal thrilled her. It gave her a high in much the same way it did him.

‘To come to the rescue of Lister Newspapers,’ he said.

Graeme let out a long, low whistle that was audible only to Maxim. ‘My, my, that is something,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘And?’

Maxim began to tell her what had transpired earlier that evening, leaving nothing out.

Graeme listened avidly, giving him her full attention, not once interrupting him, knowing how he detested interruptions, but at the same time wondering what he would do, asking herself whether he would go after the Lister empire. Her mind raced. He was tough-minded, fearless when it came to business, but not really a gambler. He was too cautious to be that. And Lister might well prove to be something of a gamble. Rectitude and prudence he had in abundance, and she admired those traits in him. Yet, when she looked back over the seven years she had worked for him, there had been times when he had taken chances, and now, on reflection, it occurred to her that they had been rather big chances at that. Would he consider Lister Newspapers worth the risk? One never knew with him. He was so hard to read accurately – and to second guess. He might do anything, jump either way. He called her his good right hand. The problem was, most of the time she never knew what his left hand was doing.

Perhaps it was the contradictions, the unexpected in him that she found so fascinating – and irresistible. She stifled a sigh. She had always been a little bit in love with him, even though he had never displayed one iota of interest in her. Not as a woman, at any rate. Oh, he paid her lovely compliments about her appearance, said flattering things about her work, but that was as far as it went. She was his executive assistant, and therefore forbidden. He was far too involved with his business ever to mix it with anything that remotely smacked of pleasure, sex or love.

And besides, he was married – of course! And there were hints of another woman.

Still, there were times, like now, when they were not in a work environment, when she sat looking at him, listening to his mellifluous voice, enjoying his company, that she fell completely under his spell, became hopelessly vulnerable to him. He was the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. It was not only his face, his powerful dark gaze, his elegance and distinction, but the enigma of him. For there was something extremely mysterious about Maximilian West.

And of course there was his charm. Maxim had fatal charm, the kind that makes women commit terrible indiscretions. He was a natural born lady-killer who, without doing one single thing, had women flinging themselves at him. Then again, on yet another level, there was the intellect, the brains, the drive, the energy, the ambition and the success. It was a combination that spelled one thing – power. And power was exciting to her, an extraordinary aphrodisiac like no other she had ever known.

‘You look as if you’re drifting off into Never-Never Land with Peter Pan and Wendy,’ Maxim exclaimed somewhat sharply for him, giving her a hard stare.

‘I’m right here and standing to attention, figuratively speaking that is,’ she said, forever swift on the draw and ready with a riposte. ‘If I appear to have a glazed expression it’s only because I’m concentrating on your words, Boss. And truly, I have heard everything you’ve just said.’ She offered him a bright, reassuring smile. ‘Let me sum up for you – John Vale of Morgan Lane wants you to be the white knight for Lister. Everyone involved wants it.’

‘That’s right,’ he said more mildly, sounding mollified.

‘And you’re not interested, are you?’ she went on, hoping to prove to him that she had indeed been listening, had picked up the nuances implicit in his voice. Her eyes held his.

‘No, I don’t think I am,’ he admitted.

‘Are the figures that poor?’

‘On the contrary, they’re quite impressive. In fact, the company’s in great shape.’ He let out a sigh. ‘It’s me, Grae. I’m just not excited about it, I guess. Not enough excited, anyway. No fire in my gut. I don’t believe I want to pick up my sword and go into combat for a newspaper empire. That’s more up Rupert Murdoch’s alley. Come to think of it, John Vale ought to have asked Rupert to be the white knight, not me.’

Maxim stopped, laughed ruefully. ‘Vale is dropping the Lister accounts off at the house later, and I suddenly wish he weren’t. I don’t think I can summon up the energy to look at the wretched things, never mind study them.’

‘Do you want me to do it for you, Maxim?’

‘We’ll see.’

He motioned to one of the waiters, ordered two more drinks, then turned to her, put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m not staying in London for the weekend after all, Grae.’

‘That’s no problem. I can be ready whenever you say. I’m half packed. When are we leaving? Tomorrow or Saturday?’

‘I’m leaving tomorrow. On the morning Concorde.’

From his emphasis on his first word she knew he was leaving alone. He rarely did that when they were together on business, and unable to disguise her surprise she stared at him. ‘Oh,’ was about the only word she could muster.

‘Normally I would say come back on Concorde with me, but I’d like you to stay in London this trip, to follow through on a few things for me, Grae. You should be able to finish up by the end of the day tomorrow. You can fly back to New York on the company jet whenever you wish. Tomorrow night, Saturday, Sunday or even Monday. The plane’s at your disposal.’

‘London at the weekend doesn’t appeal to me especially,’ she murmured, ‘but maybe I will stay in Europe. I could go to Paris for a couple of days. It might be fun.’ There was a moment’s hesitation on her part before she leaned across the table and said in a low conspiratorial voice, ‘No problems at the New York office, I hope, Boss?’

‘No, no, of course not! You’d be the first to know. I’m going back a little earlier than I’d planned because there’s a personal matter I must attend to, and I want to get it out of the way this weekend.’

Instantly she thought: It’s a woman and he’s got trouble with her. She said, ‘What is it you want me to do for you here in London?’

‘There’re a couple of banking matters you’ll have to attend to, also, rather than cancelling it, I’d like you to take my place at the meeting with Montague Reston and Gerald Sloane. There’ll be no problem, you’ll handle yourself well.’ A faint smile touched his mouth. ‘And handle them well, I might add.’

‘Okay, whatever you say, Boss. But I’d like a briefing about the Reston deal.’

‘Of course. We’ll discuss it later. Now, shall we order dinner? I see Louis heading in our direction.’

Chapter Three

It was one-fifteen in the morning by the time Maxim got back to his house on the corner of Chesterfield Hill and Charles Street.

He had escorted Graeme to the Ritz Hotel after their dinner at Annabel’s, and had then walked home, crossing Piccadilly and heading through Half Moon Street into Mayfair. There was no longer any hint of rain, the air was crisp and dry and usually he would have enjoyed the short walk. Yet all evening he had been fighting this feeling of weight, almost of oppression.

He let himself in, locked the front door behind him, hung his black trenchcoat in the hall cupboard, and paused for a moment, listening.

Nothing stirred. The house was quiet, perfectly still. The staff had gone to bed, were no doubt already fast asleep, and the only sound was the hollow ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the imposing marble foyer where he stood.

Turning off the light, Maxim went up the curving staircase more slowly than usual to the second floor. He crossed the landing, went into the master bedroom where he shed his clothes and put on pyjamas and a dressing gown. He did everything with swiftness before hurrying through into the study which was part of the master bedroom suite, wishing he felt better.

Marco, the butler, aware of Maxim’s nocturnal habits of working late, studying documents and balance sheets well into the early hours, had turned on the lamps and banked up the fire before retiring to his own quarters. The silk-shaded lamps cast a roseate glow throughout and the logs burned brightly in the grate behind the mesh fire screen, threw off welcome warming heat. Maxim seated himself at the French bureau plat, glanced at the telephone messages Marco had placed under a glass paperweight and put them to one side. None were of any great importance, could be dealt with before he left for the airport in a few hours or so. Picking up a pearl-handled paper knife, he slit the manilla envelope which John Vale had dropped off earlier and took out the sheaf of papers.

It was with only the smallest degree of interest that he looked over the accounts of Lister Newspapers which he had fanned out on the desk in front of him. One of Maxim’s greatest assets was his ability to read a financial statement well, and to size up a company quickly with his own special brand of business acumen. This he did now, understanding at once that Lister Newspapers was indeed a good buy, by anybody’s standards. Excellent, in fact. And yet he felt no quickening of his pulse, no excitement in his veins, no thrill at the thought of going after it. Indisputably, his attitude had not changed since the meeting in Alan Trenton’s office. He simply was not interested in making a play for this company. Or was that true for any company?

It struck Maxim, with some force, that he was not particularly interested in the Winonda Group either, and this brought him up in the chair with a small start, instantly made him scrutinise his sudden change of mind.

He had told Graeme to go ahead earlier for a variety of reasons. It was one of her bigger deals; he knew how much it meant to her, he had no wish to disappoint or discourage her. Also, right at the outset he had recognised that Winonda would be an important acquisition for them, an enormously valuable asset to West International when it came to the overall picture of the conglomerate. But he had to admit that he much preferred her to handle the deal herself – with the help of Peter Heilbron and the financial team in the New York office. Certainly he did not want to be the chief combatant in the actual battle, had no interest in being out there on the front line. He would give advice from the trenches. His troops would have to do the hard hand-to-hand fighting.

Maxim frowned intently, wondering about his reluctance to put himself in the middle of the action. He had always been a big part of it in the past, the pivotal point. Surely business wasn’t beginning to bore him, was it? How could that be? Business was his life, wasn’t it? Anastasia had always said so. He winced at the thought of his first wife

A weary sigh escaped, and he ran his hands through his hair distractedly, conscious that he had not been himself of late. He kept up the facade, of course, the facade of charm and magnetism that the world had come to expect. But inside, at the very core of his being, he felt empty. There was a bleakness in his soul, he was joyless for most of the time, and increasingly he was held in the grips of a terrible melancholia he could not fully comprehend. Nor, indeed, explain.

A peculiar feeling began to settle over him, one of claustrophobia. No, oppression. He felt as if he was gagging, suffocating, and he had the most pressing urge to get out of the room, a compulsion to run and not stop running until he had put great distance between himself and this place. He wanted to be far, far away.

A chill coursed through him, and he shivered; it was as though someone had walked over his grave. With this strange thought, goose flesh speckled his arms and his face and he was startled at himself, unaccustomed as he was to feelings of discomfiture, of uneasiness.

Maxim swung his head, glanced around the study, asked himself why he wanted to escape this room. He did not understand. It was his favourite spot in the entire house, filled as it was with treasures from which he had constantly drawn enormous pleasure. Each item had been so lovingly placed here by Anastasia and himself, and he recalled the satisfaction they had derived when they were searching out the antiques, the objects of art and the paintings in England and on the Continent.

The ancient oak boiserie that panelled the walls had been found in an old manor house in Normandy. The French writing desk where he now sat was discovered in an antiquaire’s shop in the Rue du Bac on a weekend trip to Paris. The wall sconces were picked up when they had been travelling through Tuscany, while the remarkable horse paintings by Stubbs had been bought from a peer of the realm whose country seat was in Yorkshire. Altogether it was an eclectic mixture that somehow worked, mostly because the pieces were compatible with each other and shared one important quality, that of excellence.

Although the possessions in his study were beautiful, not all of the items were of great value. Yet they had always meant a lot to him. Now, seemingly, they no longer mattered, since, for some reason he could not understand, he was regarding them through jaundiced eyes.

Irritated with himself, and also baffled, Maxim rose, walked over to the handsome William and Mary inlaid chest under the window, opened a bottle of carbonated water and poured himself a glass. He took a long swallow, carried the glass back to a chair in front of the fire, and sat staring into the flames, a look of abstraction settling on his face.

After a while, as if his mind had been flooded by bright light, he began to see things as they actually were. With a rush of clarity he understood the change in himself, understood his dilemma.

He was a man in crisis.

This sudden self-knowledge came from the deepest, innermost part of his psyche and it gave him a bitter jolt. He sat up straighter, his eyes flaring, and then he closed them convulsively, momentarily stunned.

But it was true. There was no point in denying it anymore, as he had been doing for so long. He was at the most critical point in his life … he could not go on any longer … could not live the way he had been living … and yet he did not know what to do about himself … or about his life.

He was immobilised by uncertainty. Rendered helpless by indecision. Hamstrung by the situations he himself had created. Held in limbo by the people who populated his life.

Placing the crystal tumbler of water he was clutching on the small table next to the chair, Maxim dropped his head into his hands. He was brimming with dismay, completely at a loss. For once he had no solutions for his problems. After a few minutes he lifted his head, smoothed back his hair with one hand, forced himself to relax. And he began to ruminate on his life.

His dear old friend Stubby truly believed he had everything. The world believed he had everything. In reality he had nothing. Oh yes he had immense success, immense power, fame of a kind, money to burn and houses galore and a luxury yacht and a slick private jet and the other grand accoutrements of privilege and great wealth. And he hobnobbed with those who were as rich and renowned as he was. There was his knighthood, a great honour bestowed on him by the highest in the land, an honour he had never sought, nor tried to buy, but which had come to him through his own merit. And whilst he would never belittle its importance to him, was proud of it, in fact it did not fill the terrible void in his life.

He was alone. And lonely.

He was estranged from the women he was involved with, who no longer brought him the remotest bit of joy. His children were lost to him: perhaps only temporarily, but nevertheless they were lost at this moment. And now he was facing the possibility that his work, the most enduring of all his passions, and his greatest pleasure, was beginning to pall on him. The idea was insupportable. He balked at the mere thought of it. In all truth, it frightened the hell out of him.

And when he added up all of these points, the bottom line was very telling indeed. Dismal. He was in the red on every personal level … emotionally bankrupt.

He was an unhappy man, flailing around in an over-abundance of misery. That was the crux of it. But then had not happiness been an elusive stranger for the best part of his life, transient at best?

A cynical laugh rose in Maxim’s throat and he choked it back, thought: What an overworked word it is, happiness. And who the hell is happy? At least for very long, anyway? Some fortunate people did know contentment, others gained a certain peace. But that was about it. Unluckily he was not blessed with either state of mind.

Rising, he began to pace the floor restlessly, his mind careening around in dizzying circles.

Eventually he was able to calm himself sufficiently in order to look at things as clearly as he possibly could. He regrouped his thoughts and redirected his focus, concentrated on the women in his life.

Two women to be exact.

Adriana. His wife. Blair. His mistress.

Blair was pushing for marriage. Adriana would not acknowledge that such a word as divorce even existed. And he was caught between the two of them, like a fly trapped in amber.

He was not so sure he wanted to continue living with Adriana. On the other hand, did he really want to divorce her? What were his true feelings about Blair? And would marrying her solve his problems? He remembered something, and it made him laugh out loud. A famous wit had once said that when a man married his mistress he created a job vacancy. If he married Blair would he then be tempted to fill the vacancy? Find himself a new mistress to replace the one who had become his wife?

What a cynical thought that was. He laughed again, but still without a trace of mirth. Was he the kind of man who would always need a mistress whatever the circumstances in the marriage? Perish the thought, he added under his breath.

In his mind’s eye, Maxim pictured the people who occupied his life, who were important to him. How did they view him? He did not have to ponder that for more than a split second.

To Adriana I am the faithless husband wanting to escape the marital bonds.

To Blair I am the lover grown ambivalent, distracted, less caring, in my preoccupation with my business.

To Anastasia I am her best friend, but only a friend, nothing else.

To my children I am the busy tycoon who has no time for them. I have been cast in the role of the heavy. I am important because I pay their bills, but in their eyes I am no longer the loving father they once adored.

To my mother I am the son she is the most proud of, her favourite perhaps, and yet half the time she is disapproving of me because she cannot condone my private life, my personal behaviour.

But I am not the person they think I am, he said to himself. None of their perceptions of me is accurate. They don’t really know me. On the other hand, I don’t know myself. Not anymore. I have no sense of my own identity. I don’t know who I am, why I’m here, what my purpose is on this planet, or what it’s all about in the last analysis. I’m confused, lost, adrift, floundering.

These admissions were so staggering, so unacceptable to Maxim that they made him catch his breath in surprise, and he paused in his pacing, endeavouring to squash them. He had no wish to validate them by giving them any kind of credence whatsoever.

Ultimately, though, he was unable to banish these unprecedented and shattering self-revelations. All were inescapable truths. And no matter which way he twisted and turned everything around in his head he finally had to admit to himself that he would have to face up to them, tackle them head-on sooner or later.

It was three o’clock by the time Maxim went to bed.

He did not really sleep, merely dozed fitfully on and off for several hours. Finally, around six, he got up, went into the bathroom to shower and shave. Once he was dressed, Marco brought him a pot of coffee and toast, and whilst he had his light breakfast he wrote a detailed memo to Graeme, explained what he wanted done in London, and outlined strategy for the meeting she was to have with Montague Reston.

At exactly eight-thirty he left the house carrying his black trenchcoat and a briefcase, his only piece of luggage, and was driven off to Heathrow in one of West International’s limousines. At the airport he was swiftly checked in, and went immediately to the Concorde departure lounge, where he sat reading the morning newspapers until he and the other passengers were boarded at ten o’clock.

Fastening his seat belt and settling down, Maxim glanced around and was relieved to see the plane was not as jam-packed as it had been on the last few occasions he had flown it. He had chosen to go on to New York by Concorde rather than travel on his personal Grumman Gulfstream jet because it was much faster, only three hours and forty-five minutes, even less time if there were no strong headwinds.

Maxim opened his briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers and buried his head in them for the first hour of the flight. He accepted a cup of tea, refused all other drinks and snacks, and gave his entire attention to his business papers, hardly glancing up, so intense was his concentration. When he had done as much work as he could, he locked the folders in his briefcase, pushed this under the seat, made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. He found it impossible to sleep, but did manage to relax sufficiently enough to rest his tired body. Half an hour later Maxim roused himself, sat up, looked out of the window.

They were floating through a vast stretch of cumulus clouds, soaring higher and higher above the Atlantic. He stared into the infinite space, contemplated Alix, his daughter. She was the reason he had decided to return to New York a few days earlier than he had originally planned. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to spend the weekend with her. He desperately needed to put things right with his first-born child. They were both at fault, she more than he in so many ways. Nevertheless, he was quite prepared to take full blame for the rift that had developed between them. He would apologise, ask her forgiveness, if necessary. In fact, he would do just about anything to win her trust again, to have her back in his life.

Chapter Four

A female voice he did not recognise answered the telephone. ‘Alix West’s office. Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to Miss West, please,’ Maxim said.

‘I’m sorry, but Ms West isn’t in today,’ the young breathy voice went on to inform him. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘This is her father. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Oh good morning, Sir Maximilian,’ the voice said in a tone that now sounded a little awed. ‘This is Geraldine Bonnay, her new assistant. Alix flew to California this morning. On business.’

‘I see. When will she be returning to New York?’

‘Hopefully on Monday, Sir Maximilian. It’s a quick trip. She has a meeting with a client in Beverly Hills tomorrow and is flying right out again on Sunday. Unless there are unexpected problems, of course. She will be calling me sometime tomorrow. Can I give her a message?’

‘No, not really,’ Maxim began, and paused, thought quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Bonnay, I’d rather you didn’t say I telephoned today. I have something special for her … a surprise,’ he improvised. ‘So please, not a word, it would only spoil everything.’

‘Of course I won’t tell her!’ Geraldine Bonnay assured him, her genuine sincerity echoing down the wire, ‘and just in case you do change your mind and want to talk to her tonight, or on Saturday, Alix is staying at the Bel-Air Hotel.’

‘I think not … the surprise, you know. But thank you for the information anyway.’

‘Oh it’s my pleasure, and it’s been lovely talking to you, Sir Maximilian.’

‘Likewise, Miss Bonnay. My thanks again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Maxim let his hand rest on the phone for a moment, fighting back his disappointment that Alix had left New York the very same day he had arrived. He had so wanted to see her, to spend time with her. He ought to have checked with her about her plans, he supposed, made sure she was going to be in the city for the weekend. Obviously that would have been the most intelligent and sensible thing to do. On the other hand, if he had phoned from London he would have alerted her to his arrival and she, more than likely, would have fled. Or found innumerable reasons why she was not able to see him. Surprise was always the most successful technique to use with her he had discovered long ago.

He sighed under his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that Alix still harboured all manner of grudges, even though she persisted in denying this. He was equally convinced that her smouldering dissatisfaction with him was more than likely being fanned into a roaring bush fire by her brother. Michael had always had enormous influence over her, ever since their childhood, more so than anyone else and in an infinite number of ways. Furthermore, his son had his own axe to grind these days, filled with grievances and resentment as he was, and not a little anger. Maxim was patently aware of that anger, and the frustration in Michael, even though he, too, denied there was anything wrong just as his sister did. Children, Maxim muttered to himself. Why do they want to make things so difficult? As if life isn’t hard enough without having them inventing problems and blowing things out of all proportion.

Shifting slightly in the chair behind his desk, Maxim turned his head, allowed his gaze to rest on the photograph of Alix that stood framed in silver on the ebony table near the window along with other family portraits. This had been taken six years ago to commemorate her twenty-first birthday, and it struck him yet again what a lovely young woman the tomboy of a child had grown up to be, so fair and creamy of skin, with delicate bone structure in a face whose expression was invariably so serene, so calm it made him catch his breath. But most beautiful and striking were her eyes. Widely spaced and enormous, they were an unusual pale grey-green and filled with pellucid light. Alix was tall, as he was, and lissome, with a fine athletic body, and she moved with considerable grace and elegance. Aside from her great looks, his daughter had a quick, intelligent mind, and was extremely clever, most especially when it came to business and finance. In fact, she was as smart as her brother, perhaps even a fraction more astute than he, which was saying a great deal for her since Michael was brilliant.

Alix had wanted to come and work with him since her teens. He had been thrilled at the idea of having his daughter in the business, and everything had been planned most carefully. And then four years ago, just before she started at the New York office, they had quarrelled badly. It had been about her entanglement with a man whom he considered to be highly disreputable, amongst several other things which now seemed too petty to recall, and she had gone off in a huff and started a business of her own.

Without as much as batting an eyelash, she had opened an office in the middle of Manhattan, had set herself up as an art and antiques broker, working primarily with English and European dealers and leading art galleries.

She bought and sold only the most sought-after items, the kind of rare, precious and costly objects and paintings that generally made it to the auction floor of Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Some few years earlier she had taken several courses at Sotheby’s in London, and her knowledge of paintings and objets d’art was considerable. Also, she had been gifted with the beady, critical eye of a true expert who recognises excellence instantly and can just as quickly and easily spot a fake. These attributes, plus her extraordinary taste and natural head for business, had proven to be an invaluable combination. She had been successful right from the start and he was inordinately proud of her. Nonetheless, he still hankered after her presence at the office, wished she worked alongside him.

Perhaps it was not too late. Maybe he could still lure her into West International – once they had made their peace. And he was determined to do that. He heard his mother’s voice reverberating in his head … ‘It’s never too late to repair the damages of the heart, Maxim. It’s never to late to start over again, to come back to a loved one by mending a quarrel.’ His mother had said that to him countless times over the years and he had always believed her. He still did. He had to, because that belief reinforced his hope that he would win Alix back, that they would be as close as they were before their ghastly row.

He had never missed anyone as much as he missed his daughter.

Alix’s absence from his life was so acutely felt it was a genuine physical pain in the region of his chest. A savage ache that rarely if ever dissolved. He hurt in a way he never had before. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had once experienced this same kind of longing, this yearning for someone a long, long time ago.

It had been for Ursula.

Once again Maxim’s eyes strayed to the photograph of Alix.

She had the same fine blonde hair and flawless complexion as Ursula, the same lovely, luminous eyes full of dreaminess and tranquillity.

Ursula. He had thought of her so often recently; he began to wonder why she had been so much on his mind of late. Was it because his painful feelings about Alix echoed his feelings about her, the other one he had loved with such intensity and so completely? These feelings had been buried for so long, and buried so deep at that, he had been momentarily startled a few weeks ago when her face had sprung wholly formed into his mind for the first time in years. His memories of Ursula were very clear … unalloyed.

Maxim unlocked the top drawer of his desk and reached into the back, took out the black leather wallet which he kept there for safety. He opened it and gazed at the picture of Ursula held therein. It was a black and white shot, faded now, but time had not dimmed the lustrous eyes, the bright curving smile so full of trust and hope.

The wallet was worn, the leather cracked in places. He smoothed his hand over it, remembering. It had belonged to Sigmund …

Eventually he slipped it back into the drawer and he was surprised at the tightness in his throat, the way his eyes smarted, were unusually moist.

Resolutely pushing away this unexpected rush of profound emotion, Maxim stood up and walked across the cream-coloured stretch of carpet. He stood gazing out through the metal-mesh curtain that covered the plate-glass window of his office high up in the Seagram building, focused his attention on Park Avenue far below, but he hardly saw anything, so puzzled was he. The troubled mood that had beset him in London in the early hours of the morning seemed somehow to persist, and now, to cap it, he found himself dwelling on his past. Tearing his mind away from Ursula, Maxim brought his concentration to bear on the present. He had come to New York for the weekend hoping to see his daughter. But Alix was not available until Monday, perhaps even Tuesday. Today was Friday. The whole weekend stretched ahead.

What to do? More precisely, where to go?

He had a variety of choices. None appealed. There was his beautiful apartment on Fifth Avenue. If he went there he would undoubtedly be confronted by Adriana, whose sole purpose in life these days was to fight with him. He could go to the house he owned in Sutton Place, where he had installed Blair. If he did he would be exposing himself to a weekend of Blair’s nagging and veiled threats, except that they were not particularly veiled any more. There was his bucolic farm in Connecticut, but Adriana might conceivably get wind of his arrival in New Preston and come rushing out – to fight with him in the country instead of the city. She was certainly combative enough at the moment.

What he really wanted was to be alone.

Entirely alone.

There was only one place for that, and it was the perfect place. His beach house in East Hampton. Closed for the winter though it was, the house was more or less kept ready for his sudden arrival at any moment. It was a year-round house, proofed for the cold weather, and in the winter months the heat was kept on a low temperature at all times. Elias Mulvaney, his gardener and handyman, watched over the house, checked on it every day or so. And Mrs Mulvaney went in to dust once a week. All he had to do was telephone Elias and instruct him to go over to the house later that afternoon to turn up the heat, and arrange for Mrs Mulvaney to come in on Saturday and do a few chores. It couldn’t be simpler.

Maxim swung away from the window, strode back to his desk, well pleased with the idea of driving out to East Hampton for a couple of days. He would be able to indulge himself in that rare commodity – solitude. And do nothing except listen to music, take long walks on the beach. Mostly, though, he would do some very serious thinking, endeavour to bring a semblance of order to the chaos in his head.

He had an unconventional private life. It had long needed to be put in order. Yet he had not been able to commit himself to any action. Perhaps the time had come to do this, to normalise things. Also, he must make some decisions about Adriana and Blair. Only then would he be able to take himself in hand, get to the root of the personal crisis that threatened to engulf him, and in so doing solve his own inner conflicts.

The decision to go to the Hamptons for the weekend galvanised him, brought him out of the introspection that had held him in its grip since the previous night.

He opened his address book, picked up his private phone and dialled Elias Mulvaney’s number on Long Island. It rang and rang. No one answered. Maxim glanced at the clock on the desk. It was just turned eleven. No doubt Elias was making his daily rounds, checking on other homes, doing odd jobs for the permanent residents in the village who also employed him on a part-time basis. And Mrs Mulvaney was more than likely out marketing for the weekend groceries.

No problem, Maxim murmured to himself. I’ll reach one of them sooner or later. He pressed the intercom. ‘Douglas, would you come in, please.’

‘Right away.’

Within a couple of seconds, Douglas Andrews, Maxim’s private secretary at the New York office, hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers. A New Yorker born and bred, Douglas was about thirty-three, short, fresh-faced, dark-haired, with a pleasant, outgoing disposition and a willingness to work around the clock for Maxim. He had been his private secretary for five years and was devoted, loyal and fiercely protective.

‘Here are the legal documents on the Mystell deal which you asked me for. Peter Heilbron’s secretary just dropped this memo off for you. It’s regarding the Blane-Gregson takeover,’ Douglas said. As he reached the desk, he placed the papers in an empty chromium tray on the right-hand corner, then seated himself in the chair facing Maxim, his notebook in his hand, his pencil poised.

‘Thank you,’ Maxim said, glancing at the pile in the tray. ‘I’ll attend to those shortly. There’s a couple of things I’d like you to do, Dougie. Rent a car for me, please, and have it outside at four o’clock, and send one of the secretaries over to Bloomingdale’s food department to buy some provisions for me. A cold chicken, potato salad, a piece of Brie, some French bread and a carton of milk. That should do it. Okay?’

‘Yes, I’ll get on it right away.’ Try though he did, Douglas could not quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and he gave Maxim a curious stare. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

An imperceptible smile flicked onto Maxim’s face. ‘Obviously, Dougie. To my beach cottage in East Hampton, to be precise. For the weekend. Alone. I want a bit of peace, some quiet time to think. And I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Understand?’

Douglas nodded. ‘I do. Absolutely. I’ll deal with the car and send Alice over to the store, but are you sure that’s enough food for you? Maybe she should buy more.’

‘No, no, the chicken and the salad will do me fine for tonight. I can easily pick up some groceries in East Hampton village on Saturday morning.’

‘You’re pretty brave, leaving at four o’clock,’ Douglas volunteered, frowning. ‘You’ll have all that commuter traffic on the Long Island Expressway to contend with. It might be a better idea to drive out to the Hamptons later, say around six or so.’

‘Oh it’s not all that bad in winter, Dougie.’

‘I guess not. Still …’ Douglas’s voice trailed off. He could see that Maxim was already thinking about something else, and so he got up, headed for the door.

Maxim reached for the documents in the chromium tray, and called across to Douglas, ‘Please ask Peter if he can have a quick lunch with me. And if he is available, you might let the Four Seasons know that I’d like my usual table today, if that’s possible. Around one.’

‘Yes, Sir Maxim,’ Douglas murmured, opening the door, closing it quietly behind him, wondering if Maxim really was going to spend the weekend alone. Or did he have an assignation with some new lady love? Lucky devil, Douglas thought, he’s got it all. And then some. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes.

But would I really? Douglas asked himself as he sat down at his desk a moment later. Would I want that bitch Adriana for a wife? And as for the girlfriend over on Sutton Place, she’s not much better. More than once he had seen a look in Blair Martin’s baby blues that had immediately alerted him to her scheming ways. Graeme Longdon called her Miss Greedy Guts behind her back. Spot on, Graeme was.

How did such a lovely guy, such a prince of a guy, like Maxim West get hooked up with those two barracudas? Douglas sat shaking his head in bafflement. He came to the conclusion, as he had so often in the past, that men who were brilliant in business were not necessarily very smart when it came to the women in their lives. Fools rush in, he thought.

Still shaking his head, Douglas lifted the phone, dialled Peter Heilbron, head of West International’s acquisition team.

The phone was answered after one ring. ‘Heilbron here.’

‘It’s Dougie. The boss wants to know if you can have a quick lunch with him today. Downstairs. At one. I hope you can, because he seems a bit down in the mouth to me.’

‘I’m free … at least I’ll make myself free,’ Peter said quickly. ‘And what exactly do you mean by down in the mouth, Dougie?’

Douglas heard the concern in Peter’s voice, the anxiety surfacing. He said, ‘When the boss walked in off the Concorde this morning I thought he looked really lousy. Preoccupied. No, troubled is a better word, and a bit sad, or so it seemed to me. And that’s not like him. You know what an expert he is at veiling his feelings.’

‘Yes, I do. Business? Or personal, Dougie?’

‘I’m not sure … personal most probably.’

‘It has to be. There are no problems here, or at the London office that I know of … and I’d know –’ Peter bit off the end of his sentence. I hope to God those two women are not on the rampage again, he thought, dismay rising. He cleared his throat and said carefully, ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be too serious, Dougie. He would have mentioned it to me, if only in passing. I’m sure it’s merely tiredness.’

‘Yes,’ Douglas agreed, deeming discretion to be the wisest policy when it came to the subject of the boss. He had no intention of speculating, gossiping with Peter. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dougie continued. ‘He has been travelling a lot these past few weeks. By the way, nobody knows he’s in town except you and me and your secretary. I have a feeling he wants to keep it that way.’

‘I get your drift, Douglas, my boy,’ Peter responded. ‘That’s my other line ringing. Please tell the boss I’ll pick him up in his office just before one.’

Chapter Five

It took Maxim two and a half hours to drive from Manhattan to East Hampton.

By the time he reached the charming old village on Long Island the bleak January sky, so cold and remote and colourless, had long since deepened into curdled grey then quickly turned the colour of pitch. Only a few stars littered the horizon far out over the black and endless sea, and the orb of a moon, clear, high-flung, and silvered, was constantly obscured by scudding dark clouds.

Maxim glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he turned off Ocean Avenue into Lily Pond Lane, noted that it was almost six-forty-five. Not bad going, he thought, as he drove on, heading towards the Georgica Beach end of the lane where his cottage was located.

He had bought the house twelve years earlier. It was his private little retreat. At least that is the way he thought of it, and referred to it, and apparently his message had been clearly received by Adriana and Blair, both of whom knew better than to descend on him without an invitation, and these he rarely issued. He mostly stayed there by himself, or with his colleagues from West International.

Within a few minutes he was pulling up outside.

The cottage had grey shingles, white-painted shutters, a black door, and neat, squared-off chimneys. Set a little back from the road, it was fronted by sloping lawns, now covered with a sprinkling of hoary frost, along with a number of giant oaks which offered privacy the year round and plenty of cool leafy shade in the heat of the summer.

Although it was not a large house by Maxim’s standards, it more than adequately suited his needs, the type of bachelor life he led when he came out to the island. It was spacious without being sprawling, and the layout was well planned; the hall, big family kitchen, dining room and study were at the front of the house, the living room, which flowed into a library, was at the back. These two adjoining rooms overlooked the swimming pool, a small pool house and flower gardens; nestling at the far end of the rear lawn, beyond the flower beds, was a copse of trees that afforded the property additional privacy on this side of the house.

The upstairs consisted of two floors. On one were Maxim’s bedroom, bath and dressing rooms; on the other, two guest rooms with their own bathrooms, plus a third, larger bedroom which had been converted into an office, equipped with two modern desks, a typewriter and a computer, plus fax, xerox and shredding machines, as well as a battery of telephones.

Because of this super-efficient office, which Maxim thought of as a command post, he could come to the cottage whenever he wished, yet still be in touch with his business empire around the world. Often he brought along Douglas Andrews and Graeme Longdon, sometimes Peter Heilbron, to work on pending deals, especially in the summer months when they were glad to escape from the sweltering heat of the city for a few days at a stretch.

After parking against the kerb, turning off the ignition and the lights, Maxim took the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag from the back seat and alighted from the rented Jaguar.

It was a bitter night, with an icy wind blowing in from the Atlantic. He glanced about. The lane was in total darkness; there was not the slightest glimmer of friendly light from any of the other houses. But as he strode rapidly up the path between the lawns, the moon came out from behind the banked-up clouds, bathed the cottage and the path with silvery radiance. For a few moments it was like daylight.

Out of the corner of his eye Maxim noticed the station wagon parked a bit further along, wondered who it belonged to, instantly dismissed it as he hurried around to the side entrance of the cottage. He let himself in through the kitchen door, retrieved the bag of food he had dumped on the back step, and switched on the lights. Pushing the door closed with his foot, he carried the bag over to the circular table which stood in the centre of the floor.

The blue-and-white tiled kitchen was spotless. Everything gleamed brightly, was in its given place, and the room looked as if Mrs Mulvaney had only just cleaned it.

Perhaps she did do it today, Maxim thought. He had not succeeded in reaching either of the Mulvaneys before leaving the office, and aware of their diligence and reliability it now struck him that they might easily have been here when he was ringing their home.

Maxim shivered, became conscious of the chill in the air. The heat was on as usual but he realised that it needed to be turned up on a cold night such as this. Still shivering, he headed in the direction of the front hall, where the controls for the heating system were located in a cupboard under the stairs.

Pulling open the door leading into the hall, Maxim suddenly stopped in his tracks, one foot poised on the step. There was a faint noise, a pinging sound like metal hitting metal. It was barely discernible, but because Maxim’s hearing was extremely acute he always picked up the slightest sound wherever he was.

Puzzled, he stepped out into the hall.

Light from the kitchen streamed around him, and he could not fail to miss the television set standing on the floor, along with various pieces of equipment from the office upstairs.

Once more there was that odd pinging sound, then a small crash, a muffled curse.

The noises were coming from the living room, and immediately all Maxim’s senses were alerted to trouble. There was apparently someone in the house beside himself, an intruder, no doubt about that.

Moving with stealth, noiselessly crossing the hall, Maxim opened the door a crack. The living room was dark, as was the adjoining library. The latter was in his clear line of vision and he instantly saw the pinspot of light from a flashlamp, which was being trained around the room.

Deciding that surprise was his best bet, Maxim struck the master switch on the wall. Instantly, six table lamps in the two rooms blazed fully to life, flooding the area with brilliance.

Startled, the intruder swung around, saw Maxim. He was not very tall and slightly built, dressed entirely in black. He was holding a large black nylon laundry bag that bulged and was obviously filled to the brim with loot.

The burglar stood gaping at Maxim.

‘Drop that bag!’ Maxim yelled irately, his expression one of furious anger. The man did nothing, continued to gape. There was a dumbfounded look on his face, and he appeared to be momentarily paralysed.

With a rush, Maxim sprinted across the floor, heading directly for the intruder, confident he could tackle and overpower him before calling in the police to apprehend him.

Just before Maxim reached him, the burglar pulled a gun and fired.

Maxim heard the report, felt the bullet slam against his chest. He went down at once with a thud, sprawling between the living room and the library. The look of astonishment on his face changed to one of stunned shock.

Maxim thought: This can’t be happening to me … it can’t be ending like this … not after all I’ve been through … I can’t be dying at the hands of a petty thief …

The burglar stood stock still, listening.

He wondered if anyone had heard the shot, then dismissed this idea at once. There was nobody around. These houses were summer places. That’s why he had headed for the area earlier. He’d already pulled two other jobs down the block. Easy pickings they’d been. He hadn’t had to waste anybody in the other houses though. No one had walked in and surprised him, that’s why. Shame about the guy who just had. But he’d had to protect himself. The guy was big, powerful, could’ve taken him easy.

The burglar walked over to the body, looked down at it dispassionately. The man he had shot was lying on his side. He did not stir. Blood stained the front of his pale blue shirt, was already seeping onto the grey carpet, turning a patch of it a funny rust colour.

Shoving the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, he pivoted swiftly, returned to the library, grabbed a few more silver trinkets, threw them into the laundry bag. There was a pinging sound as they struck the items he had stolen from other homes in the vicinity. Glancing about, satisfied that he had ripped off the best of the small stuff here, he left the living room, switched off the lights as he headed out. He went through to check the kitchen, doused the lights there, returned to the hall.

He stood listening again.

The darkened house was as silent as the grave. So was the street. Nothing moved. No cars drove past. Methodically, he began to carry the pieces of equipment and the television set to the front steps. Once everything was outside, he dropped the latch on the door and pulled it tightly shut behind him. Still moving with speed and expertise, he went up and down the path until all of his booty had been stowed in the station wagon. Sliding in behind the wheel, he drove off without a backward glance.

He did not see one solitary person, nor any traffic, as he sped down Lily Pond Lane. He knew he was safe. Nobody ever came out here in this kind of freezing weather in the dead of winter. The body would not be found for weeks. And anyway, he couldn’t be linked to the man’s death. He had been smart, cool. He’d not left a single fingerprint, not even half of one. He knew better than that. He always wore gloves when he pulled jobs.

Elias Mulvaney sat at the kitchen table in his small, comfortable house behind the railway station in East Hampton. He was enjoying the warmth of the blazing fire, his second cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut on this icy night, and thinking about the afternoon he and Clara had just spent at their daughter’s house in Quogue.

It had been a red-letter day for them, visiting their first grandchild, revelling in her good health and prettiness, and in Lola’s happiness. She and Mickey, her husband of ten years, had been waiting a long time for this baby. Yep, it’s been the grandest day, Elias thought, and it has given Clara a real boost, made her forget her rheumatism. Clara had stayed on in Quogue for the weekend. Elias was certain she would be fussing and bustling, playing mother hen to the child and Lola, but he didn’t think there was any harm in that. None at all. Do her good, he decided, and picked up his mug, drank the rest of his coffee.

The shrilling of the telephone broke the silence in the kitchen, made Elias sit up with a small start. He rose, ambled across the floor to answer it.

‘Mulvaney here.’

‘Good evening, Elias, this is Douglas Andrews.’

‘Hello, Mr Andrews!’ Elias exclaimed warmly, his grizzled, weatherbeaten face lighting up. Douglas Andrews had been a favourite of his for several years. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

‘Very well, thanks, Elias. And you?’

‘Can’t complain,’ Elias replied.

‘I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to reach Sir Maximilian at the cottage, but there’s no reply. I was wondering if you’d heard from him this evening?’

‘Well, no I haven’t,’ Elias said, sounding surprised. ‘Been in Quogue all day, didn’t get back until seven. I didn’t even know Sir Maxim was out here.’

‘He did try to get hold of you several times today. Obviously, since you were in Quogue, there was no answer. Sir Maxim left the city around four-fifteen. I rented a Jaguar for him and he was driving himself. I figured it would probably take him about three hours, or thereabouts, and I started to call him around seven-thirty. I have a number of messages for him. I don’t understand why he’s not there, since it’s now turned eight already.’

‘Yes, Sir Maxim should have reached East Hampton by this time,’ Elias agreed. Because Douglas Andrews sounded so worried he tried to reassure him. ‘Mebbe the line is wonky in some way or other, it’s been mighty cold and windy out here these last few days, and we’ve had a lot of rain.’

‘Yes,’ Douglas said and paused. He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I must admit, I’m growing concerned. I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the road.’

‘Oh I’m sure he hasn’t!’ Elias exclaimed. ‘Sir Maxim’s a careful driver, you know that. Now don’t you worry none, there’s more’n likely a good explanation.’

‘It’s very important that I speak with him tonight, Elias, and I wonder if you’d mind going over to the cottage, checking things out for me?’

‘Sure, I’ll go immediately, that’s no problem. Just give me your number so I can call you the minute I get there.’ As he was speaking Elias picked up the pencil near the message pad, licked the end, quickly scribbled down Douglas’s number as it was reeled off to him.

‘Thanks, Elias, I’m very appreciative,’ Douglas finished.

‘I’m glad to be of help, Mr Andrews. Now remember what I said, don’t you worry none, you hear?’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Douglas replied, knowing that he would.

They hung up, and Elias hurried out into the passageway. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out his bunch of house keys and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Hanging on a coat stand near the door were his down-filled parka, a woollen scarf and a cap with ear flaps, and these garments he took down and put on. He picked up his gloves and left at once, anxious to get over to Maximilian West’s place as fast as he possibly could.

The pickup truck Elias used for running around the village was parked in front of his house, and he clambered in more agilely and swiftly than he usually did, and drove off down the street with a screeching of tyres.

Once he had crossed the railway tracks he sped through the village, heading for Lily Pond Lane, driving through streets unimpeded by traffic this evening. East Hampton was deserted, and it looked as if every one of the locals had left along with the summer residents. Within minutes Elias arrived at the grey-shingled cottage.

Alighting from the pickup truck, he walked briskly to the Jaguar parked immediately in front of him, shone his flashlight on the windows, peered inside. The car revealed nothing.

Elias swung around, began to walk up the path between the frost-covered lawns. As he approached the house he suddenly experienced such a strange sense of apprehension he was startled, and he stopped, taken aback at himself. He had been born and brought up in East Hampton, and in all of his sixty-five years of living here he had never felt uneasy or afraid.

But at this moment he was filled with a certain trepidation, and he did not understand why. It was eerie.

Elias looked up at the house.

The moon was high, a great chunk of silver shining vibrantly, casting its bright glow across the lines of the roof, the chimneys, the towering trees. The cottage was thrown into relief against the dark backdrop of the sky and the copse, and it looked unnaturally gloomy and sombre, almost sinister. No welcoming lights winked in the windows as they normally did when Maximilian West was in residence.

If Sir Maxim is inside then why are all the lights turned off? Elias asked himself, and continued to stare at the house worriedly. He knew Sir Maxim had arrived because of the Jaguar parked in the street next to his pickup truck. He wondered if Sir Maxim had had a heart attack or a stroke, and was lying somewhere in the house stricken and unable to phone for help. Sir Maxim was a young man, and he looked healthy enough, but you never knew about anybody these days. On the other hand, he could have gone for a walk. Elias dismissed this idea the moment it entered his mind. Who would go wandering around the neighbourhood on a freezing, bitter-cold night such as this? It then occurred to him that someone driving their own car could have picked Sir Maxim up and taken him out to dinner.

This last theory was the most reasonable explanation so far, and a feeling of vast relief washed over Elias. He hurried up the path, strode purposefully around to the side of the house and halted at the kitchen door.

Even though he was now convinced that Sir Maximilian West had gone to dinner with a friend, Elias nevertheless rang the doorbell several times. When there was no answer he took out the bunch of keys, found the right one, and let himself into the house. He switched on the lights, closed the door behind him, and, walking into the middle of the floor, he called out, ‘Hello, hello, anybody home?’

His question was greeted by total silence, but this did not particularly surprise him. He swung his eyes around the kitchen, spotted the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, went and looked inside, saw that it was filled with provisions for the weekend. Nodding knowingly to himself, he then strolled over to the door leading into the main entrance hall, determined to investigate further on the off chance that Sir Maxim had been taken ill.

When Elias opened the door, such a strong sense of foreboding assaulted him again, the hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Telling himself he was being a stupid old fool, and clamping down on this unexpected feeling of dread, which he considered to be ridiculous, he put the light on, glanced about, saw that there was nothing untoward here in the hall.

Reassured, Elias walked across to the double doors leading into the living room, flung them open, and flicked down the master switch. Instantly he saw the body on the floor.

He gasped, then exclaimed out loud, ‘Oh my God!’ His chest tightened, and for a split second he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his eyes staring, the expression on his face one of mingled horror and alarm.

After a moment or two Elias managed to take hold of himself and he walked over to the body. The shock he experienced was like a violent punch in the belly, and he gazed down at Maximilian West disbelievingly, feeling as though his legs were turning to jelly. He thought he was going to keel over, and he gripped the back of a chair, took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

Eventually he was a little calmer and he stepped closer, saw the blood, the gunshot wound, and his heart sank with dismay. The injury was serious. He knelt down, peering into Maxim’s face worriedly. It was ghastly, the colour of bleached bone. Elias searched for signs of life, brought his head nearer to Maxim’s chest. He was breathing. Just barely. Elias took hold of his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there.

Elias straightened, his face stark, his eyes glassy with shock. Who had done this? And why? Rage flooded him, and he thought of searching the house looking for clues. Instantly he changed his mind. Whoever had shot Sir Maxim had doubtless fled without leaving any telltale evidence. Besides, it was vital that he get help immediately, act with speed if he was to save Sir Maxim. He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.

‘East Hampton Village Police. Officer Spank speaking.’

‘Norman, it’s Elias here. I’m at the West house out on Lily Pond Lane. Sir Maximilian West has been shot,’ he said in a voice that was both shaky and shaken. It faltered slightly as he continued, ‘I just found him. Call Southampton Hospital for an ambulance. He’s alive but he looks as if he’s lost a lot of blood. So tell them to hurry. And you’d better get here as fast as you can.’

‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.

Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.

Maxim floated in space … in a great white void … in a vast nothingness.

He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.

Where was he?

He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.

Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.

And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air … it was light … musical … and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.

‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.

‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’

‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.

The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, Sir Maximilian is a healthy man, strong, robust. That’s an important factor. And he is in the best of hands here at Mount Sinai. He’s getting superior care and treatment, and he is being monitored night and day.’

Maxim made a supreme effort and finally he managed to lift his eyelids. He blinked, adjusted to the light.

The room where he was lying was quite large.

He saw a man in a white coat. That must be the doctor.

Then he became aware of the others standing at the bottom of the bed.

The women.

They were grouped in a semi-circle. He was conscious of five pairs of female eyes focused on him intently, watching him, waiting. His mother. His first wife. His third wife. His mistress. His daughter Alix.

All of the women in his life were assembled here, keeping vigil over him.

He snapped his eyes shut. He did not want to see them, nor deal with them.

Everything suddenly came back to him. He remembered driving to Long Island in the rented Jaguar, going into the cottage in East Hampton, surprising the intruder. Then the man had pulled a gun and shot him. He could not remember anything after that.

The doctor in the room had just mentioned Mount Sinai. So he had been brought to New York. How long had he been here? He had no idea.

He wondered if he was going to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

Teddy. Where was Teddy?

Maxim tried to open his eyes but the effort to do so was far too great.

He wanted Teddy. She could save him. She had always saved him in the past.

He could not die now. He must live. He had so much to do. So much to put right.

Maxim tried to speak but the words would not come out of his mouth.

Teddy. Oh Teddy where are you? Help … help … me …

He felt himself drifting back into the vast white nothingness, that great vaporous void that had engulfed him before, and he fought it, but it was too strong for him in his weakened state and it overwhelmed him.

And finally he succumbed to it, fell into a deep unconsciousness once more.