The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.’
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