The Sugar Dragon

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘Well, I just thought that...’ Reg Williamson was clearly unoffended by Con Bradley’s attitude.

  ‘... that I’d take one look at Miss Grant’s feminine charms and be instantly smitten, no doubt,’ came the rumbling interjection. ‘Not as easy as that, old mate, especially having heard her rather savage little story. I’m not at all sure I want to get tangled up with a paper that’s edited by a veritable dragon.’

  ‘Oh... but I’m not…’ Verna caught herself before anything else slipped out. She’d already decided to try and let the men work out the problem for themselves, without getting any more involved than she had to.

  ‘Not a dragon?’ Con Bradley asked with a visible sneer. ‘You wander around the beaches in the middle of the night, stealing the clothes from a poor, helpless swimmer and then taunting the poor fellow about it — and you want me to believe you’re really just a sweet young thing at heart? Come now. Miss Grant, naive I may be, but I’m not stupid.’

  ‘But that has nothing to do with my capabilities as an editor,’ Verna replied hotly. ‘And besides, I didn’t steal his pants, my dog did, and you can’t really blame her too much; she’s young, and not really very well trained yet.’

  ‘I see,’ was the rumbled reply. ‘And tell me. Miss Grant, do you know the first — and golden — rule of dog training?’

  Verna’s mind raced through the host of dog obedience and training guides she’d read since acquiring Sheba, but no obvious answer came to mind and after a moment’s consideration with both men eyeing her expectantly, she finally admitted, ‘There’s nothing specific that springs to mind,’ hating herself for the tone of uncertainty that she couldn’t keep out of her voice.

  Con Bradley stared silently at her for a moment, and she knew he was deliberately building up the suspense for a line that would provoke a reaction, Finally he spoke.

  ‘The very first thing to understand,’ he said very quietly, ‘is that you have to be smarter than the dog.’

  Verna felt the blush creeping over her in the silence that followed, and was glad for the dim lights of the restaurant even as she knew that Con Bradley was quite aware of her discomfort. It was a struggle then to meet his chilling eyes, but she mastered the attempt and kept her voice as calm as possible when she answered.

  ‘I’ll try and remember that, Mr Bradley,’ she said, and was rewarded with a wry grin of acceptance.

  Luckily, the waitress arrived then to take their orders, and by the time that was over the moment of tenseness had passed.

  The meal passed swiftly then, with the two men mostly reminiscing about old times and deliberately, at least on Con Bradley’s part, avoiding discussion of the real purpose of their meeting. Verna was content to sit and listen, evaluating her potential columnist’s table manners, which were excellent, and his knowledge of cuisine and wines, which was equally so. It wasn’t until the coffee and liqueurs arrived that the possible restaurant column came to the forefront of the conversation again.

  ‘What do you think of this column proposal. Miss Grant?’

  Con’s rumbling question caught Verna unprepared, since it became the first time he’d spoken directly to her since the meal had begun.

  ‘I think it has very great potential, if you handle it right,’ she said honestly enough. ‘But I can’t really judge without seeing a sample, can I?’ Then, before he could answer, she continued almost spitefully, ‘And of course my opinion isn’t worth much, since you’re to have total freedom from any editorial interference.’

  ‘I gather you don’t agree with that,’ he said, and raised one dark eyebrow in amusement at her obvious search for the right words to answer with.

  Verna took a deep breath, aiming to control the strength of feelings he was rousing by his haughty, scornful attitude, and she tried desperately to keep in mind Reg Williamson’s plea for co-operation. But it was no use.

  ‘Not in principle, no,’ she said. ‘As editor I’m responsible for style, and for the legal implications of anything in my paper. I don’t fancy giving any of that responsibility away. And certainly not just to pander to some hot-shot writer’s ego.’

  To her surprise. Con Bradley smiled broadly for the first time that evening, a wide, happy grin that seemed to light up his entire face.

  ‘And so you shouldn’t,’ he said seriously. ‘An editor has to be God, or next thing to it. I always was when I played at it, and so did you, Reg,’ he added, turning to his friend with another grin. ‘However, we can’t always have everything we want, can we? And I don’t fancy some editorial dragon playing power games with my own deathless prose, regardless of the principle involved.’

  He was being deliberately sarcastic about it, but the point was being made and Verna felt her heart sink at the obvious outcome of his determination.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what I think, anyway,’ she said. ‘You have your promise from Mr Williamson, so I’ll just have to go along with it.’

  ‘Why? You could always resign in protest.’ Con’s icy blue eyes were calmly chilling, and he ignored Reg’s immediate cry of protest, locking his glance with Verna’s as he waited for her reply.

  ‘I suppose I could, but I won’t,’ she said with equal calm. ‘Although I reserve the right to change my mind after I’ve seen your work. If you agree to write us the column, that is.’

  ‘Oh, I’m going to write it,’ Con assured her, and she saw Reg slump with relief. ‘In fact, I’m even prepared to suggest a compromise, which might just surprise you.’

  Verna’s expression made any denial ridiculous, so she dropped her gaze and muttered, ‘I wouldn’t have thought you to be much of a man for compromises, Mr Bradley.’

  Her answer was another of those vivid grins; he had her on the run and he knew it. ‘And I’d have thought you might be a shade more gracious than that. Miss Grant,’ he said. ‘Or are you only gracious in victory?’ It was a deliberate innuendo about her beach escapade, but Verna resolved not to rise to the bait.

  ‘Perhaps after I’ve heard your terms, I shall be,’ she said gracefully.

  ‘Right! In deference to your principles, which I applaud, I accept that you must have the right to edit for style. And of course you must take legalities into account, although I’m certain we’ll have no problems there in any event. But I insist that responsibility for content is mine and mine alone. After the first few efforts I’ll manage to conform pretty well to your style anyway, so all we have to quibble about is length, since I’d rather not see this type of column chopped about simply for space reasons, except in an emergency, of course.’

  Verna was aghast. It was so totally reasonable a proposal, especially in view of his implied rigidity, that she couldn’t find words to express herself. Reg Williamson was positively bubbling in his relief at the easy compromise, but Con Bradley merely stared deep into Verna’s eyes as he awaited her response.

  ‘I ... er ... I...’ She was stammering and she knew it, but she simply couldn’t get the words out properly.

  ‘Just say thank you. Con,’ he prompted with a ghost of a grin.

  ‘Th-thank you, Mr Bradley,’ she replied.

  He shook his head in mock anger. ‘Thank you Con,’ he corrected her.

  ‘Thank you ... Con,’ she replied somewhat sheepishly, eyes downcast at the flurry of emotion that suddenly coursed through her body.

  ‘You’re welcome ... Verna,’ he replied gravely, and she raised her eyes to meet a mocking, boisterous grin that for once extended even to his eyes. ‘You’ll have the first column tomorrow night, if that’s early enough for us to start this week.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ she replied. ‘Four o’clock deadline, and even that’s stretching things as I’ll have to rearrange things considerably. But we can always wait and start it next week.’

  ‘No, let’s start now,’ he replied, and Reg Williamson nodded agreement. ‘Noon, then, which should give you plenty of time. And for the future, let’s look at first thing Monday morning as a deadline, although I’ll t
ry to get a couple of weeks ahead of the game.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Verna. ‘That would make it a great deal easier all round.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s settled,’ said Reg Williamson. ‘And now I think I’ll consider getting home. That’s if you’re ready, Verna?’

  ‘Oh, no. You, my friend, shall first buy a bottle of champagne for us to toast this agreement,’ said Con. ‘And decent champagne, mind you, none of this lolly water they sell to the peasants. And, you’ll pick up the tab for dinner.’

  Reg’s unhidden discomfort was a surprise to Verna, but the surprise was quickly dispelled by Con Bradley.

  ‘Ah, I can see I’ll have to fill you in on our friendly publisher here,’ he said to her. ‘Never, never, never take money with you when he invites you to dinner, or lunch, or even when it’s just for a beer — or you’ll end up paying for the lot. Our Mr Williamson is so cheap his ass squeaks when he walks.’

  It was a brand of irreverence that shocked Verna just a bit, especially with the object of the assault sitting right beside her, but Reg took it all in his stride, treating the matter as a joke.

  ‘But I thought you invited us for dinner. Con,’ he objected. ‘I mean, I’d have brought more money otherwise, but in the circumstance…’

  ‘... it’s lovely they accept credit cards, isn’t it, old mate,’ Con interjected without turning a hair. Then he signalled the waitress over and ordered the champagne before anybody could think to object.

  ‘And give the whole bill to my father, here,’ he told the startled waitress, grinning at the laughter that exploded from Verna at Williamson’s expression. Then all three of them were giggling happily, and Verna realised she’d just witnessed two very good friends playing a game that was all their own.

  They were still chuckling when the champagne arrived, and Con took over the conversation.

  ‘Verna’s story reminds me of one I think you might enjoy almost as well,’ he said, speaking directly to Reg Williamson but keeping his eyes fixed upon Verna, who was sipping at her champagne. ‘It’s about this girl I knew — or almost knew, if you take the Biblical connotation. She had a dog named Sheba too. Strange animal it was; she called it a Boxador, but not as strange as the girl herself. Do you know, of all the unlikely things you’d ever expect, she was a ...’

  The reality of it struck Verna like a blow to the stomach, and as the blood drained from her face, she dropped her champagne glass from nerveless fingers to splash the liquid down the front of her dress before it tinkled off the edge of the table and landed with a dull thunk on the carpet.

  How could he? Her mind flew into a maelstrom of mixed emotions, the most obvious being sheer terror. She wanted only to flee, but in the instant of silence as both men turned to look at her, she felt as if she were bound to the chair. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Only sit like an executioner’s victim and await the axe.

  ‘... journalist like you, Verna,’ Con’s words echoed unreally in her mind. She couldn’t at first believe what she’d heard.

  He’d continued speaking as if the glass-dropping incident hadn’t occurred, but his eyes flickered with sardonic laughter as he leaned over with apparent concern. ‘Goodness, dear girl, you’ve gone all white and ... strange,’ he said worriedly. ‘And you’ve dropped your glass. Did I say something to upset you?’

  She shook her head mutely, unable to meet his eyes and afraid to speak lest she break into uncontrollable hysterics. She heard Con turn to assure Reg Williamson that she would be all right, only affected by the champagne, he suspected.

  ‘You’re sure you’re all right, Verna?’ Reg asked solemnly, and she had to look up and assure the publisher that yes, she was fine, really.

  ‘Just somebody walking over my grave,’ she said in shaking tones. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, but I’m all right now.’

  Con had waved to the waitress for a fresh glass, and as Verna held it in trembling fingers he reached out to close his fingers over hers as he poured. His touch was like a brand, sending shivers of emotion through her body until she felt brittle as crystal, brittle — and likely to shatter at any instant.

  Finally she forced herself to look up, expecting ... what? Surely some expression, some due in those horrid icy eyes, but there was nothing.

  In fact Con didn’t even seek to hold her glance, but turned to Reg Williamson and began yet another story, apparently oblivious to the fact that he hadn’t finished the first. Verna was secretly grateful, as it gave her some opportunity to regain her composure even if it did nothing for her whirling brain.

  She couldn’t help but look at him, evaluating his coffee-coloured hair, his height and regal, muscular bearing. Could this tall, pale-eyed man really be the naked stranger she’d dared to taunt on a lonely beach? Or was her conscience playing tricks on her, leaving her vulnerable and over sensitive to his words? Surely, she thought, his deliberate tale had been more than idle coincidence. She had been so certain, so positive, that he’d end his sentence with the words ‘twenty-eight-year-old virgin’ that she’d heard them drumming through her brain despite what he’d really said.

  And Con Bradley knew it. Or did he? All of Verna’s years of journalistic experience had taught her that truth sometimes is stranger than fiction, but this incident was too vivid, too close to home. She continued to look at him, drinking in his features, memorising them despite her fervent prayer that all this really was a coincidence, until she suddenly realised he was returning her appraisal.

  His eyes caught hers, holding them by the vivid strength of his will, and for a moment it was as if they were alone in the room. Then the eyes shifted, moving across her face on an exploration of their own, boldly taking in her individual features before moving casually down the slender column of her neck and across her bare shoulders. It was as if his fingers, not his eyes alone were caressing her, and Verna could literally feel his touch. The eyes moved lower, burning through the clinging material of the halter-neck to bring her breasts to rigid attention.

  She was mesmerised, totally unaware of anything but the power in those eyes as they stripped away her clothing and laid bare her every defence. She felt like a slave on the auction block.

  Then his eyes returned to her face, and to her horrified surprise. Con dropped one eyelid in a broad, deliberate wink. And as she sat, open-mouthed and staring, he began to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry if that story I was going to tell earlier upset you, Verna,’ he said very gently. ‘It was something I said that upset you, I gather?’

  Something you didn’t say, but of course she didn’t dare say that. Or admit it. ‘Oh no, it was just something — something I thought of,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘Not your fault at all. My imagination just got away from me.’

  It was a patently flimsy explanation, and Verna couldn’t meet his eyes as she delivered it and hoped he’d let the matter drop. But no such luck.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t think of things like that,’ he said in that low, gentle tone. ‘I’ve never seen anybody go all strange like that before. I thought you were about to faint or something. And you’re still pale; you look like a sacrificial virgin ... about to go under the knife.’

  His final words rang hollowly into her ears as Verna lifted her head to meet the expression in his eyes. And this time she wasn’t disappointed. There was a joyful, triumphant mockery there, a jeering laughter that fairly shouted out his victory. And it was all she needed to have her humiliation complete.

  For a second her mind simply went blank, and when it leaped back into gear there was blind, naked anger in her own eyes. But she kept it out of her voice when she replied softly. ‘At any age, Mr Bradley?’

  ‘Why not?’ His voice cut her off like a knife. ‘After all, you’re only ... what? ... twenty-eight?’ That clinched it, and Verna felt herself grow rigid as she fought for control. Her nails dug into her palms like daggers and her eyes flashed as she threw back her head and stared into his laughi
ng eyes.

  She knew in her mind that Con Bradley would have his revenge now, and it would be a revenge far outweighing the severity of her offence. Simply by telling Reg Williamson the true details of their encounter on the beach, he would ensure that it would be all over town by the time a day had passed. Reg was a sweetie and a dear, but he was a chauvinist beyond redemption and an even worse gossip; he would never be able to resist repeating the story in every humiliating detail. Verna closed her eyes for a brief instant before turning her attention to the publisher, morbidly eager to see the expression on his face when Con finally ended her torture.

  ‘But maybe you’re right,’ said the rumbling voice. ‘Anyway, virgins at any age are boring.’ And then, to Verna’s surprise, he changed the subject entirely and soon had Reg Williamson off on a long-winded reminiscence about their days together in Canberra.

  The flood of relief that flowed through Verna left her so weak that she feared for an instant to try and leave her chair, but leave it she must. And finally she managed the strength to totter off to the powder room, where she stared into a mirror at the face of a pale, haunted stranger. She thought for a moment she was going to be sick, but that, too, passed, and finally she was left with no alternative but to return to the table and pray that her reprieve was more than just another twist of Con’s torturing sense of humour.

  She took no further part in the conversation, but couldn’t help listening to every word Con said. And the more she tried to convince herself she was safe once again, the more she found herself flinching every time he started a new sentence, and every time he looked at her. But gradually she fell under the spell of his deep, resonant voice, and her mind slid away from her conscious control to return once again to the deserted, moonlit beach where that same voice had drummed through her ears to touch her very soul.

  Only this time the shadowy figure that emerged from the sea had a face, a face with ice-like eyes and a wide, lovely smile that revealed white, even teeth. A strong, rugged face, with two fine creases across the broad forehead, and little laugh wrinkles around the eyes. The faintest suggestion of a dimple creased one cheek, and there was a slight cleft in the strong, determined chin.