RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) Read Free Page A

subdued sunlight of what appeared a gloomy, overcast morning. The window wore a set of plain net curtains beneath the main drapes but he could still see the fine coating of water droplets on the outside of the glass. Either it had rained and stopped, or it was drizzling so softly it made no sound against the windowpane.
    ‘Which newspaper is it today?’ Pace enquired grimly.  ‘I thought members of the press were going to leave me alone from now on.’  His throat rasped and croaked the words.  He hadn’t had his first drink of the day yet.
    ‘Not a newspaper this time, although I’m sure the reporters won’t be far behind.’  She crossed over to his bed and proceeded to plump the pillows, supporting his head deftly with one hand as she did so. Pace wasn’t able to sit upright at all; he had to remain flat so it was as much as anyone could do to make him more comfortable.
    Psychologically it worked well and the waft of delicate perfume that crept from the neck of her crisply pressed uniform succeeded in brightening his mood. 
    She was pencil-slim.  The coffee-coloured skin on her face housed intelligent, dark eyes and a full sensual mouth that was nothing short of torture for an immobilised male, subject to the humiliation of bed baths and bedpans. Sally never undertook those herself thankfully, she left that to her staff.  Maybe she sensed she wouldn’t be able to build the rapport necessary to ease his long stay if she personally attended to such basics. 
    Pace idly wondered if she saw him as anything other than another patient.  Did she notice that he had thick dark brown hair and clear blue eyes, or that his jaw line had been separately described as strong and jutting?
    He willed his stirring groin to stop rising, with only partial success, and pumped her. ‘So who is it?  The Prime Minister, or a naked chorus line?  Hopefully the latter but not the way my luck’s running at the moment.’ 
    Sally smiled in response, saying nothing. Pillows suitably plumped, she moved away to the end of the bed and picked up the chart that inevitably hung there.  She scanned down the medical notations. 
    ‘Those people haven’t made their appointments yet,’ she chided his flippancy with her tone, ‘and you’re not up to chorus girls right now.  Still a very important person he is that’s coming.’  Ah, Pace thought.  At least he knew the gender.  ‘I only hope that whatever he wants will lift your spirits and get you out from under my feet more quickly.’  Her stern tone was underscored by a twinkle of radiance in those beautiful eyes.
    ‘So who is it?’  Pace asked his question again.  ‘I’ll be a good patient, I promise.’
    Totally ignoring his plea, her face clouded. ‘Journalists and photographers will be crawling everywhere again, upsetting my nurses and ruining any attempt I make at keeping things orderly.’  She was obviously talking to herself, having not heard him.
        ‘Remember me?’ Pace asked sarcastically.  He would have waved his arms at her if he could. Even after nearly a fortnight he was unable to move either of them particularly well. Any attempt to lift them up past the base of his throat rewarded him with a sensation akin to a herd of African elephants dancing the tango on his chest.  
    Eyes flicking back up the bed towards him, her feigned frown broke into a half smile.  The corners of her mouth lifted and a glimpse of pearl appeared briefly between parted lips. 
    ‘That is the price we pay for looking after a hero, I suppose.’  Still not answering the question, she smoothed down her uniform. ‘I have to go now.’  She nodded her satisfaction at whatever she’d read on his chart and replaced it.  ‘I’ll send one of the nurses in to attend to you before breakfast.’
    Then she was gone, replaced almost seamlessly by Margaret, a portly white nurse in her late fifties.  Somehow this made his embarrassment more tolerable. A breakfast of limp toast