Читать книгу To Be the Best - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

Sir Ronald Kallinski, chairman of the board of Kallinski Industries, walked across the impressive marble lobby of Kallinski House at a leisurely pace.

Tall, slender, a man of dominating presence, he had black wavy hair, heavily frosted with white, and a saturnine face. He had inherited the eyes of his father David and his grandmother Janessa Kallinski; they were of the brightest cornflower blue and seemed all the more startling because of his weatherbeaten complexion.

Renowned for never appearing ruffled or dishevelled, no matter what the circumstances, he was always perfectly groomed and elegantly attired. This morning he was wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit with an impeccable white shirt and a pearl-grey silk tie. Although he was almost seventy, he was in such robust health and was so vigorous for his age he looked like a much younger man.

As he strolled through the vast entrance foyer, he nodded graciously to several people who recognized him, and paused to admire the Henry Moore reclining figure in the centre, which he had commissioned from the great English sculptor who also happened to be a Yorkshireman born and bred. Sir Ronald was as proud of his north-country origins as he was of his Jewish heritage.

After a brief moment of contemplation in front of the imposing piece of bronze, he continued on his way, pushed through the swing doors and stepped out into the street. He drew to an abrupt halt after taking only two steps, recoiling as the intense heat hit him. He had not realized how hot the day had become.

Sir Ronald could not abide heat of any kind. Upstairs in his executive suite, a series of handsomely-furnished rooms spanning the entire top floor of the giant office complex bearing his name, the atmosphere was icy cold, thanks to the air conditioning that was permanently turned up high and the well-shaded windows. This area of Kallinski House was generally referred to as ‘Antarctica’ by those who occupied it with him. Doris, his secretary of twelve years, had grown used to the freezing temperature by now, as had other executives who had been with him for more than a year or two, and none of them bothered to complain any more. They counteracted the chill simply by wearing warm sweaters in their offices. Even in winter, Sir Ronald kept the executive suite and his various homes as cold as he possibly dared without eliciting violent protests from staff, family and friends.

Earlier that morning he had contemplated walking to the Connaught Hotel; now he was relieved he had changed his mind and had ordered his car up from the garage. It was sizzling out here, and oppressive, hardly the kind of weather for sauntering through the busy streets of Mayfair.

His chauffeur had spotted him the instant he had emerged from the building and was already standing stiffly to attention next to the back passenger door.

‘Sir Ronald,’ he said, inclining his head respectfully, and opened the door wider.

‘Thank you, Pearson,’ Sir Ronald responded with a half smile, stepping into the burgundy coloured Rolls-Royce. ‘The Connaught, please.’

The car pulled away from the kerb and he settled back against the seat and stared absently ahead. He was looking forward to lunching with Paula and Michael. He had not seen her for several weeks and his son had been in New York for over two months and he had missed them both … in different ways.

His son was his good right hand, his alter ego, his heir apparent, and his favourite. He loved his younger son, Mark, very much; but Michael had a special hold on his heart. He was never quite sure why this was so. How could one explain these things? Sometimes he thought it was because his son was very much like his own father had been. Not that Michael looked anything at all like David Kallinski, being so much more Anglo-Saxon in appearance with his fair complexion and blondish hair. It had to do with a similarity of character and personality, and just as Sir Ronald had enjoyed a marvellous camaraderie with his father until the day of David’s death, so did he now with his son. It had been thus ever since the boy’s childhood, in fact, and he noticed Michael’s absences most acutely these days, was frequently lonely when his first born was travelling.

As for Paula, she was the daughter he had never had, or rather, the surrogate for the daughter who had not lived through her childhood. Miriam, their second child, born after Michael and before Mark, would have been thirty-four this year, if she had not died of encephalitis at the age of five. How they had grieved, he and Helen; they had not understood why she had been taken from them at such a tender age. ‘God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform,’ his mother had said to them at the time, and only in old age had he come to terms with that extraordinary belief.

Paula was the smartest woman he had ever known, except for Emma, and he appreciated her sharp and clever mind, her quickness, her business acumen. But she could also be very female at times and he missed her femininity as much as he relished his role as her sounding board and, on occasion, her adviser. He had a lot of admiration for Paula. She was a good mother as well as a successful executive. Hers was a hard road and she trod it most adroitly, rarely ever stumbled.

He wished his daughter-in-law were half as practical and down to earth as she was. The trouble with Valentine was that she lived in another world. She was airy fairy, a bit flighty, and forever discontented. Nothing was ever enough for her, or ever right, and he understood only too well Michael’s feelings. His son’s frustration had grown to monumental proportions over the years and the inevitable explosion, when it had come, had been violent. He had not been surprised. He had never approved of Valentine as a wife for Michael, not because she was a shiksa – differences in religion scarcely mattered to him – but because she was so shallow, unworthy really. He had always known this, but how did one tell such a thing to a young man in love? In any event, the divorce agreement had been concluded finally, after much bitter wrangling and the exchange of vast amounts of money. Michael, most fortunately, had succeeded in getting what he wanted – a decree nisi and joint custody of his three children, the boy, Julian, and the two younger girls, Arielle and Jessica.

A smile softened Sir Ronald’s stern face as he thought of his little granddaughters. If only Helen had lived to see them, it would have made her so happy. But his wife had died eight years ago. He had never stopped missing her, and when he had been given his knighthood by Harold Wilson in 1976 his joy had been tempered by sadness because Helen was no longer with him.

This singular honour had come as a genuine surprise to him. He had never asked for nor sought a title, nor had he tried to buy one by making heavy donations to charity. He was philanthropic, and he had his favourite causes, had contributed generously to medical research and the arts, but this had been done discreetly and without fanfare.

To be on the Prime Minister’s honours list was flattering, and especially since everyone knew the title had been earned and was therefore deserved. Kallinski Industries was one of the largest and most successful conglomerates in Great Britain, and as such it not only provided much-needed jobs for thousands but was a major exporter of British goods abroad. Ronald Kallinski had devoted his life to bringing the company to its present dominant position, and he was proud of his accomplishments. So was his country apparently, since this was the reason the knighthood had been bestowed upon him.

Sir Ronald was not the first Yorkshire Jew to be knighted; others had been singled out by grateful prime ministers over the years … men like Montague Burton, and Rudolph Lyons. But nevertheless he prized the honour, as if he had been the first, and most especially when he contemplated the Kallinski family’s early history, thought of his grandfather Abraham fleeing Russia and the pogroms in the last century, settling in the ghetto in Leeds, and eventually opening his tailoring shop in North Street. That little factory turning out piecework for the John Barran company – the first ready-made clothiers to start in Leeds after Singer invented the sewing machine – had been the beginning, the nucleus of the billion-pound empire that Kallinski Industries was today.

On the morning of his investiture his one regret had been that Helen, Abraham, his father David, Emma and Blackie had not been present to share his pride and happiness. The four old-timers in particular would have appreciated the significance of the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, truly understanding how far the Kallinskis had risen since Abraham, the young refugee from Kiev, had first set foot on English soil at Hull in 1880.

The Rolls-Royce came to a sudden stop in Carlos Place.

Sir Ronald shook off his thoughts, leaned forward, addressed his chauffeur: ‘Please pick me up around two-thirty, Pearson,’ he said as the uniformed doorman outside the Connaught Hotel stepped up to the car, opened the door for him, helped him alight.

They ‘Sir Ronalded’ him to death as he went from the front steps to the dining room, and a faint smile touched his eyes as he was shown to the table his son had reserved. Five years ago he had wondered how he would ever get used to being addressed by his title. But he had – and in no time at all.

After he had ordered a dry sherry, he took a sip of the iced water a waiter had placed before him, then sat back to wait for Paula and Michael.

Sir Ronald did a double take.

Paula and his son were heading across the restaurant in his direction, and she looked so much like Emma that it was quite amazing.

He realized, as she drew closer, that she was sporting a new hairdo, and that it was this which underscored her already-pronounced similarity to her grandmother. Her dark glossy hair had been cut short in a sort of sleek bob. It was chic and obviously of the moment, and yet to him it had the look of the 1930s. It brought to mind the film stars of his youth … and the elegant Emma he had known and admired as a boy.

He rose, took Paula’s outstretched hand in both of his, shared her broad and loving smile, kissed her cheek. They exchanged affectionate greetings, seated themselves next to each other, and at once started chatting animatedly.

Michael went to the other side of the table, took a chair, motioned to the waiter. After Paula and he had ordered aperitifs, he asked for the menus.

Turning to Paula, he said, ‘You’re always in such a hurry, so let’s order … then we can relax.’

‘Why not?’ she laughed and took the menu from the headwaiter.

The latter hovered next to the table, explaining the specialities of the day, and making his own recommendations. After a cursory glance at their menus, Paula and the Kallinskis followed his advice. All three asked for the cold poached salmon and cucumber salad, and Michael ordered a bottle of Sancerre.

The aperitifs had materialized in front of Paula and Michael whilst they had been ordering lunch, and once the waiters had disappeared, Sir Ronald raised his glass. He looked directly at Paula. ‘To the memory of your grandmother.’

‘To Emma,’ Michael toasted.

Paula smiled at them both. ‘Yes, to Grandy.’

They clinked glasses, sipped their drinks.

After a moment, Paula said, ‘I thought you’d remember what day it is today, Uncle Ronnie.’

‘We both remembered!’ Michael exclaimed.

Sir Ronald remarked, ‘How could anyone forget the passing of such a great woman. And she’d be so proud of you, my dear. You’ve never let her down, and you’ve held her dream wonderfully well.’

‘I hope so, Uncle Ronnie … I’ve certainly endeavoured to guard everything she built … and make it stronger.’

‘And you have,’ Sir Ronald said, regarding her warmly. ‘You’re as much of a genius at retailing as Emma ever was. You’ve displayed a great deal of vision over the years, and I can only commend you on everything you’ve done with the stores.’

‘Thanks, Uncle Ronnie,’ Paula said, smiling, enjoying his approval.

‘And I second everything Dad says,’ Michael declared emphatically. He took a sip of his Cinzano Bianco, then winked at her over the rim of his glass.

Paula’s violet-blue eyes filled with laughter. ‘You’re prejudiced, Michael. Actually, you both are.’

Sir Ronald settled back in his chair, said in a more confidential tone, ‘One of the reasons I invited myself to lunch is to seek your advice, my dear.’

Paula’s curiosity was instantly piqued, and she quickly asked, ‘But how can I possibly advise you? Why, you’re the wisest person I know, Uncle Ronnie.’

He made no response to this remark. It was almost as if he had not heard it. A preoccupied expression invaded his face; he took a sip of his sherry, then gave her a long and careful look. ‘Ah, but you can advise me, Paula. About Alexander. Or, to be more precise, you can give me an opinion.’ Sir Ronald briefly paused, before asking, ‘Do you think Sandy would sell Lady Hamilton Clothes to Kallinski Industries?’

This was the last thing Paula had expected to hear, and she was taken aback. She stared at Sir Ronald without speaking for a moment. ‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,’ she said at last in a surprised voice. ‘That division is far too important to Harte Enterprises. And to Harte stores, for that matter.’

‘Yes, it has great value to Sandy, and to you too, of course, since the Lady Hamilton line is made exclusively for Harte’s,’ Sir Ronald said.

Michael interjected, ‘He may want to unload it, Paula – for the right price, and to the right people. Let’s face it, Sandy has been terribly overburdened ever since that family débâcle, when he fired Jonathan and Sarah. He and Emily really have their hands full, and they have to work awfully hard running Harte Enterprises – ’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she cut in swiftly, ‘they seem to manage quite well, Michael.’

‘In any case, we’d be prepared to pay top money for that division,’ Michael added, determined to get his point across.

‘I’m sure you would,’ Paula replied evenly, ‘and I’m just as sure Sandy wouldn’t even consider it, no matter what you offered.’ She looked from the younger Kallinski to the older, rapidly and with quickening interest. ‘Why do you want to buy Lady Hamilton Clothes, Uncle Ronnie?’

‘We’d like to have our own women’s fashion division,’ Sir Ronald explained. ‘And to supply your stores with women’s ready to wear in much the same way we supply your men’s clothing, and to sell to your boutiques in the hotels. Just as importantly, we wish to start and to build up a strong export line.’

Paula nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

‘Obviously, we wouldn’t sell the women’s fashions in countries where you own retail stores,’ Michael pointed out. ‘We’re thinking of trading only in common market countries – ’

‘Excluding France,’ Sir Ronald interrupted, ‘since you have a store in Paris.’

‘Oh I know you’d never do anything to damage my business, that goes without saying,’ Paula murmured. ‘And I can see why you’d like the acquisition, Uncle Ronnie, it makes a lot of sense.’

She glanced at Michael. ‘But you know how conservative Sandy is, and bound by tradition. Those are just two of the reasons Grandy gave him control of Harte Enterprises. She knew it would be safe in his hands because he would never do anything to weaken its basic structure. Such as selling off a very, very profitable division,’ she finished dryly, but her mouth twitched with sudden amusement.

Both men laughed.

‘Touché,’ Sir Ronald said.

‘Yes, I do know exactly what kind of person Sandy is,’ Michael acknowledged, shifting in his chair. ‘And that’s why I suggested to Dad that we got your reading on the matter first.’

At this moment the waiter arrived with the food, and Michael changed the subject. The three of them chatted about inconsequential things for the next few minutes, and once they had been served, the sommelier poured the chilled white wine for Michael. After tasting it, he nodded approvingly.

Sir Ronald and Paula sipped their wine and both of them commented on its fresh dry taste and lightness, and then Sir Ronald put his goblet down. ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, and picked up his fork and cut into the poached salmon.

‘Bon appétit,’ Paula and Michael responded almost in unison.

They ate in silence for a while, but at one moment Paula swung her gaze between the two Kallinski men, and asked curiously, ‘Uncle Ronnie, Michael, why don’t you simply start your own women’s clothing division? Certainly you’ve got all the necessary resources.’

‘We thought of that, my dear,’ Sir Ronald admitted. ‘But quite frankly we’d prefer to buy a well-established brand. So much easier, you know. And it would save us an enormous amount of time – and money, of course, in advertising and promoting a new product.’

‘And surely there must be lots of manufacturers who would jump at the chance to sell to Kallinski Industries!’ she exclaimed.

‘I’m perfectly certain there are.’ Sir Ronald gave her a pointed look. ‘But I’m interested in Lady Hamilton Clothes because it was founded by Emma and my father all those years ago. He had a soft spot for the company long after he sold his shares to your grandmother, and so do I.’ Sir Ronald smiled wryly, and finished, ‘I must admit, I do feel rather sentimental about it.’

Paula placed an elegant, beautifully manicured hand on Sir Ronald’s arm, squeezed it affectionately. ‘But Alexander has no reason to sell that division … at least, not one I can think of, Uncle Ronnie. His sister’s been running it successfully for a number of years now.’ Her arched black brows drew together in a small frown. ‘Besides, what would she do if he sold Lady Hamilton? Amanda would be out of a job, and Sandy would always take that into consideration. You know how he fusses about her.’

‘She need not necessarily be out of a job,’ Michael was quick to announce. ‘Amanda’s terrific at what she does. She’d remain with the company and run it for us.’

Paula made no comment. She toyed with the cucumber salad on her plate, suddenly acknowledging to herself that if Lady Hamilton were ever up for grabs Sandy ought to sell it to the Kallinskis. In a way they were entitled to it.

Sir Ronald dabbed his mouth with his napkin and ventured, ‘I’d like to pose a hypothetical question, Paula.’

‘Of course.’ She looked at him alertly, wondering what was on his mind now.

He said, ‘Let us just suppose that Alexander did want to sell Lady Hamilton, was anxious to do so, in fact. Could he? Or would he have to go to the other shareholders, get their agreement?’

‘Oh no. There’s only Emily, and she would go along with anything her brother wanted to do. She always has, you know.’

Puzzlement flickered in Sir Ronald’s eyes and he leaned back in his chair, regarding Paula thoughtfully. After a second, he said slowly, ‘Only Emily … But surely you told me several years ago that Sarah and Jonathan still owned their shares in Harte Enterprises, even though they were thrown out of the company because of their shoddy behaviour.’

‘That’s perfectly true, they do. They draw their dividends, receive the company reports and balance sheets, but they have no power whatsoever. But then, neither does Emily, now that I think about it.’

Sir Ronald appeared to be more baffled than ever.

Recognizing this, Paula said, ‘Let me clarify things for you, Uncle Ronnie, and for you too, Michael.’

Father and son nodded and Sir Ronald said, ‘Please do, my dear.’

‘My grandmother left fifty-two per cent of Harte Enterprises to Sandy. The remaining forty-eight per cent was split three ways between Emily, Jonathan and Sarah, who each received sixteen per cent. As chairman of the board and majority stockholder, Sandy can do virtually anything he wishes in the company, or with it, for that matter. This is the way Grandy set it up. Whilst she wanted all four of them to draw income from the company, she knew Sandy must have absolute power to prevent any bickering between the four cousins. She felt Sandy had earned, and also deserved, the bulk of the shares in her privately owned company. She gave total control to him because she knew that he would always abide by her wishes.’

‘Ah, yes, I can see the sense in everything your grandmother did.’ Sir Ronald never failed to be impressed by the late Emma Harte’s clever strategy. He went on, ‘As usual, Emma was shrewd – and most prudent, I might add. Certainly Sandy has guided Harte Enterprises through some rough periods and done admirably well in the past few years.’

Quickly Michael said, ‘Look, Paula, I know you’re adamant about Sandy not being interested in selling, and perhaps you’re right. At least about his attitude at present. But he may well change his mind and decide to pare down Harte Enterprises … one day in the future …’ Michael paused. There was a speculative expression on his face as he added, ‘No?’

Paula could not help smiling at his dogged persistence. ‘So you’d like to talk to him anyway, explain that Kallinski Industries are standing in the wings, if ever he decides to get rid of Lady Hamilton Clothes. Is that what you’re trying to say?’ she asked with a laugh.

Michael nodded. ‘That’s exactly it. You wouldn’t object if Dad did have a word with him, would you, Paula?’

‘No, of course not. There’s no harm in letting Alexander know about your interest in the division.’ She swung to the older man. ‘Are you going to Yorkshire this weekend, Uncle Ronnie?’

‘Yes, I am, my dear.’

‘Then why don’t you drive over to Nutton Priory, and have a chat with him. He’s always much more relaxed when he’s in the country.’

‘I think I shall do that,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘And my thanks to you, Paula, you’ve been most helpful.’

Michael flashed her one of his engaging smiles. ‘Yes, thanks, we really do appreciate your input.’ He sipped his wine and his light blue eyes grew thoughtful and after a moment he asked, ‘By the way, just out of curiosity, is Sarah Lowther still married to that French painter? Or don’t you hear anything about her any more?’

‘Obviously not directly, since I kicked her out of the family along with Jonathan,’ Paula murmured, the gaiety on her face instantly fading. ‘But there was a piece on Yves Pascal in a French magazine about six months ago … Paris Match, I believe. Anyway, amongst the many photographs was one of Sarah and Yves and their five-year-old daughter, Chloe. Seemingly they live in Mougins in the Alpes-Maritimes. They own an old farmhouse; that’s where he has his studio. He’s known as the enfant terrible of French art, and he’s become very big, immensely successful.’

Michael said, ‘He’s a damned good painter actually, although his work’s not my cup of tea. Having been raised on the school of French Impressionist painting, all this ultramodern stuff leaves me utterly unmoved. Give me Monet, Manet, Sisley and van Gogh any day of the week.’

‘Absolutely,’ Paula agreed.

‘And talking of Sarah, whatever happened to her partner in crime, Jonathan Ainsley?’ Michael stared at Paula, frowning. ‘Is he still lurking in the Far East?’

‘I believe so, but not even Sandy knows for sure,’ Paula said, her voice low and unemotional. ‘Friends of Emily’s reported seeing him in Hong Kong, and then Singapore on another occasion. Jonathan’s dividends and the balance sheets of Harte Enterprises go to a firm of accountants here in London who handle his business seemingly.’ She made a sour face. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t show up in England, that’s all that matters to me. As Emma would have said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’

‘Christ, yes!’ Michael began to shake his head wonderingly. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why he did what he did. He was such a fool – bloody stupid if you ask me. He had everything going for himself and he threw it all away.’

‘Perhaps he believed he would never get caught,’ Sir Ronald ventured to Michael. ‘But then I’m sure he hadn’t bargained for this one here.’ He glanced at Paula through the corner of his eye, patted her arm and finished with a chuckle, ‘He met his match in you, my dear, no doubt about that whatsoever.’

Paula attempted to laugh with him but it came out sounding forced and artificial, and for a moment she did not trust herself to speak. She was hating this discussion about Jonathan Ainsley, her cousin, her deadly enemy of long ago.

Michael pressed, ‘And so nobody in the family knows what he’s doing for a living?’

Paula stared at Michael through eyes grown bleak and flat. She gave him a long and careful look, and pursed her lips, a habit she had picked up from her grandmother years before. After a split second, she said with a certain pithiness, ‘Jonathan Ainsley doesn’t have to earn a living, since he receives a very sizeable income from Harte Enterprises.’ There was a small pause before she thought to add, ‘And nobody’s ever bothered to find out about his personal or business life … because none of us care what’s happened to him.’ Now frowning in perplexity, and pinning Michael with her vivid blue gaze, Paula asked testily, ‘Why the sudden preoccupation with Jonathan anyway?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about him in years, and now, unexpectedly, I’m riddled with curiosity,’ Michael admitted with a rueful grin.

‘I’m not.’ Despite the warmth of the Connaught dining room, Paula shivered. She had never forgotten the last words Jonathan had spoken to her … I’ll get you for this, Paula Fairley. Sebastian and I will bloody well get you, he had screamed, shaking his fist at her in the most ridiculous way, like the villain in a Victorian novel. Well, Sebastian Cross could not ‘get her’ since he was dead. But Jonathan would if he could. Sometimes she had nightmares about her cousin, nightmares in which he did her terrible harm. He was certainly capable of it. Capable of almost anything. She knew that from their childhood. Once, a few years ago, she had confided her fears in Sandy, who had laughed and had told her to dismiss Jonathan from her mind. Sandy had reminded her that Jonathan was a bully and, like all bullies, a coward. This was true; nevertheless, she had never been able to expunge the memory of the day Sandy had fired him. It was only too easy to recall the baleful look in Jonathan’s eyes, the mask of hatred contorting his face and instinctively, ever since then, she had known he would always remain her enemy until the day they buried him. Ten years had passed and she had not set eyes on him again, none of them had, in fact, and yet deep down inside her was this small kernel of fear.

Suddenly becoming aware that Michael and Sir Ronald were watching her, were waiting for her to say something, she turned towards Michael. Adopting the lightest of tones, she said, ‘Master Ainsley turned out to be a bad penny, and the least said about him the better.’

‘Quite so, my dear, quite so!’ Sir Ronald muttered. He had grown conscious of the change in her demeanour whilst they had been discussing Ainsley and he decided it would be wise to change the subject. And so he said with a rush of genuine enthusiasm, ‘I received your invitation to the dinner dance you’re giving for the sixtieth anniversary of the store, Paula, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. Now, tell me more about the other celebrations you’ve planned.’

‘Oh I’d love to, Uncle Ronnie, I have some really special things coming up – ’ She cut herself off as the waiter drew to a standstill at the table. ‘But perhaps we should order dessert first,’ she went on, accepting one of the menus being thrust at her.

‘Splendid idea, and I do recommend the sorbets,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘It’s really far too hot for anything else, isn’t it?’

Paula nodded. ‘I think that’s what I’ll have.’ She glanced at the waiter, half smiled. ‘A lemon sorbet for me, please.’

‘You can make that two,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘And what about you Michael, will you join us?’

‘Oh, no.’ Michael threw his father a look of mock horror and grimaced. ‘Only coffee for me.’

As the waiter went off with their order, Michael’s eyes swept over Paula appreciatively. He grinned as he remarked, ‘It seems to me you can eat anything and never put on an ounce … I’m afraid I have to watch myself these days.’

Paula shook her head and laughed with him. ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re trim enough, Michael.’

Swivelling to face his father, she now picked up the conversation where they had left off a moment ago, and launched into a recital about the forthcoming events to be held at the Knightsbridge store later that year.

Michael had settled back in his chair, toying with his wine glass. He was only vaguely listening to Paula.

His mind remained focused on Lady Hamilton Clothes and the endless possibilities the company held for them, if they were lucky enough to buy it back from Harte Enterprises. Amanda Linde, Sandy’s half sister, had been creating the line for a number of years now, and in his opinion she was a far better designer than Sarah Lowther had ever been. Her clothes were easy and comfortable to wear, and yet they had a special kind of elegance because she always managed to give them a touch of the Harte class. Her designs would sell as well in other Continental countries as they did in France, of that he was quite certain.

Michael’s mind turned on business matters.

Sir Ronald and Paula continued to chat about her celebratory plans for the store’s anniversary. Their voices were a faint murmur, barely audible against the buzz of the lunchtime crowd in the busy restaurant.

The waiter came back and served the dessert, poured the coffee.

Michael picked up his cup, further ruminating on the talented Amanda. If they bought Lady Hamilton, whether now or in the future, she would have to remain as head fashion designer and managing director. That was an imperative. If she was in any way reluctant to stay on, to work for them, he would have to come up with some special inducements –

Paula’s sudden laughter reverberated on the warm air, cut into his myriad thoughts. It was a full, throaty, curiously sexual laugh and it caused Michael to lift his head swiftly.

He glanced across the table at her. She was spooning sorbet into her mouth. A small glob of it clung to her upper lip and she licked it off with the tip of her tongue and went on eating. He watched her, fascinated, and as he did he experienced the most extraordinary physical attraction to her. His reaction unnerved him. Michael held himself perfectly still in the chair, dropped his eyes and stared into his coffee cup.

When he eventually looked up she had finished the sorbet and her face was averted as she responded to something his father had just said. He blinked, not understanding himself at all. He must be mad to think of Paula in this way.

Brilliant sunshine was pouring in through the window immediately behind her and it encircled her with shimmering light, brought her into focus as if she were under a pinspot on a stage. Her colouring appeared to be more vivid than ever … the black hair, the violet eyes, the incomparable skin touched with a faint tan like the golden bloom on a summer peach. How vibrantly alive she was at this moment … and how very sexual.

Michael, who had never felt anything but fraternal affection for Paula, was filled with a fierce desire to make love to her. He took a steely hold of his feelings, which had flared so suddenly, and lowered his head, fearful that something would show in his face, that his eyes would betray his lust for her. Why? he asked himself. Why do I want to take her to bed now after knowing her for so many years? He gazed intently at the small vase of flowers in the centre of the table, his face unreadable as he endeavoured to quell his emotions.

Sir Ronald was saying, ‘And I shall be in Paris next weekend, Paula, en route to Biarritz. If you’re going to be over there, visiting the Paris store, perhaps we could dine together.’

‘No, I won’t be in Paris next weekend – ’ Paula began, and came to an abrupt halt. ‘Oh damn!’ she exclaimed, sitting up jerkily in her seat, frowning, remembering the note on her desk. She had forgotten to cancel the Paris airline reservation which had been made for her for later in the day.

‘Is something wrong?’ Sir Ronald asked in concern.

‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ Paula assured him, making a mental note to telephone British Airways the minute she returned to her office. ‘I forgot to do something before lunch, but there’s no problem, really there isn’t, Uncle Ronnie.’

Michael, who had managed to extinguish his erotic thoughts about Paula, gave his father a puzzled look. ‘Why are you going to Biarritz at this time of year. Dad? The season’s over.’

‘Yes, I know it is … but I’m going to look at an Imperial Russian Easter Egg by Fabergé,’ Sir Ronald announced with obvious pleasure.

He beamed at them both. ‘My art dealer in Paris has a client in Biarritz. A very old lady. A White Russian lady. She is apparently ready to sell her jewelled egg at long last. And, quite naturally, I want to get there first, before the American publisher Malcolm Forbes or any other serious collector hears about it and snaps it up before I do. You know how extremely rare the Fabergé eggs have become.’ Sir Ronald peered at his watch, clucked to himself, and before Michael had a chance to comment, he rapidly went on, ‘And that reminds me, I have an appointment at Wartski’s in fifteen minutes. Kenneth Snowman recently acquired a cigarette box which belonged to Czar Nicholas the Second. It’s by Perchin, one of the greatest of the Faberge designers, and I promised I would pop in to see it this afternoon.’

‘I’m delighted for you, Dad, and I hope that you manage to get both items,’ Michael said with real sincerity, knowing how important collecting these beautiful objects had become to his father. What had begun as a vague hobby had turned into a grand passion. The Kallinski Faberge Collection was renowned, and was frequently on exhibition with the Sandringham Collection, which had been started by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, sister of the Czarina Marie Feodorovna, later added to by Queen Mary and now owned by Queen Elizabeth II.

Michael smiled at his father. ‘Since you’re in a hurry, I’d better get the bill, Dad,’ he said, and motioned to their waiter.

Sir Ronald glanced at Paula. ‘If you wouldn’t mind dropping me off at Wartski’s first, my car can then take you back to the store, my dear.’

‘Thanks, Uncle Ronnie, that’ll be lovely.’

‘Michael, can I give you a lift too?’

‘Oh no,’ Michael said, suddenly having no wish to be around Paula any longer than was necessary today. ‘Thanks anyway, Dad, but I prefer to walk.’