Market Forces (eBook)

Awake.Jackknifed there in sweat. Fragments of the dream still pinning his breath in his throat and his face into the pillow, mind reeling in the darkened room . . . Reality settled over him like a fresh sheet. He was home. He heaved a shuddering sigh and groped for the glass of water beside the bed. In the dream he'd been falling to and then through the tiles of the supermarket floor. On the other side of the bed Carla stirred and laid a hand on him. 'Chris?' ' 'S okay. Dream.' He gulped from the glass. 'Bad dream, 's all.' 'Murcheson again?' He paused, peculiarly unwilling to correct her assumption. He didn't dream about Murcheson's screaming death much anymore. He shivered a little. Carla sighed and pulled herself closer to him. She took his hand and pressed it onto one full breast. 'My father would just love this. Deep stirrings of conscience. He's always said you haven't got one.' 'Right.' Chris lifted the alarm clock and focused on it. Three twenty. Just perfect. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep for a while. Just fucking perfect. He flopped back, immobile. 'Your father has convenient amnesia when it comes to clearing the rent.' 'Money talks. Why'd you think I married you?' He rolled his head and butted her gently on the nose. 'Are you taking the piss out of me?' For answer she reached down for his prick and rolled it through her fingers. 'No. I'm winding you up,' she whispered. As they drew together he felt the hot gust of desire for her blowing out the dream, but he was slow to harden under her hand. It was only in the final throes of climax that he finally let go. Falling. It was raining when the alarm sounded. Soft hiss outside the open window like an untuned TV at very low volume. He snapped off the bleeper, lay listening to the rain for a few moments, and then slid out of the bed without waking Carla. In the kitchen he set up the coffee machine, ducked into the shower, and got out in time to steam milk for Carla's cappuccino. He delivered it to her bedside, kissed her awake, and pointed it out. She'd probably drift off to sleep again and drink it cold when she finally got up. He lifted clothes from the wardrobe--plain white shirt, one of the dark Italian suits, the Argentine leather shoes. He took them downstairs. Dressed but untied, he carried his own double espresso into the living room with a slice of toast to watch the seven o'clock bulletins. There was, as usual, a lot of detailed foreign commentary, and it was time to go before the Promotions & Appointments spot rolled around. He shrugged, killed the TV, and only remembered to knot his tie when he caught himself in the hall mirror. Carla was just making awake noises as he slipped out of the front door and disabled the alarms on the Saab. He stood in the light rain for a long moment, looking at the car. Soft beads of water glistening on the cold gray metal. Finally, he grinned. 'Conflict Investment, here we come,' he muttered, and got in. He got the bulletins on the radio. They started Promotions & Appointments as he hit the Elsenham junction ramp. Liz Linshaw's husky tones, just a touch of the cordoned zones to roughen up the otherwise cultured voice. On TV she dressed like a cross between a government arbitrator and a catered-party exotic dancer, and in the last two years she had graced the pages of every men's lifestyle magazine on the rack. The discerning exec's wet dream and by popular acclaim the AM ratings queen of the nation. '--very few challenges on the roads this week,' she told him huskily. 'The Congo bid play-off we've all been waiting on...