To Be the Best (56 page)

‘Whatever Jonathan Ainsley’s business is with you, seemingly it could affect this bank, the other banks you deal with in the City, and the Harte stores.’

‘I’m more puzzled than ever! You must explain in greater detail!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t, Paula,’ Charles exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. ‘I’m not being evasive. Please believe me, I’m not. Sir Logan gave me only the broadest outlines. He, too, did not wish to have a protracted conversation about confidential business over the phone. However, he did stress the importance of the matter to all of us. That’s why I’m agreeing to the meeting. It sounds critical. Furthermore, I deem your presence to be crucial.’

‘I’ll be there, Charles. At five sharp.’

‘Good. One more thing…I must forewarn you, Paula. Jonathan Ainsley will be in attendance this afternoon.’

‘I see,’ she answered grimly.

After she had said goodbye and hung up, Paula leaned back in the chair, pressed her fingers to her eyes. She was so stunned it took her a few minutes to gather her scattered thoughts, to get her mind working properly again.

She focused her concentration on her cousin.
Jonathan Ainsley,
she thought.
Why has he come back? What does he want?
She had no answers for herself. But she did remember the threat he had made against her years before, and her blood ran cold.

It was exactly five minutes to five when Paula walked into the Rossiter Merchant Bank in the City of London.

Charles Rossiter’s private secretary was waiting for her in the reception area and took her into Charles’s office at once.

The chairman of the bank, an old family friend, hurried to greet her, kissed her on the cheek.

‘Have they arrived?’ Paula asked as they drew apart, stood regarding each other worriedly in the middle of the room.

‘Yes, about fifteen minutes ago. They’re waiting for us in the board room.’

‘Do you know more about all this now, Charles?’

‘A little. Sir Logan discussed it with me briefly.’

‘Jonathan Ainsley owns shares in Harte’s, doesn’t he?’

Charles nodded.

‘He bought some, or all, of my ten per cent, which I put on the market recently, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes.
All of it.
’

‘I thought so. I figured that much out on the way here,’ Paula murmured, giving the banker a bleak little smile.

‘He wants a seat on Harte’s board of directors.’

‘He can’t ask that! Owning ten per cent of the shares doesn’t give him the right to ask that! He can go to hell!’

‘He’s demanding it, Paula. And in my estimation he’s out to make trouble for you.’

‘Obviously, Charles. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to come all the way from Hong Kong. Now, shall we go in? Get it over with?’

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Charles agreed, escorting her across the room. He opened the side door which led directly into the oak-panelled board room of the bank.

Sir Logan Curtis, small, grey-haired, younger looking than she had expected, came forward as they walked in.

‘Mrs O’Neill, I’m Logan Curtis,’ he announced before Charles had a chance to make the introduction. He smiled as he offered her his hand.

Paula took it. ‘How do you do,’ she said in a businesslike tone. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jonathan seated at the conference table. He did not rise, neither did he greet her, and she did not acknowledge him.

Sir Logan said, ‘Your cousin wishes to speak with you privately, Mrs O’Neill. We will withdraw, leave you alone together.’ He glanced pointedly at Charles Rossiter as he walked over to the door.

The banker, who did not appreciate being pushed around in his own board room, was seething inside. He turned to Paula. ‘Is that all right with you?’ he asked, his expression one of concern for her.

‘Yes, of course, Charles,’ she responded evenly.

Charles Rossiter could not help admiring her coolness, her extraordinary poise under the circumstances. Nevertheless, he felt bound to add reassuringly, ‘I’ll be next door in my office, if you should need me, Paula.’

‘Thanks, Charles, you’re most considerate.’ She smiled at him as he slipped out and closed the door quietly behind him.

Alone in the room with her cousin, she turned slowly, walked towards the conference table.

Jonathan’s eyes did not leave her face. He was elated, knowing he had the upper hand, enjoyed playing cat and mouse with her. He had waited a long time to get his revenge on Paula O’Neill, and now at last it was within his grasp. Earlier, he had resolved not to get up or ask her to sit down. He was not going to pay tribute to this cold, calculating bitch, who was the reincarnation of his diabolical grandmother, Emma Harte.

Paula came to a stop a few feet away from the table. She
returned his stare unflinchingly. Her blue eyes were cold, steely.

Jonathan spoke first. He said in his smoothest voice, ‘It’s been a long time since we faced each other across a conference table. I do believe the last time was twelve years ago, when the saintly Alexander gave me the sack, and you kicked me out of the family.’

‘I’m perfectly certain this meeting wasn’t arranged in order that you and I could reminisce about old times,’ Paula snapped. ‘So let’s get to the point, shall we?’

‘The point is that I have –’

‘I know you hold shares in Harte stores,’ she said sharply, cutting him off. ‘Ten per cent. I also know that you think you’re entitled to a seat on the board. The answer is
no,
you’re not. And now that you have my answer, I will leave.’

Paula pivoted, walked back to the door. Her intelligence and shrewdness told her that he had more up his sleeve, so she was not surprised, or perturbed, when he said, ‘I haven’t finished with you, Paula. I have something else to say to you.’

She paused, turned to look at him. ‘What is it?’

‘Over these many years I’ve been purchasing Harte shares through various nominees. Altogether, I now hold twenty-six per cent.’

Although this startled her, she managed not to show it. She kept her face still, her eyes steady, decided to make no comment. She watched him alertly. Instinctively, her guard went up.

Jonathan went on, ‘Furthermore, I also have the voting power over another twenty per cent – ‘ He paused for dramatic effect, and a smug smile slowly spread itself across his face. ‘Just think, Paula, forty-six per cent in my hands! And you only have forty-one per cent now.’ He laughed triumphantly. ‘I actually control more shares in the Harte stores than you do!’ A gloating expression slid into his eyes.
‘How unwise of you to put yourself in such a vulnerable position…just to buy the Larson chain in the States.’

The shock Paula felt was so enormous she thought her legs were going to give way under her. But she managed to keep herself upright and steady, despite the tremors running through her whole body. She dare not allow any reaction to show.

Keeping her voice low, composed, she remarked, ‘And whose twenty per cent do you control?’

‘The shares left to James and Cynthia Weston, by their grandfather, the late Samuel Weston.’

‘They are minors. Those shares are in the control of their solicitors, executors of their grandfather’s estate. And traditionally Jackson, Coombe and Barbour have always voted those shares with me, as Sam Weston did when Emma Harte was alive.’

‘Allegiances can change, Paula.’

‘I find it hard to believe that Jackson, Coombe and Barbour would involve themselves with you.’ ‘Believe it…it’s true.’ ‘You’re bluffing.’

‘Not at all.’ He rose, strolled down the other side of the room. Half way to the door he stopped, swung around. ‘It’s only going to take me a week or two to buy the five per cent I need to get control of Harte’s. You’d better start packing your things, lady, and clear out of your office. I’m moving in.’ He gave her a cold, penetrating stare, his bitter loathing for her surfacing. ‘I’m putting you on notice. I am going to make a takeover bid for Harte’s. And I promise you, I will succeed. I will be the winner this time! And
you
are going to be the loser, Paula O’Neill!’

She did not deign to answer him.

He slammed the door behind him as he left the board room.

*

Paula sank into the nearest chair.

She was filled with an internal shaking, and she clutched her bag in her lap to keep her hands from trembling. It seemed to her that all her strength had drained away.

Charles Rossiter appeared in the doorway. He rushed across the room to her, his face as white as hers, his expression grave, his eyes reflecting his apprehension.

‘I knew we had trouble brewing this afternoon, when I received that phone call. But I didn’t anticipate that it was going to be this bad,’ he cried. ‘Sir Logan Curtis just briefed me fully on Ainsley’s intentions. I’m flabbergasted.’

Paula nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Her composure was shattered.

Charles peered at her. ‘Let me get you a brandy. You look awful.’

‘Thanks, but not brandy, Charles. I don’t like it. Do you have vodka?’

‘Yes, I’ll go and get it. I need a drink myself.’

He returned in a moment with a bottle and two glasses from the bar in his private office. He poured, handed her a glass. ‘Just knock it back. It’ll do the trick.’

She did as he said, felt the sting of the alcohol in her throat, then a warm sensation. After a moment, she said slowly, wonderingly, ‘I find it difficult to believe that a staid, old-fashioned firm of solicitors like Jackson, Coombe and Barbour have done this. Thrown their lot in with Jonathan.
Could
he be bluffing, Charles?’

‘I doubt it. Anyway, why
would
he? Besides, having Sir Logan Curtis at his side was a manoeuvre on his part to show you –
to show me
– that he is absolutely above board, very legitimate, and that everything he is trying to do is perfectly legal. Sir Logan told me he is rich, a tycoon in his own right, head of a big company, Janus and Janus Holdings, in Hong Kong. He and his wife have been staying at Claridge’s for some time. No, Paula, I am afraid this is no bluff.’

She exclaimed irately, ‘But why would Arthur Jackson go against me? Agree to vote those shares he controls with Jonathan’s?’

‘There is no question in my mind that Ainsley has offered Jackson a fabulous inducement to vote with him, something beneficial to those children. Ainsley must have some sort of agreement with the law firm, Paula. He wouldn’t have come here today if he hadn’t been holding all the cards.’

She nodded miserably, knowing he was correct.

Charles continued, ‘He wanted to undermine your reputation as CEO of Harte’s with our bank, of course, shake our confidence in you. That’s why he asked for the meeting to be held here. Clever devil, isn’t he? However, I just want to say this…
I
am behind you, Paula. This
bank
is behind you. As we were always behind your grandmother.’

‘Thank you, Charles.’ She stared at him morosely. ‘I’m in a mess.’

‘Yes, you are.’ He paused thoughtfully, added, ‘The mere
rumour
of a takeover bid for Harte’s could be disastrous for you.’

‘I know.’ Abruptly, she jumped up.

Charles was taken aback. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I have to get some air. I’m going back to the store.’

‘But surely you want to talk with me further, work out some sort of strategy, Paula.’

‘I’d prefer to do that tomorrow, Charles, if you don’t mind. I feel the need to be alone right now, if you’ll excuse me.’

She sat at her desk in her office at Harte’s in Knightsbridge, the world’s most famous department store, her special territory, her strong citadel.

She was unable to move or think or focus on anything except the terrible problems facing her. She felt as if she had
been bludgeoned about her head and her body. Her brain was still reeling, and, from time to time, waves of panic swept through her, blocking all rational thought.

For the first time in her life, Paula O’Neill was afraid.

She was frightened of Jonathan Ainsley, of the power he had over her, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. His spectre loomed like a black cloud. And she detested the feelings of helplessness, of powerlessness…

He has me cornered,
she thought, trying to quell the nausea rising in her again, as it had been doing off and on for the past hour.
He’s going to ruin me, as he threatened he would all those years ago. And I’ve no one to blame but myself.

The queasy feeling intensified and she ran into the bathroom in the adjoining dressing area. Leaning over the washbasin, she retched and retched until she thought there was nothing left inside her. When she finally straightened, looked at herself in the mirror, she saw that her face was the colour of putty; her eyes were red, watery, her cheeks streaked with mascara. After cleaning them with a damp tissue, she filled a glass with cold water, drank it gratefully. The vodka made me sick, she told herself, all the while knowing this was not so. It was nerves and fear and panic that were having such a dire effect on her system.

Returning to her office, she moved quickly towards the desk, then came to a halt in the centre of the room. The portrait of her grandmother hanging over the fireplace caught her attention, brought into focus as it was by the picture light on top of the frame. Aside from the lamp on her desk, this was the only illumination in the shadow-filled room. Consequently, the portrait stood out in bold relief. Walking over to it, she stood staring up at the beloved face of Emma Harte, captured with such life-like precision in oils.

Oh Grandy, what have I done? How could I have been so stupid? I’ve jeopardized all that you built, put myself in jeopardy. You asked me once to hold your dream, and I’ve done just the
opposite. I’ve let you down. I have made the most terrible error. Oh Gran, whatever am I going to do? How can I retrieve the situation? Regain the advantage to prevent the stores from falling into the wrong hands?

The beautiful face in the portrait gazed back. The smile was benign, but the green eyes were watchful and shrewd.