‘So I’ll sell a few shares, offer him five million in cash, the rest in Parados stock, and a place on our board.’
‘And what if he wants more?’ Sharon Proctor had met the object of her husband’s proposed largesse a couple of times at national conferences. She had taken an instant dislike to the man.
The pug-face broke into a sly smile. His beautiful wife was a born sceptic, not altogether a negative trait in the world of big business. ‘Look, my plan is to let our friend continue on the inside as if nothing had happened, until the time is right for a complete takeover. We don’t want their share price to go through the roof, do we? Once KleinKinloss is a subsidiary of Parados, I’ll let him run his former company. Now tell me how he can refuse that.’
‘Kevin Kinloss is a shit and you know it, Jack,’ she said, scooping some more roast potatoes onto his plate.
Jack Proctor chuckled. ‘They say it’s lucky to step on shit, my love.’
Jonathan Tring had had a hard time controlling an urge to telephone the mercurial Fiona straight after the fortuitous, if rather bizarre, roadside encounter that had served only to increase his lust for her. He had left it a couple of days, only to then suffer mounting frustration when his calls were met with an answer phone jingle that was both inane and irritating. Sorties in all weathers to the public phone box near his home were not conducive to maintaining an even temper. Thus it was with considerable relief when he had at last managed to make a contact of sorts. The elderly female voice at the other end of the line had said she had been expecting his call and that she was Fiona’s great aunt. She had also named a wine bar in Chigwell village where he could meet the young lady in question at nine the following evening.
As Tring entered Blades Wine Bar, he couldn’t help wondering when all this cloak and dagger stuff would end. At first his eyes caught only a few disparate figures propping up the bar. Three middle-aged men and a considerably younger brunette were engaged in animated conversation about the effects of the male menopause. He was about to order a drink and suffer more of their psychobabble when he noticed a lone female figure deep in one of the bar’s dimly lit alcoves. She had her back to him. He edged tentatively towards her. ‘Fiona?’ he half-whispered. He felt his face flush as she turned towards him. The mellow light glazed her high cheekbones like egg yolk on alabaster.
‘Hello, Jonathan,’ she said demurely. Her smile then broadened to show off the two perfect rows of teeth that complemented her generous mouth.
Tring, feeling more besotted than ever, edged his large frame between table and bench to sit opposite her. Two full glasses of red wine sat regally awaiting consumption. ‘I see you were expecting company,’ he joked.
‘Claret,’ she said, sipping the nectar. ‘The same colour as your rugby shirt.’
Tring’s eyes widened in surprise, ‘I didn’t think you’d know much about that.’
‘I’ve seen you play.’
Now he really was surprised.
‘When I found out you played for a local team, I came to watch you. It was a few Sundays ago. The other team was wearing green and brown hoops.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t feel the time was right.’
‘And now?’
‘I felt I’d like to get to know you a little better.’
‘You already know me pretty well,’ he winked mischievously.
She looked at him wistfully. ‘That…’ she began to reply, then stopped abruptly. ‘I didn’t mean in that way,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tring said quickly. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t get you out of my mind after that night.’ Fiona raised the wine glass and sipped slowly and sensuously, staring at him all the while with eyes brimming with promise. He was indeed her type of man, tall and masculine with thick blond wavy hair. Thankfully, the rigours of rugby had not marked his features with the usual cauliflower ear or off-centre nose. He was, however, square-jawed and this gave his face a somewhat rugged look. She liked his eyes, which were a delicate grey-green. If only life was not so complicated, she thought.
‘Tell me about yourself, Fiona,’ he continued. ‘First of all, is your company sending you to Hong Kong?’
She grimaced in mock sadness and then broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, but only for three weeks.’
Tring beamed with relief. He’d had visions of a brief but intense encounter followed by forced abstinence. ‘You’re in IT sales aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
The professor frowned. ‘I might be a scientist, but some of that new-fangled stuff baffles me. I’m more at home with molecules.’
‘Selling is selling,’ she said. ‘Once you get your mind around the product, the rest is pretty straightforward. People buy from people they like.’
‘Do you eventually want a posting abroad?’ he asked with just a hint of trepidation.
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether there was anything to keep me here,’ she smiled.
‘There are so many questions I want to ask you, Fiona,’ he said, covering her slender fingers with his large hand.
She let his hand linger a little before pulling hers away. ‘As long as they don’t include any about the Proctors, or why I’ve gone to all this trouble to keep our meetings secret.’
‘I promised,’ said Tring, holding up his hands, ‘and I’ll keep my promise.’ There was no denying this beautiful young woman, and her secrets intrigued him, but he decided to change tack by introducing the theme of their respective upbringings.
Fiona Harrington was indeed more forthcoming on what appeared to have been an idyllic childhood spent on a fifty-acre Fenland farm. ‘You know,’ she said wistfully, ‘people say that the Fens are featureless. But to me, all that flat land has a magical quality. It is always brooding and melancholy in winter. As a child I always imagined witches were abroad at night.’
‘And in summer?’
‘In summer, there was this sense of freedom. You could cycle on the level for miles. Of course the wind was ever-present, but it was warm and caressing.’
Jonathan Tring was captivated both by her beauty and her eloquence. He could not describe his feelings for her at that moment, but he was sure that he had not experienced them about any girl before. ‘I think I know what you mean about the country,’ he said at length. ‘I spent a few years at boarding school in Broadstairs. Kent’s very hilly, as you know. I used to love walking down to the sea. There’s this magical place called Stone Gap. It’s a broad flight of stairs cut into the cliff and leading down to the sea.’
‘Maybe that’s where Broadstairs got its name from.’
Tring ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. ‘You know, I never thought about that before. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Did you like boarding school?’
Tring hesitated before answering. His childhood had been fraught with apprehension and uncertainty, and yet nostalgia had helped to gloss over the time he had spent away from home. Now it was his turn to look wistful. He told her how the melancholic lament of the foghorn aboard the Goodwin Sands lightship had comforted the lonely and homesick schoolboys tucked up in their beds; how the light, flashing every twenty seconds, had cast a spell every time it penetrated the darkness of the dormitory; how, on wet and windy nights, he, too, had dreamt of witches and warlocks.
An hour flew by; sixty minutes which brought them ever closer and culminated in Tring virtually proposing that they sleep together that night. Fiona had gripped his fingers, assuring him that she wanted that more than anything, but that she needed a little more time. The scientist tried hard to hide his disappointment as they kissed goodbye. They agreed to meet that Saturday at the same time and place.
Fiona Harrington gave the professor a farewell wave and climbed into her car. She felt a strange emptiness. She had loved the scientist’s company, hanging on his every word. Rather than a boring boffin, he seemed to her a kindred spirit and a man she could trust implicitly. Yet
there were so many things she could not tell him, things that might alter his perception of her.
Duplicity pressed on her shoulders like a ton weight.
CHAPTER 10
Kevin Kinloss felt as if he had just won the National Lottery in a rollover week. The events of the day had left him euphoric and not a little bemused. Lunch with the Proctors had set his silvery hair on end. What they were offering was truly beyond his wildest dreams. Overnight he would become a multi-millionaire, not just on paper, but in readies. Sure, he had told the blonde bombshell and her sugar daddy that he needed time to think things over. After all, they were asking him to betray a man with whom he had cast his lot over several years. He did not dislike Abe Klein. In fact, he admired the New Yorker’s tenacity. But Klein was too honest to survive forever in a world infested with sharks such as the Proctors.
Kevin Kinloss, however, was Scottish, and Scots were a prudent people. He was ever careful of being penny-wise and pound-foolish. While it would be tempting to go on a spending spree, he knew that he would have to pursue a policy of husbandry. To flaunt his newfound wealth too soon would send out dangerous signals, both to his naive business partner and to the Inland Revenue.
‘Well,’ said his other half, ‘go on.’
Kinloss leaned back in his favourite armchair, took another sip of Scotch and surveyed his wife with the satisfaction of a cat licking cream. Looks could be so deceptive. Her features were plain and pale, her eyes a cold blue, and her mousy hair was pulled back into an austere bun. To the outside world, Jean Kinloss was prim and proper, as befitted the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. However, what she may have lacked in looks she made up for in passion. She was twelve years younger than her husband and a veritable firebrand between the sheets, two facts that suited both his ego and his libido.
‘We won’t be able to touch the money for a while, of course,’ he said with just a hint of disappointment.
‘Of course,’ she said knowingly. ‘Offshore, I presume.’
‘Aye. The Caymans.’
‘Nice place for a winter break,’ she smiled.
‘No expense spared, my darling.’
‘But not yet?’
‘No.’
‘We should set aside something for the boys.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ said Kevin Kinloss, smiling thinly. The twins were away at Harrow and were already well catered for. She clucked like a mother hen where Gregor and Grant were concerned, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. ‘There’s more than enough for everyone,’ he added reassuringly.
Jean Kinloss refilled her husband’s glass with the golden liquid. She knew he was devious in business, but that only added to the attraction. He gave her everything she wanted, and more. He may have been an old Scottish skinflint to outsiders, but he never kept her or their sons short. The warm glow of her own dram coursed through her veins as she gazed admiringly at her spouse.
She was suddenly reminded of the first drink he had ever bought her. It had been thirteen years earlier. He had simply walked into the Edinburgh Chamber of Commerce where she worked as a secretary and had, very directly, asked her out to lunch. Although he was much older than her, his clothes and style were immaculate. But then Jean was much taken with the style of others. One Chateaubriand and several aperitifs later, the then Jean Muir had been swept off her feet. That evening she had willingly succumbed to the advances of this aggressive businessman and the rest was history.
‘You’re so clever, Mr Kinloss,’ she said, raising her pencil-thin eyebrows. ‘Daddy deserves an extra special reward tonight.’
‘Daddy does?’ he asked mockingly.
‘Come, my cleverkins,’ she said, pouting like a freshly caught sea bass. She put aside his glass and pulled him to his feet. ‘It’s time to celebrate.’
Some fifty miles from the ebullient Kinloss household, another couple not wholly unconnected to the saga of cunning takeover bids and deceit were about to consummate a reunion of sorts. Fiona Harrington had contacted Jonathan Tring immediately upon her premature return from Hong Kong, and with almost breathless speed was now on his bed and in his arms.
Tring had been bemused by the turn of events. She had returned after only one week instead of three, had telephoned him the following day and, despite the jet lag, was about to make his dreams come true. The girl was truly remarkable.
Fiona Harrington herself had never been so sure of anything in her life as the moment she had agreed to return to his flat. Once more they had met at the wine bar, only this time their conversation had been peremptory, subsumed by the mutual sexual attraction flooding their senses. Tring had stammered a few times during his exhortations of ardour, and this had endeared him to her even more.
That was why, upon entering Tring’s flat, she had urged him to shower, promising to join him after seeing to her own toilet. Within a minute, she had checked every phone and socket in the apartment with an electronic detector that emitted a tinny shriek if a bug were present. She was half-expecting to find something, but thankfully the place was clean. Jonathan Tring may have been a six-foot rugby-playing hulk and a superb scientist, but he was as naive as hell. She had never felt more protective of him as she did at that moment and yet, in reality, she hardly knew him. Yet she knew instinctively that sleeping with him was the right thing to do.
Fiona removed her clothes and folded them in a neat pile on a chair by his bed. Thankfully, the flat was as warm as toast, although she still shivered in expectation of what lay ahead. As she entered the bathroom, the sight of his naked body behind the glass partition sent a further quiver down her spine.
She poked her head round the screen. ‘May I?’
‘Please do,’ said Tring, grinning knowingly through the steam.
She stepped over the lip of the cubicle and joined him under the stream. Tring placed his arms around her and brought his lips to hers. The kiss was so incredibly sensual that she was almost unaware of the growing hardness against her abdomen. They luxuriated in the caress of the spray as it penetrated the seal between their mouths and besieged their bodies with its sensual warmth.
Taking it in turns, they licked each other’s bodies, relishing the saltiness. Oblivious of the cascade, this mutually exquisite scrutiny continued for some minutes until it seemed that no part had been left unexplored.
Jonathan,’ she moaned finally, her country accent sending him even wilder with desire, ‘I want you so much.’ She felt the ripple of his biceps as he gripped her tightly. His manhood was hard against her, urgent and demanding.
Tring, almost delirious with lust, lifted her perfect body, and in almost one flowing movement stepped out of the cubicle. He lowered her gently onto the bathroom carpet. Pinning himself to her, he exalted in her very essence, a mixture of sea salt and country air that took him back to his childhood. Once again he licked the moisture from her body and sucked her breasts until the nipples were long and pliant. Then his fingers slid to the very quick of her.
‘I want you,’ she groaned. ‘I want you now.’
‘Do it to me again,’ he pleaded suddenly.
‘Do what?’
‘What you did at the ball.’ Without waiting for her to act, he rolled over and gently made her sit astride him.
‘Oh, that,’ she said with a look that was both quizzical and cognitive.
So that’s what he wanted. Well, she wanted it too. She would show him that she was the best, that no one could match her in lovemaking. She rocked and rocked, slowly at first, and then with ever increasing fervour until they were both at the point of no return.
As the final paroxysm overwhelmed him, Tring gripped Fiona’s buttocks with a ferocity that was almost brutal. Despite her nakedness, all he could think of was the rustle of a pannier evening gown.
Abe Klein knew that he had to get independent advice as soon as word was out that Proctor the piranha was trying to sink his teeth into his company. That was why the two pinstripes from Peterson Consulting were in his boardroo
m. They had been given a brief and the run of the place for a couple of weeks, poking into the nooks and crannies of corporate identity in an attempt to get to the core of KleinKinloss. They had to know everything in order to prepare a defensive strategy for the company. And expertise did not come cheap. The American knew that by the time the dust would settle in this battle, the bill for accountants, solicitors, merchant banks, stockbrokers et al might run into seven figures. The amount these guys charged for their time made him think he was in the wrong business.
‘Basically, Mr Klein and Mr Kinloss,’ the first pinstripe began, ‘you hold between you sixty-five percent of the company. This gives you control of management and dividend policy, but it would not allow you to alter the articles of the company, or for that matter place it into voluntary liquidation.’
‘What this means in effect,’ the second man cut in, ‘is that you are in quite a strong position vis-à-vis a takeover bid as long as you maintain a united front. You have enough shark repellent in your company by-laws to almost guarantee safety. With change of ownership having to be approved by at least seventy percent of the shareholders, it would just be a case of whether you could stand the pressures from all sides that would result from a concerted bid.’
Klein looked at his partner. ‘Kevin and I are determined to ride this out,’ he said. ‘There’s no way we would willingly allow anyone else to take control.’
‘That’s right, gentlemen,’ Kinloss chipped in, ‘this company has a great future and we canna allow ourselves to be browbeaten into submission. Certainly not by the likes of Jack Proctor.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said the first pinstripe, a weedy, balding man with horn-rims. ‘Nevertheless, it would be prudent to discuss ways in which a defence could be mounted, especially as the potential acquirer is well-versed in the techniques of takeovers, whether hostile or otherwise.’
‘Now look,’ said the second man, holding up his palms, ‘we are just looking at this hypothetically, you understand.’ He was larger and more imposing than his colleague, and his voice boomed. ‘Let’s just suppose that when the heat is turned up, you two fall out over strategy…’
Cry of the Needle Page 13
