Free The Stallion (1996) by Harold Robbins Page A

Motors—”
    “Family,” said Angelo as he returned with their new drinks. “However deficient he was, Loren was a Hardeman.”
    “But he wasn’t Number One. Nobody is ever going to be Number One. The old man won’t let that happen. You’re as good a man as he is, and he knows it. That’s why he fired you. Loren is a safe bet. He’ll never be a big enough man to put the founder’s name in shadow. So—”
    “So?”
    “So he gave Loren control of a failing company. Number One built Bethlehem Motors! Number Two wasn’t man enough to run it. Number Three—Loren—is going to preside over the collapse, which cuts off his remaining testicle.”
    Angelo shrugged.
    “Did you ever fail, Perino? Really fail? Do you know what it’s like? I doubt you do. It never happened to you.”
    “So what do you want me to do? Why’d you come here, Roberta?”
    She stood, walked to the window, parted the drapes, and looked out on the busy highway that passed by the motel. Abruptly she pulled the raspberry shirt over her head and turned to face him, showing the imposing bra it took to imprison and mold her.
    “Uh-uh, Roberta,” said Angelo. “We—”
    “Okay,” she said. “Not us. Not written in the stars. But let me be comfortable, for Christ’s sake.” She released the bra behind and let her boobs fall loose: the biggest he had ever seen that were not freakish. Hers were flesh, not just fat. They hung. They did not droop. “You have any ideawhat it feels like when you’ve worn a harness like this for twelve hours?” She picked up the shirt and pulled it on again. “You have to wear a jockstrap, Angelo?”
    He went to the kitchen, picked up the bottle of Scotch, and put it on the table between them. He had not been attracted to Roberta while she was firmly shaped by nylon and rubber, but those tremendous tits moving freely inside the raspberry-colored shirt caused an erection.
    “Your question was, why did I come here?” she said. She reached for the bottle and poured herself another drink. “I came here hoping we might be able to save Loren.”
    “I can’t save him, even if I wanted to. And why should I want to?”
    “You can save the company, Angelo. The old man knows you can. He knows you’re right about the transverse engine and the deal with the Japanese company. Loren knows you’re right. And they’re going to ask you to save Bethlehem Motors. And when you do, you’ll have emasculated Loren as effectively as the old man has done. You will do what he couldn’t. His father killed himself. Loren is capable of it.”
    “I should care?” Angelo asked.
    “You’re not that hard a man, Angelo Perino. You’ll help me save my husband’s life … if I beg you.”
    “I don’t want you to beg me, Roberta.”
    “Good,” she said. “I’d rather make a reasoned business proposition. Mutually beneficial. To you and me.”
    “And Loren?”
    “Depends on how much of a man Loren can prove himself to be.”
    “I fail to see anything beneficial to me in getting myself mixed up with the Hardemans again.”
    “You want to build a car, don’t you, Angelo?” she asked. “You’re like the old man that way. You can be a consultant, you can be this, be that, but nothing lights a fire in your gut more than building a car—the way the old man built the Sundancer, the way Lee lacocca built the Mustang. That’s why Number One won’t let Loren quit building cars. A dozen virgins under his blankets wouldn’t warm him the way building one more car would do.”
    “He’s got a funny way of saying so.”
    “You and I don’t give a damn what lights a fire in the old man’s gut,” said Roberta. “You’re interested, I’m interested, in what lights one in Angelo’s gut. Automobiles are your life, Perino. Bethlehem Motors is the only company you can get your hands on. You can—”
    “The old man—”
    “Will be dead in eighteen months, if not before,” she said.
    “And Loren…”
    “Will do what I tell