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

and lifeless porridge came and went, closely followed by a bedpan and sponge bath. Pace couldn’t even shave himself; Margaret had to do that as well. She was highly proficient too, not even a nick or a slice in the whole procedure, but it still served to emasculate him just that little bit further.
    His secret visitor came, without the feared hordes of journalists and cameras, at dead on eleven o’clock. If anyone was with him they must have been stopped from coming within thirty feet of his room because Pace heard nothing at all from beyond the door as it quietly opened and Sally ushered the man into his room. He noted a brief smile of encouragement from her, perhaps even of anticipation, before she closed the door softly and left them to it. 
    The shock of his instant recognition must have registered plainly because the man lowered himself onto the orange plastic chair at his bedside, smiled wanly and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Pace was very pleased to have been dressed in a fresh set of hospital-issue blue pyjamas. He knew he looked vaguely presentable.
    The face that smiled at him and the hand that patted him spent more than their fair share of time being plastered around the world, in magazines, on billboards and in business reviews.
    His was one of Britain’s greatest entrepreneurial success stories of the last two decades. He was not one for personally undertaking personal challenges; he often admitted to being far too scared to risk himself like that, instead he spent a great deal of his free time organising publicity events to highlight his own private concerns for the planet’s health.
    He made a great deal of money through his business ventures and was quoted as saying that ecological crusading was his way of relaxing.
    Doyle McEntire, soon to be Sir McEntire if the media’s constant speculation of late was based at all on fact, was a man pushing sixty.  The hair on his head was full and healthy, grey turning white at the temples.  His heavily lined face suggested a man who’d spent far too many years working way too many hours.   McEntire was also burdened with a paunch that suggested he enjoyed living the good life. 
    Standing only a shade over five feet six inches, his stilted height made his stomach seem more pronounced yet he had a public reputation for possessing a razor-sharp intellect and of being a very astute operator.  He was dressed in a smart, dark green suit, white shirt and silk paisley tie.  His shoes literally gleamed and despite the absence of jewellery or gold watch, he exuded an aura of relaxed wealth.
    The real puzzle was that he was inside Pace’s hospital room without any reason he could fathom. He said as much.
    McEntire’s smile broadened into a grin and he settled back further on to the chair, regarding him over the top of expensive gold-rimmed spectacles like a father about to lecture a wayward offspring. The grin faded and he grew serious. When he spoke there was absolutely no trace of the Scottish accent he’d allegedly been born with. His English was crisp and smartly delivered. 
    ‘Mr Pace, or may I call you James?  James,’ he didn’t wait for permission, ‘look, let me explain myself straight away.’
    ‘That would be good,’ Pace agreed, his curiosity rising.
    ‘You know who I am of course.’ There was no trace of pretension in his voice.  It was just a statement of fact and Pace found himself warming to the man.
    ‘That’s the problem.’ 
    McEntire gave an acknowledging nod.  ‘You,’ he swept an arm out over his bed in a very theatrical motion, ‘have become the focus of a great deal of attention from the media of late.  All of it has been good, I might add.’
    Pace hadn’t had any brainwaves at that point and saw no reason to interrupt the man’s flow. 
    McEntire breezed on. ‘I don’t know if you are aware of my new project, James, but I am here to try to enlist you as a member of the team. That’s the reason for my