The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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