"Smith, Guy N - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'You've got to. . . '

'I don't have to do anything any more that I don't want to.'

'We'll sue you.'

'Now you're really talking crap. You've got no comeback on me.'

'You'll drive at Daytona.'

'No chance.'

'OK, so you've made your pile.' A sudden change of attitude. Forced tact. An attempt at persuasion. Stern fawned on Seamark. Now he was trying it on Slade. 'Seamark's been good to you, Mark. A hell of a lot better than most sponsors. Without them you could still be just testing. I reckon you owe it to us.'

'I owe you nothing, Stern. Nor Seamark. Just the reverse. Seamark Cruises owes me something that they can never repay.'

'Oh, yeah, and what's that?'

'A wife. The best woman I ever had.*

A pause. Pregnant silence.

'You know how fickle women are, Mark, as well as I do.' A faint sigh from Stern. 'I've had two wives leave me. Personally, I don't want another. But that's no reason to chuck the sponge in. Win the International Race of Champions at Daytona, and you can have the pick of the women in almost any country in the world. Damn it, man, one woman's much the same as another.'

That was when Mark Slade finally slammed the receiver down. Anger seethed inside him, then came to the boil as his gaze rested once more on that photograph on the Welsh-dresser.

A fit of frenzy seized him. His hands closed over the nearest object, a bulky telephone directory. His arm went back, then forward, flinging the heavy book with all his force at the opposite wall. A dull thud. He stood there, trembling. Seamark. Stern. He wondered if he would ever be able to push them out of his life. Demanding. Enticing. The one lure, money. Everything revolved around money. It bought power.

Except Yvonne. She was the only person who could not be bought. Not even Seamark Cruises, with all its subsidiary companies, could get her back for him.

He calmed down somewhat, switched out the light, and stretched himself out on the sofa. Sleep would not come easily tonight. There was little point in bothering to go upstairs to bed.










CHAPTER THREE



IT WAS well after ten o'clock the following morning when Mark Slade awoke. His limbs ached after a night spent in a cramped position on the sofa. His head throbbed, his neck was stiff, and there was a sour taste in his mouth.

Sunlight streamed in through the latticed windows. He made no attempt to rise. There was nothing to get up for, anyway. From now onwards one day would be much the same as another. Sometimes it would be sunny, sometimes it would rain. That was the only difference. Yet, this was what he had sought, and he was not prepared to discard it. It was all a matter of adjustment. It would take time.