THE SUGAR DRAGON
by
VICTORIA GORDON
©Victoria Gordon 1980
This book was, originally, and always will be, dedicated to
VICKI LAYNE MARTIN, the first lady editor of ‘The Bundaberg ‘Drum.’
Gone to Heaven at the end of May, 2012—but never to be forgotten while I live, and sadly missed by so many.
CHAPTER ONE
The sands of Kelly’s Beach shimmered like salt in the dying light of a pale, falling moon, and the soft-breaking Queensland surf caressed Verna Grant’s bare feet as it whisked and rolled to erase her slow-paced footsteps behind her. Ahead, a rollicking black shadow marked the progress of her dog Sheba, but Verna was far too deep in her own thoughts to keep track of the dog’s joyous roaming.
It was four o’clock in the morning, just five hours before she’d be fronting up to start her first day as editor of the weekly Bundaberg Drum. Any sensible woman would be home sleeping, but that pleasure had eluded Verna already for most of the night and she was too keyed up to bother trying again. It was silly and she knew it; after nearly ten years as a working journalist she had nothing to fear about handling her first legitimate post as editor. In fact she was quite looking forward to the challenge ... and the hard work that would keep her from thinking too often of Stephen. No, she wouldn’t think about Stephen, Verna told herself angrily. It would be stupid and self-destructive to waste her thoughts on the likes of him. A liar and a cheat — a married liar and cheat who’d come within a whisker of making her the biggest fool ever.
She should have paid more attention to Sheba from the start. The cross-bred black bitch had never liked Stephen, not even in the beginning, which in retrospect seemed a terribly important omen. And even though Verna knew it was ridiculous to expect human judgments from an eighteen- month-old dog, she made a silent vow to pay more attention to Sheba’s reactions next time.
‘If there ever is a next time,’ she muttered to herself, shaking her long, reddish-blonde hair in rueful anger. Her self-esteem had taken an awful bruising, but she wouldn’t be able to let it affect her professional esteem, and she knew it. And what’s a little self-esteem? she thought. Everything else is intact, for whatever that’s worth. And it must be worth something, if only in terms of sheer rarity; after all, twenty-eight-year-old virgins could hardly be considered a glut on the market.
Lost in her thoughts, she veered more deeply into the soothing waves, and it wasn’t until the tangy salt water splashed across her knees that she shook herself out of her reverie, if only a bit. Looking down at the waves, her eyes traced along slender legs that she knew were shapely and attractive, and the body above them was equally so, as was the face that she couldn’t personally see as beautiful, but could accept as intriguing to the majority of men.
Verna had good, regular features over a fine, classic bone structure that, like her grandmother’s, would wear very well indeed. Her hair was a reddish-blonde, almost sorrel colour that would probably bleach out to honey tones in the strong Queensland sun. Her eyes were exceptionally large and vibrant in a mix of bluey-green that altered with her moods. Bedroom eyes, she’d been told, flashing their greenest when she was aroused. Stephen — damn, damn, damn his soul to hell, she thought — had loved them, vowing they’d be even greener when she finally...
But here, now, on a dark and deserted beach in the quiet hour before dawn, Verna knew they’d be their bluest, which was just as well, thank you. She could leave any arousing until later, much later, if at all. The last thing she needed was another man in her life. She had a new and exciting job far from Melbourne’s four-seasons-a-day climate and Stephen; she had her tidy little beach house with its broad sun porch and high-fenced yard; she had her slightly ageing purple Mini S; and she had Sheba, who wouldn’t think of betraying her.
Verna shook her head angrily, trying to ignore the single tear she could feel trickling down one cheek. Being a twenty-eight-year-old virgin wasn’t all that bad after all, she thought. She had everything she really needed and no need to share it with any selfish, insensitive, chauvinistic brute of a man.
To hell with them all, she vowed silently. If I make it through to thirty I’ll stay a virgin until I die, and they can bury me under a spinster’s tombstone — Returned Unopened. For some reason the irreverence of that bit of masculine chauvinism struck Verna as hilariously funny, and her laughter tinkled through the silence of die deserted setting.
But it wasn’t the echo of her laughter that floated back to her. It was a harsh, masculine voice shouting a stream of abuse. The least offensive part of it was ‘... bloody great mongrel black bastard!’ and Verna looked up in surprise to see Sheba’s inky shape streaking along the beach toward her. Sheba’s shape, and yet different somehow ... and when the dog got close enough Verna could see why. Sheba was prancing with her head high in the air, her jaws clamped tightly on the waistband of a pair of trousers. Trousers? Indeed they were, and the sight provided an instant explanation for the shouting that grew louder as Verna chased forward after the dog.
‘Sheba! You come here!’ she shouted as the darting black shape made an abrupt turn and sped off ahead of her. ‘Sheba! You come back here ... now!’
She might as well have talked to the wind. Sheba thought it a marvellous game, and when Verna finally reached the site of the pilferage, clearly marked by a towel and a pair of sandals, Sheba was a discreet and totally safe distance ahead of her.
The dog’s tongue lolled over the waistband of the slacks, and as Verna stepped toward her again she threw her great head into the air and leaped away joyfully.
‘Oh ... no!’ Verna sighed aloud as she saw a wallet and a handful of coins shower from the pockets of Sheba’s prize. ‘Come here, you bad dog! Come here right this minute or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life!’
‘And it’ll be a damned short life if I have anything to do with it,’ said a harsh voice from the water. ‘Now you might just stop shouting at the stupid bloody dog and do something about getting my pants back, if you don’t mind.’ The voice seemed quite disembodied, and Verna had to look carefully to see the head it belonged to, suspended in the waves like some wayward ball.
‘Well, I’m doing the best I can,’ she replied angrily. ‘But obviously I can’t catch her, can I? So you’ll just have to be a little patient.’
‘It’ll be too late for patience if it gets too much lighter,’ said the voice, raising into outrage as the gambolling dog plunged into the edge of the breakers with the pants legs dragging along beside her.
‘Well, why don’t you come out and help me?’ Verna shouted, suddenly knowing the reason even as he began to wade closer in a strange, ominous silence.
She couldn’t see his face in the half-light, but the body that reared up from the waves was exquisitely, intensely male. And very nice, too, she thought idly.
Broad shoulders tapered down to a muscular, narrow waist, and the moonlight rippled on muscles in huge, powerful arms as he moved through the water. She stood for an instant, drinking in the sight, then suddenly cried, ‘No! Stay there!’ as she realised how nearly clear of the water he was.
‘What’s the matter ... are you shy?’ he growled. But at least he stopped, even if it was only one pace short of decency. Verna stood her ground as the waters lapped against his hips, her attention totally removed from her playful dog as she admired the man’s splendid body.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment that went on for ever, and Verna found herself wondering if he was wondering about her face just as she wondered about his. If they stayed much longer, she realised, the wondering would be gone with the ebbing moonlight as dawn lapped against the watery horizon. Then something brushed against her bar
e leg, but even as she lunged downward Sheba danced away with the soaking trousers still firm in her jaws and the man’s muffled curse ringing across the water.
‘I’d have had her if you hadn’t shouted,’ she said with unexpected calmness, ignoring the obscene reply. ‘Why don’t you just go for another swim or something; she’ll come to me again in a minute.’
‘I’ve had my swim,’ he replied in an icy voice.
‘Well, I suggest you have another one,’ Verna replied. ‘And please stop cursing; it isn’t going to help anything.’ ‘... bloody mongrel,’ he replied.
‘She’s not a mongrel. She’s a pure-bred Boxador,’ Verna retorted. ‘And she’s normally a very well-behaved dog, as well. I expect if you hadn’t shouted at her she’d have already come back. She thinks we’re playing with her.’
‘I’ll play with her all right — with a rifle in my hand,’ he snarled. ‘And what the hell’s a Boxador?’
‘Half Boxer and half Labrador,’ Verna replied smugly. ‘Pure-bred on both sides, you see?’
‘Pure mongrel and she ought to be shot,’ he snarled back at her. ‘Look out now, she’s coming dose again!’
At the sound, Sheba turned and danced away, leaving Verna to snarl her own reply. ‘See! If you’d just keep quiet I’d have her. Now please shut up, and I’ll see about picking up your wallet and money before she decides to run off with them as well.’
‘Yeah, well, see if you can leave me the personal papers in the wallet,’ he sneered. ‘You can have the money if you’ll just catch your damned dog and get out of here.’
Verna caught her breath at the innuendo, but he continued before she could speak. ‘Pity you didn’t train her better; you could have been gone with the money before I even noticed you’d been here.’
‘Hah! Got you, you little black devil!’ Verna cried, lunging down to get a tenuous but sufficient grip on Sheba’s chain-link collar. Hanging on tightly, she squatted down and hauled the panting dog round to face her. ‘You’re a naughty, naughty little dog,’ she scolded, holding out a hand. ‘Now give me those trousers. Come on, give!’
And like an honours graduate of obedience school, the dark muzzle opened to place the sodden mess in Verna’s outstretched hand.
‘That’s a good girl,’ she crooned, rising to her feet with the soaked trousers held at arm’s length. And then, ‘No! Oh, no, Sheba ... damn it!’ she cried as the black shadow homed in on the towel and flashed off down the beach with it, headed for home and no games this time.
‘That’s a good girl,’ came the muttered sarcasm from the dripping figure in the waves. ‘Hell! As a dog trainer you make a bloody good plumber, lady. Why didn’t you hang on to her while you had the chance?’
‘Because I didn’t think she’d—’
‘I doubt if you’d know how to think,’ he interjected, ‘Now would you like to put down my trousers and get those lovely long legs chasing after that little black menace so that I can get out of here before the sun comes up?’
Verna didn’t know why she did it, but instead of dropping the trousers she moved with exaggerated slowness to where his wallet lay half buried in the sand. Td better get the money first,’ she replied hotly. ‘Although I suppose it’ll hardly be worth the trouble; from the look of these pants you’re not likely to be rich.’ Certainly the soaked and well-worn jeans didn’t look very impressive, but she got her reward from the gasp of anger that exploded from the shadowy figure in the water.
‘Bloody hell!’ he cried. ‘Haven’t you done enough already?’
‘You’re swearing again,’ Verna replied calmly. ‘And I’ve asked you once before to stop it. Don’t you know it isn’t polite to use language like that in front of a lady?’
‘Lady ... hell! You’re nothing but a common thief, the route you’re going. I’ll bet you have trained that bloody dog, after all.’
Verna dropped the trousers in a sodden heap at her feet and made a great pretence of opening the wallet and extracting the notes from it. In the dim light, she knew the man wouldn’t ever be able to tell that she wasn’t really taking anything. ‘Humph, just as I thought,’ she shouted at him. ‘Almost a complete waste of time.’
‘I don’t usually need a lot of brass on the beach at this time of the morning,’ he sneered. ‘Now are you going to get out of here, or are you waiting for me to go home and fetch you some more money?’
‘What a splendid idea,’ Verna cooed sarcastically, now quite enjoying her game. ‘Shall I call Sheba back so you can dry yourself first, or will you just drip-dry?’
There are very few words a female journalist gets through ten years without hearing, but the shadowy figure in the water managed three that were brand-new to Verna, along with several she’d heard and would rather not have again.
‘Just be thankful I haven’t any soap with me,’ she snapped when he’d run down, ‘or I’d make you wash out your mouth while you’re there. It’s not much wonder you’re so poor, with a vocabulary like that!’
‘All right, I’m sorry, I apologise,’ he said in a subdued voice, but the waves carried the ‘bitch’ he muttered after it, and Verna laughed at him.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ she chuckled, and then looked pointedly at the now-distant horizon. ‘My, it’s going to be very light soon, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll just take these old rags off for Sheba to play with later.’ She didn’t take her eyes from him as she knelt to retrieve the trousers, and for a second she wished it was light enough to see his face. She had an impression of thick dark hair, but with the light behind him she couldn’t make out his features at all.
The shadows might obscure his features, but they served only to enhance the play of muscles across his lean but broad-shouldered torso, and Verna allowed herself one final assessment before she abandoned the game. Her eyes strolled slowly across his shoulders, caressing the hard lines that narrowed to the trim waistline. She looked at the rippling muscles of his upper arms and then moved her gaze further down to where the shadows played along narrowed hips and massive thighs. Thighs? She went rigid with shock for a second as she suddenly realised what was happening, then her voice broke into a shrill shriek. ‘You ... you stay in the water ... oh ... no!’
The trousers seemed to bum her fingers and she dropped them in a soggy heap as she turned and fled down the beach, running swiftly in the packed sand at the water’s edge. There was a drumming sound in her ears, and even as a clasp of iron dosed on her shoulder, she realised that he couldn’t possibly have stopped to pick up his trousers.
She closed her eyes tightly as she struggled vainly against a grip that seemed to go right to the bone, and she didn’t even hear herself crying, ‘I’m sorry ... I’m sorry. Please don’t...’
‘Please don’t what?’ said a harsh voice in her ear. ‘I know what I’d damned well like to do with you, about now!’
His fingers burned at her shoulders as he turned her to face him, and Verna squinched her eyes even tighter. ‘Oh no, you couldn’t,’ she squeaked as he pulled her so close against him that she could feel the heat of his body through her thin T-shirt and faded, well-worn shorts. Then his knee was forcing its way between her thighs as he crushed his arms around her.
‘And why couldn’t I?’ whispered a voice like ice in her ears, and Verna shivered in terror at the menace it contained.
‘Because I’m a virgin,’ she whimpered, and flinched at the raucous laughter the confession evoked. It jarred in her ears, a curious mixture of anger and jeering maddening disbelief.
‘A virgin ... hah!’ the chill voice sneered. ‘How old are you?’
‘T-t-twenty-eight,’ Verna gasped, hardly able to breathe in her terror.
For an instant the hands seemed to lessen their iron grip on her shoulders, but then they tightened again and Verna’s fears erupted in a scream for the only safety she could think of. ‘Sheba! Shebaa! Oh ... please!’
Her voice ranged from the initial shrillness to a whimper as the laughter grew in her ears. Then he stoppe
d laughing and she was astonished to hear the snuffling, panting sound of her dog as it brushed against her legs.
‘Oh God,’ she thought. ‘What are you doing, you stupid dog?’ And as if in answer, the voice grated in her ear with maddening confidence.
‘She’s licking my feet ... have a look,’ he said, and Verna almost opened her eyes before she realised she was being baited by this enormous, naked stranger whose voice throbbed through her as fully as did the warmth of his body.
‘A twenty-eight-year-old virgin, eh?’ he whispered almost whimsically. But the sudden softness of his voice didn’t extend co the iron bands that held her to him, squashing her breasts against his chest and her thighs against the rigid pillars of his legs. Quite illogically, Verna was also aware of Sheba’s tail beating against her own bare legs, and she realised that the demented, traitorous dog was indeed being friendly to this hulking, threatening stranger.
Then that insidious voice was speaking again, whispering into her ear the delights he planned for her, and Verna began to struggle against him, opening her mouth to scream out her terror. But instead his own mouth descended to smother her cries, burning her lips in a kiss that was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Stephen had been experienced, but his kisses were mild as dish-soap compared to the searing torture that seemed to flow through her in a growing, shattering wave of passion and searching.
Her lips parted beneath the assault and as he ravaged her with his mouth, those massive arms clamped her so closely against him that she felt as if she would melt right into his body. She struggled, but to no avail, and finally all of her resistance poured away from her, as his kiss seemed somehow to change, to lose its harshness and replace it with a growing tenderness. She didn’t realise her arms had wound themselves around his neck until she felt tendrils of his hair within her fingers, didn’t realise the vulnerability of his own upright stance until she felt his knee flex between her thighs and knew she could fight back ... if she had to. Or if she wanted to, because she also knew somehow that he wasn’t about to rape her, either, though she didn’t know why she knew it.
The Sugar Dragon Page 1
