RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) (14 page)

Darkness was thick and Pace was reading by the light of a beautifully decorated glass lamp when another knock roused him from the midst of a titanic life-and-death struggle three hundred feet beneath the sea.  He checked his watch and was surprised to see it pushing midnight. In the same moment came the realisation that so many hours of engrossed concentration had tired him out.  He was on his second yawn by the time he begrudgingly reached the door.

‘Who is it?’ His voice was hoarse and dry, and he made no move to unlock the door. The only thought in his head was of the large bed and of how long it would take him to get into it.

‘James,’ said the recognisable voice softly. ‘It’s me.’

Roused, he shook the tiredness from his mind and watched his hands unlock the door as if they belonged to somebody else. He opened it and stepped back, motioning her to come in.

Sarah was dressed in a plain, deep crimson evening dress, cut off at the shoulder, with only a conservative sliver of cleavage on show. The length hung well below the knee but carried a near thigh-high split on one side through which her leg emerged and returned as she stepped inside. Her naked legs were capped with flat, open-toed black sandals.  Her expression was drawn and doubtful; beauty radiated from her but it was overshadowed by her troubled posture.

‘How was dinner?’ Pace asked, unsure of what to say to her. It was as if they’d never met before. ‘I’m sure they served up a fine menu.’  Part of him still felt angry with her. 

‘Why didn’t you come to dinner?’ The question was blunt and direct.

‘I didn’t want to,’ Pace replied, not elaborating. 

She had stopped only a few feet inside the stateroom and she showed no sign of moving further inside. The distance between them was barely six inches and her scent, typically intriguing, already pervaded the air. 

‘You’ve had as long a day as anyone else. You need to eat if you’re going to keep your strength up.’ Her tone was level but the earlier hints of uncertainty on her face were still there. She wanted to be more forceful but wasn’t sure how he would react.

‘I didn’t feel like eating,’ Pace said honestly enough. ‘I had a bath and got stuck into a good book. There’s no mystery.’

‘That isn’t the sort of healthy approa…..’

‘Please don’t start telling me how to think, or how you think I should be acting again,’ he cut her off harshly.  ‘If I don’t want to eat, I won’t eat.  My mother’s been dead for a long time and, quite frankly, I don’t need another one.’

‘If that’s how you’re going to be,’ she snapped, ‘I’ll just go.’

‘Me?  It isn’t me who’s being anything!  You’re the one who seems to think you can lecture me on life.’

‘That isn’t what I mean to do.’  Pace had expected her to get angrier and storm out again but she surprised him by slumping her shoulders and lowering her tone.  ‘That isn’t why I’ve come.  Look, I know I can be a bit pushy sometimes.  I don’t want things to be like this.’

‘You and I come from very different places,’ Pace said slowly, his own anger dissolving into thin air as if it had never been.  ‘I wouldn’t tell you how you should think, that’s your choice because you have a mind of your own.  I have my own mind too, such that it is,’ he smiled crookedly, ‘and I’m doing the best I can with it.’

Sarah looked at him closely, noting the truth in his eyes as he met her gaze.  ‘I was worried about you, that’s all.  That’s why I came.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about, not while I’m here on this ship.  Save your energy for when I’m up to my armpits in jungle slime and being feasted on by hungry mosquitoes and leeches.’

‘Are you still angry?’ The question threw him for a second. Before he could phrase an answer, Sarah went on.  ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you about the money, it was out of line.’

‘Sarah, I’m not angry with you.  Actually, I…er…, in fact…..’ 
Come on man, out with it
chorused his mind.  ‘I’ve only known you for a few weeks but I’ve become quite, well…you know,……quite attached to you.’

‘Attached?’  She smiled encouragingly.  He nodded.

‘After kissing you that night at the hotel, I just felt that something really good might be starting up. Then there was that stupid misunderstanding up in the room.’

‘More than a misunderstanding,’ she whispered.

‘Okay, you’re right there.  I was worried that your husband and I were going to be working together and I let doubt ruin the moment.’

‘You did that alright,’ she admitted, instinctively wetting her lips with a rapid flicker of her tongue.

It wasn’t coming out as he wanted it to but it was getting there.  He found himself stumbling less as he forced the words out.  ‘I guess I’m just not sure of what’s going on with us.  I should have put things better that night, and I didn’t.  Anyway, for what it’s worth, I'm sorry.’

‘I don’t remember giving you much of a chance to explain anything,’ she conceded quickly.  ‘And I do understand.’

‘I hope you do.’  He moved an arm out to her and a slight twinge of pain suddenly lanced into his chest. It went away as quickly as it had come but he knew it had shown on his face.

‘Did you just get a pain?’ She had watched his face turn ashen in a split second and was filled with immediate concern.  Pace nodded, swallowing. 

‘It’s nothing, just a niggle. I’m fine.’

Sarah stepped closer and placed a palm against his forehead. ‘You’re a bit on the hot side.  I need to check your temperature?’ She muttered something about a doctor as she led him over to the bed and ordered him to lay down on his back. 

‘I’m fine, really,’ he protested.  He felt okay and the pain was gone.

‘Your wound should have permanently healed by now,’ she said, sitting on the bed and parting the top of his bathrobe to examine the scarred skin intently.  ‘It isn’t sore or inflamed, so that’s good.’

‘Stop fussing, really.  A wound like this is bound to play up every now and then.  The doctors told me this would happen.’  He sat up on the bed and crossed his legs.

She was tantalizingly close to him and she watched approvingly as he swallowed a mouthful of water from a bedside glass.

‘We’re going to have to keep a close eye on your chest from now on,’ she chided, not too seriously.  ‘Still, there are plenty of doctors on board if you need one.’

‘I know, I know,’ Pace agreed defensively.  ‘That little girl and her popgun have got a lot to answer for.’

‘So do you.’

‘Me?’

Unconsciously she flicked her hair behind her ear, managing that peculiarly female trick of glaring and smiling at the same time.  ‘You’re really going to have to take better care of yourself, starting with getting enough to eat.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not at death’s door yet. I didn’t fly all this way to cry off at the last minute.’ 

She suddenly slipped her hand in his and the familiar feeling of jangling, heart-stuttering electricity returned. 

‘Maybe I’ll stick close by and keep an eye on you, just to be sure.’

‘It would be a way to protect your investment,’ Pace agreed, meeting her gaze intently.

‘As a company director, it would make sense.’

‘A sleeping partner,’ Pace corrected.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she whispered, leaning close to him in a conspiratorial manner.  For him, kissing her seemed the most natural thing in the world and he’d done it before his mind had time to agonise over the decision.  She didn’t scream or slap him. 

Finally, she thought to herself, how many signals did a girl have to give nowadays?  She rammed her pleasure home to him by kissing him back, softly testing his lips with her own, then teasing them with a brief taste of her tongue.

‘You took your time,’ she breathed, then kissed him again, harder this time. Pace allowed himself to fall back on the bed, pulling her down with him.  The fading ache in his chest was completely forgotten as her hand slipped the knot of his robe and she pushed it off his shoulders, discarding it on the bed.  

Pace was totally naked and in a painfully obvious state of arousal as she knelt up on the bed, gripped the hem of her dress with both hands, and pulled it up and over her head. Beneath the dress she was as naked as him, revealing small, pert breasts tipped with stiff nipples, glowing pinkly.  To his surprise she was totally shaven below; her delicate folds being neatly pronounced in the soft lamplight bathing the room.

For what seemed like hours, they pleasured each other in almost every conceivable way until, eventually, Sarah set a slow, languid rhythm; riding him expertly.  It was a powerful experience for him and one that was to keep his spirit alive on several hopeless, rain-sodden jungle nights to come.  Afterwards, they held each other.  Sarah dozed off before him, with her head nestled warmly on his shoulder, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.  

Having her so close, her scent in his nostrils, served to underline his determination.  His old self; assured, confident and resilient, suddenly rose up from beneath the quagmire of wasted years and assumed control of his life.

The airport had seen such a vast increase in passenger numbers that security, however good, was bound to have its lapses.  One such lapse was in not checking too carefully the identity of an Irish journalist named Paul Higham. 

Complete with the correct papers, passport, laptop computer and enthusiastic itch for a good story, he was waved through security, despite a gut feeling on the part of the senior immigration official that something was amiss.  He wasn’t able to put his finger on it at the time and was too rushed to go with his instinct and pull the man aside for a more thorough interrogation.  Pity, because as Wolf sauntered out into the midnight heat, he could barely contain his smug grin.

This cover had been thrown together at the last minute.  He didn’t even resemble the man whose identity he had adopted and genuine passport he’d stolen.  The real Paul Higham now rested, with the help of some heavy chain wrapped around his ankles, on the bottom of the iron-grey stretch of foaming sea separating Scotland from Ireland. 

Lured with the promise of a scoop on the upcoming
Race Amazon,
Paul Higham had agreed to meet Wolf on the late-night Stranraer to Belfast ferry.  It was to be his last ever journey.

A rough sea had helped keep sensible passengers inside the large, comfortable ferry but Wolf insisted the two men meet on the stern deck.  At a little after midnight, about half way through the scheduled three-hour trip, Wolf had the man’s car keys and house keys in his pocket.  Some chain, brought along specifically for the task and previously concealed under a nearby lifeboat tarpaulin, had provided just enough weight to sink the unconscious, newly bludgeoned body.  

Wind and rain lashed the frigid deck, scouring Wolf’s face and hands as he had calmly dragged the body over to the railings and manhandled it up and over the barrier; watching to see it splash and vanish beneath the foaming white wake of the vessel.

He hadn’t had time to plan properly because his current paymaster had needed him out in Brazil immediately.  Normally, he would have refused rather than risk being caught but too much extra money had been put on the table, so he doctored the passport as best he could, dyed his hair jet black to match the deceased and raided the man’s home the following day for as many items as he could to lend him legitimacy.  

Fortunately, the airport at Manaus was not using fingerprint registration yet so it was a simple case of using bravado and bluster to talk his way out of any awkward situation that might arise.  In a way, he almost relished the challenge.

A rather bland Renault saloon car waited for him outside the airport, flashing its lights at him to draw attention to itself.  Wolf sauntered across to it, pulling a single suitcase behind him on its wheels.  As he neared the car, its boot sprung open obligingly and he placed his case inside, closing it firmly before getting into the back seat.  No sooner had the rear door shut than the car eased away from the kerb and joined the traffic flow; mainly taxis and coaches.

The journey did not take him down to the waterfront like all the legitimate journalists, nor did it head into the centre of the jungle city.  Instead it headed out of the city, taking a southerly course into the heart of a fairly average residential area, miles away from the city centre.

After five further minutes driving through the rather bland suburb, the driver eased the car down a rather bumpy lane that led up to a set of gates.  Freshly painted signs showing internationally recognised building symbols of hard hats, warning crosses and electrical lightning bolts told Wolf that the place was still under construction.  It was perfect, as ordered.

The double wrought-iron gates were open and the car drove straight up an unmade inner road; each foot more bumpy than the last, eventually pulling up outside a small, single-storey structure.

The grounds were in a mess. Piles of bricks, blocks, sand, gravel and sacks of cement littered the area, along with a couple of battered cement mixers, stacks of shovels, picks and even the odd electrical tool.  Given the light rain that had started to fall, those tools wouldn’t last their owners very long, Wolf mused.

The building was in darkness, lit only by the twin beams of the car’s headlights, which then blinked out in time to the dying engine.  The area was quiet, with only the sound of rain pattering softly against the windows to break the sudden silence.