She felt again the power in those massive hands as they locked her body against his, and that very power brought with it a sense of comfort when he said things like ‘rare’ and ‘cherish’. But then the eyes changed to pale slivers and the mouth curled into a sneer around the words ‘too rare for me’. Then mocking, horrible laughter thundered in her ears, and she heard, over and over and over, ‘Virgins at any age are boring.’ It repeated itself over again and again, and the lights before her eyes whirled like a kaleidoscope.
Then a hand like a branding iron damped on to her own, and she heard a voice saying, ‘Verna ... Verna!’
Dazed, she opened her eyes to find Con Bradley staring at her with what seemed to be a real concern in his eyes, though even as she watched his expression changed to a sort of wry humour.
‘You’re really going to have to stop doing this,’ he warned. ‘I know old journos’ reminiscences are boring stuff, but it’s no excuse for having nightmares at the dinner table.’ He held on to her hand even when she tried to free it, and the sheer force of his will brought her out of her reverie and into the present.
‘I’m ... I’m sorry,’ she said haltingly. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Perhaps I’m overtired or something, but I really think I should call it a night.’
Reg Williamson rose to his feet and also declared his intentions of leaving, saying he’d drive Verna home whenever she was ready.
‘No, really it’s all right,’ she said. .’You two just carry on, and I’ll walk home, if you don’t mind. It’s not very far, and I really feel that I could use some fresh air.’
Reg looked sceptical, but Con Bradley said, ‘Yes, that’s the way I feel too. I’ll walk along with you, Verna. It’s a bit late to be roaming around without your faithful guard dog for protection.’
‘Oh ... no, please ...’ Verna protested. The absolutely last thing on earth she wanted was to be anywhere with this man, and most especially not alone.
‘Don’t be silly.’ He ignored her continued protest and took her gently by the arm, waving a casual goodnight to the publisher as Reg Williamson went off to straighten out the account.
Once down the steps to the motel complex’s beach-front, however. Con immediately released Verna, seemingly content to stroll silently beside her as they went along. Only when her high heels threatened to bog down in the soft sand did he again take her arm, but only to steady her.
Nonetheless, his presence was like a pall on the quiet and solitude of the beach, and Verna felt like some sort of prisoner on exercise parade. Her head was clearing in the light sea breeze, but inside she was still writhing in the torment of understanding the degree of power Con Bradley now held over her.
She stopped. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I can go the rest of the way by myself. And I really would rather be alone.’
Con ignored her for a moment, then turned with a grin. ‘But surely you’re not going to deny me the chance to meet your infamous canine companion Sheba? I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.’
It was an unlikely comment, and Verna couldn’t help but reply. ‘Oh, for God’s sake stop itl’ she cried. ‘You’ve already—’
The look on his face stopped her. It was a bland, calm glance of real confusion, or at least it appeared to be. ‘What are you on about?’ he asked. Almost believable.
‘You know very well what I’m on about,’ Verna replied angrily.
‘But I don’t, I assure you,’ he said quite calmly. ‘Really, Verna, do you think that I’d lie to my editor?’ There was just enough sarcasm in the question that she was forced to stop once more and peer up into his icy blue eyes. Could she be imagining it? No, there was just too much coincidence involved.
‘I think you’d lie to your own mother, if it suited you,’ she replied, turning away from him abruptly.
‘Only if it was for her own good,’ he grinned. ‘And white lies don’t count.’
‘Well, then you’d lie to me, too, if you thought it was necessary,’ she charged.
‘Of course.’ Such a bland admission did nothing for her inner turmoil except to accentuate it. Verna had taken all of this that she intended to take.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,’ she raged. ‘I don’t care any more if you tell the whole damned town!’
‘Tell the whole town what?’ His calmness was infuriating, especially in light of her own lack of it.
‘That ... that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old virgin!’ There — she’d said it, and damn the man. He could broadcast it from the rooftops, for all she cared. At least it would be over then and he would no longer have this incredible, frightening power over her.
‘Are you really?’ Both his eyebrows rose in mock astonishment and his mouth formed an enormous 0 of apparent surprise. ‘Well, fancy that!’ He looked down at her with amusement clear across his handsome features. ‘But why would I want to tell anybody?’ he asked with wry seriousness. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?’
‘It’s hardly a secret now, is it?’ she cried, oblivious to the tears in her eyes until he reached out with one gentle finger to wipe them away.
One eyebrow was raised in studied casualness when he said, ‘But that hardly answers my question.’ Then his eyes roamed boldly over her face and figure with something of the intensity she’d felt in the restaurant. ‘And what if you are?’ he asked. ‘It’s obviously by choice rather than circumstance. Are you ashamed of it or something?’
‘Of course I’m not ashamed of it I … I just don’t like being considered some kind of freak, that’s all.’ Her eyes blazed in the moonlight, and she had to forcibly restrain herself from reaching out to try and slap away his insufferable calmness and control.
‘But I don’t consider you a freak. Why should I warn to do that?’ His voice rumbled softly against her ears, and Verna felt herself growing closer to sheer hysteria at this gentle, probing torture.
‘Of course you do,’ she snapped. ‘All men do...
She paused abruptly as his huge hand reached out to capture her wrist and hold her still. His eyes blazed with an inner fire she couldn’t read, and she could see the trembling of his strong jaw muscles.
‘Let’s get one thing straight right now,’ he growled. ‘I am not all men. I am me 1 And I’d be a helluva lot happier if you’d judge me by my own actions and not anybody else’s. And I have never considered you a freak.’
Abruptly he released her, and Verna almost stumbled with the violence of his release.
‘Well, it’s the same thing,’ she muttered to herself, hearing once again those horrible words too rare for me.
And suddenly she was terribly weary of the whole thing, weary of it and heartily sick of playing his silly game. She stopped in her tracks, only partially aware that they had reached the track that would take them away from the beach and up towards her small house.
‘Look! Let’s just quit playing this stupid game,’ she cried. 1 know and you know that it was you on the beach the other morning, and we both know that I didn’t tell Mr Williamson everything that happened, so you can just quit playing innocent,’
To her surprise, Con Bradley chuckled out loud and flashed her a broad grin. ‘My, this just gets more and more interesting,’ he said in a smarmy voice. ‘Tell me, just what did happen during your little dawn raid?’
‘You know damned well what happened!’
‘Well, then, it won’t hurt you to tell me your version,’ he said placidly. ‘There are two sides to every story, as you should very well know. Besides, I’m intrigued at why you’re so positive that I’m the fellow whose pants you stole. I recall quite distinctly that you told Reg you’d never seen his face and wouldn’t know him again if you met him in your soup.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Verna replied scornfully. ‘You don’t expect me to swallow that garbage about the girl you met with a dog named Sheba, and a Boxador as well. I may be ... innocent, but I’m not totally gullible. You’ve been hinting at it all evening, taking che
ap shots every chance you could get.’
‘Sounds to me like a guilty conscience talking,’ he replied with that disturbing calm. ‘And you still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to have done.’
‘No, but I ... I ... I won’t!’ she decided suddenly, stricken by the vague possibility that she just might be wrong about all this. Could she be imagining Con Bradley’s involvement? ‘If it was you, you already know what happened, and if it wasn’t, then it’s none of your business anyway.’
‘I’d say it’s very much my business if I’m going to be blamed for it,’ he retorted, taking her arm as he began to lead her up the narrow path. He was quiet until they had reached and crossed the road and Verna automatically turned towards the gate to her yard. At their arrival, a black shadow flew out to plaster itself against the gate, whining happily and thumping the fence with its tail.
‘Ah, so this is the infamous Sheba, watchdog and stealer of trousers,’ Con laughed, reaching down over the fence to stroke the wriggling animal. Then he opened the gate, handed Verna through it against the explosive flurry of leaping dog, and followed her into the yard.
‘Come and let’s have a look at you,’ he murmured, and Sheba trotted obediently over to him, then flung herself down in a brazen plea to have her tummy rubbed.
The dog’s reaction only served to make Verna even more angry, especially when she compared it to the dog’s normal reserve with strangers. She had an almost overpowering urge to attack Con Bradley herself in hopes that the dog would join in, but somehow she knew it wouldn’t work that way.
‘Damn you, Sheba, you’re supposed to take his leg off, not beat him to death with your tail!’ she snarled, and the black shadow grinned happily up at her before turning to continue licking at Con’s hand.
‘Nice to see somebody in the house likes me,’ Con said drily, rising to tower over Verna. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to invite me in for a nightcap.’
Verna just glared up at him, feeling her anger wash away in the bitter feeling of betrayal. Damn Sheba! Damn Con Bradley! She felt betrayed ... and worse. It was like the feeling of personal violation she’d felt on the single occasion in Melbourne when a burglar had broken into her flat and vandalised what he didn’t steal.
‘Well, I’ll be off then, now that you’re safe home,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Good night, pretty girl.’
Sheba whined softly at his abrupt leave-taking, and Con was striding swiftly down the road before Verna realised she didn’t know if he’d said good night to herself or to the dog.
‘And I damned well don’t care, either,’ she whispered, although she stood watching his tall, long-legged figure until it was out of sight.
He never had admitted his presence on the beach, she thought after she had undressed and crawled into her bed. But it just had to have been him, no matter how much she wished it hadn’t been.
Then, just as she was drifting off to sleep, she thought that if he’d kissed her on this night, she would have known. Only he hadn’t, and somehow she was vaguely disappointed about that. Arrogant, hateful man! But handsome. And far, far too cunning.
CHAPTER THREE
Verna was far too busy the following morning to concern herself with Con Bradley. She started the day with just the hint of a headache, but that soon disappeared under the pressures of her deadline, and by noon she had all of her pages away except the one she was holding open for Con’s column.
And overall, she was rather pleased with her first edition of the paper, in that it was a better laid out and more informative production than those of her predecessor that she’d seen. Page 2 had a picture of her supposedly assuming command, and although she felt slightly embarrassed at that, preferring to shy away from the limelight, she realised it was necessary. And at least it was a flattering picture.
Her two young journalists, Dave Burgess and Jennifer Cox, had already shown themselves to be both eager and talented, so when noon arrived Verna announced a small celebration and took them off for a Chinese luncheon.
She’d left on her desk the logo that would head up Con’s restaurant column, a stylised formal bib, bow tie and monocle with the caption ‘Bib’n’Tucker’ blazoned on the front of the bib. It was, she’d decided, quite a nifty little production, and a note pinned to it on her return seemed to agree.
‘I like it,’ the note said quite simply, and beside it was an envelope containing the first instalment of the controversial restaurant column. Verna’s first reaction was one of pleasure. He’d liked her logo. But an instant later she was angry with him again because she didn’t really care if he liked it or not. Savagely, she ripped open the envelope and began to read.
He was a craftsman; under any other circumstances she’d have given him that much. But her reaction as her eyes flew over the words started with anger and quickly sped through frustration, horror, despair and finally sheer blind rage as she read the column through once, and then again.
She was oblivious to her surroundings, unaware that the blood had drained from her face to leave her with a haunting, deathlike pallor. Nor that her two young journalists were sitting and staring at her in genuine shock at this transformation from die pleasant, happy lady who’d bought them lunch and complimented their work.
All Verna could see was the words before her, words that cleverly — oh, so cleverly — portrayed her as ‘Dragon Lady the Editor’, a snaggle-toothed, sulphur-breathing, fire- snorting apparition without a single redeeming feature.
Fairly shaking with anger, she read it through for a third time, seeing how Con Bradley had managed to sing the praises of the Don Pancho restaurant and its excellent food, which he had apparently enjoyed while in the company of a female monster that ate children for dessert, turned recalcitrant wine waiters into cane toads, and herself had worse table manners than her thieving, mischievous black canine ‘familiar’.
Verna closed her eyes after the third reading, as if that alone would change the typescript. Her fingers clenched as if to crush die paper, then flew up as if to rend it into shreds. She flung it down in disgust and sat, eyes closed and breath coming in great, heaving sobs, then just as quickly she leaped to her feet, grabbing up the copy as she dashed from the room.
Reg Williamson looked up in startled amazement as she flung open the door to his office, marched in and flung the column down on his desk with a gesture of disgust.
‘I will not have this garbage in my paper,’ she cried. ‘I will not! And I don’t care if you do fire me. I’ll quit before I’ll run that!’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ he said soothingly. ‘What’s all this, anyway?’
‘It’s the so-called restaurant column that your great mate Con Bradley expects me to put in this week’s paper, that’s what,’ she shrieked. ‘And I won’t ... I won’t!’
She was pacing back and forth in front of his desk, almost tearing at her hair in frustrated rage, when Reg said, ‘Damn it, sit down, girl. Give me a minute to read this before you start screaming again.’
Chastened, but in no way mollified, Verna perched on the edge of a chair as Reg Williamson leaned back in his huge office chair and began to read. She kept her eyes on his cherubic face, staring as if she could, witch-like, influence his reaction to the column.
And to her absolute horror, she first saw his eyebrows raise in token amusement, then there was a grin, and then a genuine belly-laugh that continued throughout the rest of his reading. He finished with tears streaming down his cheeks and his voice ragged from the laughter.
‘Oh ... oh, it’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,’ he chortled. ‘Oh, my very word! Oh yes, we’ll drag in the restaurant ads with his kind of stuff.’
‘But... I ... we ...’ Verna was stuttering and speechless with emotion. ‘You don’t actually expect me to run that rubbish?’
Williamson looked at her with honest bewilderment on his face. ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘It’s fantastic copy. Your first edition will be talk of the town an hour after it’s on the street.�
�
‘But...’
‘Oh, come on, Verna. You’re not taking this personally, are you? It’s a gimmick... and a damned good one at that. Where’s your sense of humour girl? I mean, I’ll admit it’s a little bit pointed, but even you must admit it’s damned funny.’
‘I don’t admit any such thing,’ she retorted angrily. ‘It’s crude, clumsy, vicious and not in the least bit funny. And I’m not having it in my paper!’
‘Of course you are,’ Reg said placidly. ‘You’re just upset at the moment, that’s all. By tomorrow you’ll realise just how good it really is, and you’ll think differently. I mean, you can’t expect the readers to take it seriously, not with that lovely photo of you on page 2. How did you ever get this far in the business if you’re that over-sensitive?’
‘I am not over-sensitive; I’m disgusted. And all right, this week there’s the picture to offset Con Bradley’s so- called sense of humour. I’m not planning on running my picture every week just to do that.’
‘And I’m sure he’s not planning to make you a regular feature in his column, either,’ Reg Williamson said calmly. ‘Now why don’t you go and get this stuff set and into the page? I’m really quite busy just now, and I haven’t got the time to keep discussing it.’
‘You’re insisting that I use it, then?’
‘I’m advising that you use it,’ be said with quite unexpected coolness, ‘because it’s damn good stuff — and because I’m certain you’re a good enough journalist to realise that, once you put aside your personal feelings about it and start looking at it professionally.’
It might not have been a deliberate choice of words, but it was the right one. If there was one thing Verna did take pride in, it was her professionalism.
Stung by the publisher’s implied criticism, she grabbed up the copy for the column and fled from the room almost in a panic, cursing Con Bradley tinder her breath as she stormed back to her own office.
The Sugar Dragon Page 4
