His lips moved even more tenderly across her mouth, and without thinking, Verna opened her eyes. But all she could see was his hair, coffee-brown in the hazy but strengthening dawn, and then his lips moved to caress her ear and the point of her jaw line.
‘Are you really a virgin?’ The whisper seemed to come from nowhere and yet surround her, and Verna couldn’t voice a reply. She did manage to nod her head, however, and the voice seemed to understand. ‘That’s rare,’ the voice sighed. ‘Too rare for me. Close your eyes.’
She did, without thinking to argue even had she been able to speak.
Sheba’s panting seemed incongruously loud in the sudden silence that followed, and Verna could feel her own heart as it tried to batter itself free of her body. The bands around her eased slightly, and she took a hiccuping, shaky breath that sent shivers through her entire body. And then the voice soothed into her ear again.
‘If you’ve kept it this long, it must be very valuable to you,’ came the words. ‘Cherish it ... rare things ought to be cherished.’
There was a long silence, and then Verna felt his lips touch her forehead, so gentle, so lightly that she almost couldn’t feel them at all, only the branding they left.
‘Keep your eyes closed,’ he whispered. And then his arms freed her, leaving her to stand in shaken, trembling wonder as her ears rang to the caress of his voice and the thunder of his retreating footsteps. Two voices shouted in her head — one saying open your eyes and look and the other saying close your eyes. And when she finally did look, he was only a shadow shape, far down the beach, and even that was blurred by the tears she couldn’t even think to conquer.
She stood with her hands pressing at her temples as the shadow stooped to retrieve the soaked bundle of trousers. Then a haunting, eerie voice floated through the dawn as he walked off the other way. ‘And shoot that damned dog!’
Verna looked down through the mist of her tears to where Sheba sat, tongue lolling over ivory fangs and dark brown eyes smiling up at her, and couldn’t help but laugh.
‘You traitorous, rotten little bitch,’ she said to the smiling animal. ‘You’re nothing but a brazen, two-timing little hussy. Watchdog—huh! That man could have raped me, you know? And you, stupid, you’d likely have bitten me for resisting!’
Sheba flung back her handsome head in agreement and lifted one sandy forepaw for Verna to shake. She had liked the man, that much was obvious.
And Verna, on the other hand, hadn’t even really seen him. If I met him on the street, wearing clothes, I don’t suppose I’d even recognise him, she mused as she strolled on trembling legs toward her snug little beach house.
She’d know his voice, though, if she only heard it whispering into her ear. Or shouting at her across the water in the darkness. But would she recognise it in normal conversation?
Rare, he’d said. Cherish it. So why did she feel so terribly, horribly empty? He could have taken her, and Verna had no doubts about that. Dog or no dog he could have taken her, virginity and all. And she’d have helped him.
But he wanted her to cherish something that he had rejected. Something so rare he didn’t want it at all.
Verna puzzled about it all the way home, unable to work out why she should feel so mixed up, so pleasantly buoyant and ... cherished ... and yet so lost and lonely and somehow unworthy. She puzzled it through her shower, and when she inspected her body with a new awareness and curiosity after it She ate her breakfast with a splendid appetite and a glow that surged throughout her body. But when she dressed for work and struggled to pile her shining, red-gold hair into a manageable knot on top of her head, she felt angry and dismayed and hurt.
‘You can just stay in the yard and be thankful I don’t lock you in the shed!’ she swore at the excited, laughing dog that suddenly began to whine at the reality of being left behind. ‘You’re nothing but a traitor ... a two-timing little traitor!’
It took Verna only a few minutes to drive from her little rented house at Bargara into downtown Bundaberg, but once she’d parked her Mini in the slot allocated her behind the newspaper offices, she felt suddenly loath to step inside. She looked at her watch, discovered she had fifteen minutes in hand anyway, and walked slowly down Targo Street to where it intersected Bourbong Street, the city’s main shopping artery.
She stood quietly at the comer in front of the bank, idly watching the passing pedestrians. Several quite acceptable young men eyed their way up and down her slim but shapely figure, and she wasn’t unaware of the interest.
But her eyes were consciously seeking a particular coffee shade of hair — and a body she had memorised with her own even without seeing the face and those lips that had burned with a strange, compelling fire. And while it seemed like every second man on the streets of the sugar city had hair of almost the right colour, not one of them looked at her with eyes that she knew must hold a special, knowing glitter.
Verna closed her own eyes momentarily, reliving the touch of those lips and the feel of the iron arms around her body, then opened them again to reel with surprise at the shop sign across the comer from her. The Muscular Arm, it declared in blatant lettering, with a massive, flexing biceps and a clenched fist to prove the point.
Verna couldn’t hold back the peal of laughter that burst from her still throbbing lips. The sign was so vivid, so ludicrous after her morning’s adventure, that she could hardly accept its reality. And flexing her own arm in derogatory imitation, she turned on her heel and strode off to begin her first day’s work. Her time for romantic dreaming was over; what lay ahead would be hard work and plenty of it.
She hadn’t come to Bundaberg to find a man, but to get away from one, and even with the taste of the stranger on her lips, she couldn’t ignore the bitterness of Stephen’s betrayal.
CHAPTER TWO
There was no time during the next working week for daydreaming of any kind. Verna spent her days in a frenzied whirlwind of activity, tying up loose ends with the outgoing editor and conferring with the paper’s publisher on the varied editorial changes and layout alterations that would accompany her official take-over the following week.
Reg Williamson, the publisher, was a delightful man to work for. Verna took to him on sight, instantly reassured by his twinkling blue eyes and a chubby, almost cherubic appearance and manner. By the end of that first week she knew the job was going to be even more enjoyable than she’d imagined, since she was being given complete autonomy within a fairly broad set of general guidelines.
Circulation wasn’t a problem, since the paper was a free weekly, distributed to each household in the city by mail. But advertising revenue could certainly be improved, and both Verna and Reg Williamson felt that a complete change in layout and story styles might help.
‘It’s not going to be an easy task,’ he told her right from the start. ‘But nobody’s expecting miracles and we’ve plenty of time. A really fresh outlook will make a fair bit of difference, and I’ve got one more ace up my sleeve, if I can just arrange it properly. You’ve heard of Con Bradley, the novelist, I suppose?’
‘Only by reputation,’ Verna replied. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be classed among his greatest fans. I tend to prefer somewhat tamer reading, myself.’
‘Well, don’t tell him that, for goodness’ sake,’ said Eleg Williamson. ‘If he agrees to write these columns for us, it’ll be a fantastic booster, especially since he’s said it would cost us only expenses.’
‘It sounds great; what’s the catch?’ Verna asked, judging from the expression on the publisher’s face that there would indeed be some kind of catch to the proposed arrangement.
‘Oh, there’s no real ... um ... catch,’ Reg Williamson replied just a shade too quickly. ‘Con and I are old mates, you see. We worked together in Canberra at one stage, and then again in Brisbane. Before he gave away journalism and started writing books.’
It was too smooth, and Verna’s suspicions were immediately roused. ‘There’s something you’re not tellin
g me,’ she said quietly, determined to get her new job off to a proper start by having all the cards on the table right from the beginning.
‘Oh, nothing serious, nothing serious at all. It’s just that I’ve sort of promised him total editorial freedom if he agrees to write the column,’ Reg said with a slightly sheepish grin.
‘What do you mean, sort of promised?’ Verna demanded, automatically sceptical about any arrangement that would directly affect her own position and the demands upon it.
Reg shrugged. ‘He wants to write it his own style and his own way. Con is an independent sort, and he’s not exactly enamoured of editors …’
‘And especially not female editors — is that what you’re getting at?’
‘Oh no! Nothing was ever said about that. It’s just that ... well, you’ve seen the paper as it is. Well, Con has too, and he sort of suggested that he hoped the new editor would be a pretty big improvement over the one you’re replacing. There’s nothing chauvinistic about it or anything.’
‘Well, I certainly hope I’m some improvement, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Verna. ‘I’m sure that’s one of the reasons you hired me in the first place.’
‘Well, of course,’ Reg said brightly. ‘And I just know that you and Con will hit it off splendidly. He’s a real professional, and he’s been an editor himself, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get on well together.’
‘It doesn’t really matter how we get on, if he’s to have total editorial control over his column,’ Verna replied somewhat sarcastically. It was clear that Reg Williamson didn’t relish the situation any more than she herself, but had been talked into it by his friend and was now committed.
During the rest of that first week, she was far too busy to worry about the potential problems of her new restaurant columnist, but it was never far from her mind, and when she was summoned to Reg Williamson’s office the next Monday morning, it took little imagination to expect that Con Bradley and his column would have something to do with it.
‘I hope you’re free for dinner tonight,’ Reg began without preliminaries. ‘We’re meeting Con to thrash out the final details on this column.’
‘I suppose I can make time; I’ll just have to,’ she replied casually. ‘Are we going to start it this week, then?’ ‘
‘No ... it isn’t quite that firm yet. Con says he’d like to meet you first, and if you can get together on the thing he’ll do the first one for next week’s paper.’
‘You’re taking an awful chance,’ she grinned wryly. ‘If he finds out I don’t fancy his books, he just might refuse to write the column at all.’
‘Then don’t mention your opinion,’ said Reg. ‘I’m not asking you to pander to him, but I have to say that it’s rather important to my ... our ... future plans that we get the benefit of his generosity.’
Verna waved her hands in a placating gesture. ‘I have the message. I shall be nice as pie,’ she said.
‘Great! I knew I could count on you,’ said the publisher. ‘And please understand, Verna ... I’m not in the habit of taking away powers from my editors. This is a very special case, and not something you’re going to have to be concerned about in general terms. No fears that I’ll be asking you to play stories up or down because of advertising pressure or anything. Matter of fact,’ he grinned, ‘if Con still has his old newspaper style you might be glad to have him taking full responsibility for the column. He’s liable to ruffle a few feathers around the town before he’s done.’
‘Just so long as I don’t have to clip his wings,’ she said soberly, then laughed aloud as Reg Williamson caught her word-play and grinned.
‘I don’t think you’ll have any problems with old Con at all,’ he said. ‘He’s got quite an eye for the ladies, unless he’s changed a lot in the last few years, but what he likes best of all is word games. I reckon he’d rather argue than eat, so with your looks and your fast quips, he should be eating our of your hand. Anyway, I’ll pick you up at seven, if that’s okay. We’re meeting him at the Don Pancho.’
He watched as she walked to the door, then called after her. ‘Oh, and wear something ... you know, impressive. I mean, you always look very nice, but …’
‘I know; he’s got an eye for the ladies,’ Verna replied. ‘Too bad I’m more interested in the food.’
‘You mean you’re not looking for a husband?’ Reg Williamson’s voice sounded so terribly sincere that Verna had to look round before she caught the gleam in his blue eyes.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not. So just stop your fancy matchmaking ideas, because if that’s part of the game you’ll lose both your columnist and your editor, I warn you.’
Reg raised both palms in mock surrender. ‘Okay, you win,’ he chuckled. ‘But don’t come to me if you change your mind after you meet Con. He’s a handsome devil, and rich into the bargain.’
‘And he’s got editorial control. I’m not getting mixed up with any man I can’t control,’ she grinned in return. ‘Besides, why should I need a handsome restaurant writer? I’ve already got a handsome publisher who’s nice and safe and married, just the way I like ‘em.’
‘Ah, flattery will get you anything,’ said Reg. ‘If I was twenty years younger you wouldn’t dare say things like that, but don’t stop now; I like it.’
‘Just practising so that I can charm the famous Mr Bradley tonight,’ Verna replied. ‘If he’s really both handsome and rich, I might just have to use all my maidenly charms to keep him from taking over my job.’
‘It’s not your job you’ve got to worry about,’ said Reg Williamson, suddenly serious. ‘Just get him to write that column for us.’
Verna was conscious of the importance as she dressed for her dinner date that evening, but she was torn between a desire to please the nicest boss she’d ever had and her instinctive wariness of any columnist who could demand editorial freedom and get it.
She chose a dose-fitting halter-neck in rich jersey, hoping the restaurant would be cooler than the summer temperatures outside. Her first few pay cheques would be going towards a new wardrobe, and it would have to be mostly cottons, she thought. Synthetics just couldn’t stand up against cotton or wool in temperatures that regularly bounced over thirty degrees.
She chatted gaily with Reg Williamson during the brief drive from her small beach house to the Don Pancho Motel, and it wasn’t until it began to appear that Con Bradley would be late that Verna’s own nervousness started to grow with the passing minutes.
‘I really am a little worried he’ll decide not to like me,’ she confided. ‘This is important to you, and I’d hate to be the one to mess it up.’
‘Of course he’ll like you,’ the publisher laughed. ‘My dear girl, I couldn’t imagine anybody not liking you.’
‘Oh, I know at least one enemy I’ve made already up here,’ said Verna, reaching out to sip at her first Bargara Bomb, a potent concoction of orange juice and specially mixed liquors.
They were sitting in the small cocktail bar of the restaurant, and Verna thought Reg Williamson would fall off his bar stool, the way he laughed when she told him of her early-morning beach adventure. Of course she didn’t mention the aftermath of the affair, but she told him about Sheba’s trouser theft and her own teasing of their owner, embellishing the tale as she went along to increase her own bravado and the dawn stranger’s boorishness.
‘And I’ll bet he doesn’t go around skinny-dipping for a long time to come,’ she said in conclusion, ‘which serves him right, as far as I’m concerned. He deserved exactly what he got.’
‘I wonder if his side of the story would be quite so amusing.’ A voice like rumbling surf from behind them made Verna and Reg Williamson turn in unison.
‘Con! How long have you been here?’ the publisher cried with obvious delight.
‘Long enough to hear most of Miss Grant’s amusing little tale,’ was the reply. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt her in the middle of it.’
Verna said nothing,
her eyes locked with those of the tall, deep-voiced man before her. His eyes were like chips of ice, so pale a blue that they seemed almost colourless against the deep tan of his handsome features. Con Bradley was dressed in a light tan suit that set off his height and carriage magnificently, but it was his hair that caught Verna’s attention first.
It was over-long and shaggy, but it exactly matched her memory of that morning on the beach, and she looked again at his eyes for some clue about her suspicions. But his pale, pale eyes were expressionless; only the slightly mocking sneer on his sensuous lips told her anything at all, and that was nowhere near enough.
As if sensing the immediate antagonism between his editor and his potential columnist, Reg Williamson leapt from his stool to perform the introductions, and then immediately suggested they move to their table. It wasn’t until they were seated with fresh drinks before them that Con Bradley spoke again; his reactions to the introduction had been a cold, very formal nod and a disdaining glance.
‘Sorry I was so late, old mate,’ he said, eyes only for Reg Williamson. ‘I got a phone call just as I was about to leave, and I couldn’t avoid the delay.’
‘Not to worry; you’re here now,’ said Reg. ‘How’s your work going, O.K.?’
‘Slow but sure ... slow but sure. Always like that at the beginning, though. It’ll pick up in time.’
‘And have you ... er ... given some more thought to this column business?’ Reg Williamson wasn’t wasting any time, Verna thought, glancing quickly to Con Bradley as she tried to gauge his reaction.
The tall man’s pale eyes flickered over to meet her own with an expression so chilling that she flinched before pulling her own gaze away, but when he spoke it was in warm, friendly tones.
‘Always in a hurry, Reg! You really haven’t changed since you moved to Queensland,’ he chuckled. ‘No patience at all!’
The Sugar Dragon Page 2
