And he turned on his heel and stalked off before Verna could say another word, greeting Jennifer with a cheerful remark as he passed her in the corridor.
‘Well, that was certainly nice timing,’ Verna remarked coldly as her young journalist walked into the office without the slightest trace of guilt in her eyes for being late.
‘I got a really good story out of it,’ was the casual reply, ‘but it did take longer than I’d expected.’ And then, with a blatant, curious grin, ‘How did you make out with Mr Bradley? Are you still talking to each other, or did you smother him in fire and brimstone as usual?’
‘That is none of your business, young lady,’ Verna replied in half-serious anger.
Jennifer merely shrugged and retired to her own desk, but when Verna caught herself whistling happily later that afternoon and looked up to see Jennifer hiding a secret smile, she just couldn’t stay angry.
‘If you must know, I’m going to dinner with him tonight,’ she said, ‘although he probably Just wants fresh ammunition for his column.’
‘You’ve got the name, you might as well enjoy some of the benefits,’ replied Jennifer. ‘Speaking of which, can I have a look at this week’s column?’
Verna passed it over and watched as Jennifer giggled her way through the reading. ‘He’s easing up on you,’ was the assessment. ‘Better watch out it isn’t a trap.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Jennifer’s warning, even though Verna realised it had been issued in jest, stayed in her mind as she showered and prepared for the evening ahead.
Having no idea where they’d be going, she was at something of a loss about what she should wear for the occasion, but the casual attitude towards dress standards in the heat of a Queensland summer made the decision less difficult than it might have been.
‘Better to be overdressed than underdressed,’ she told herself, idly wishing her mother had provided platitudes that would cope so easily with the turmoil of emotions Verna was suffering.
Now that she and Con were back on speaking terms, the thought of dining with him seemed somehow far less frightening than it had only six hours before, but the fear had been replaced by a quite different form of apprehension.
Verna realised her susceptibility was vastly increased by the realisation that she was in love with the tall writer, and she was instinctively fearful of letting him realise the extent of the power he held.
But she also wanted a chance to redeem herself, and maybe, just maybe, let the relationship take a more pleasant turn.
Please, please, please... just let us get through this evening without fighting, she thought, only too aware of how easily this pale-eyed man could strike sparks from her own fiery person. And strangely so, since in her own eyes Verna considered herself fairly placid and easygoing. Not a doormat by any means, but hardly the word-slanging, knife-wielding harridan she had become in Con’s presence.
‘It’s all your fault, Sheba,’ she muttered at the figure — chocolate-tinted in the sunlight — that sprawled across her bedroom doorway with long pink tongue lolling happily. ‘If you’d left his trousers alone in the first place I wouldn’t be in this pickle, and now that I’ve got half a chance of getting everything under control I suppose you’ll decide to bite his leg after all.’
She was just adjusting the ties of the soft pink halter-neck she’d chosen when a soft knock at the kitchen door brought Sheba to her feet with a rumbling, deep-throated growl.
‘This is not the time, stupid!’ Verna cried as she tried to get past the bristling dog so she could answer the door. As she approached it, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the dog had understood her, and she had to stifle a giggle at the thought of Con Bradley being savaged by a dog who’d refused in the past to even think of protecting Verna from him.
‘What’s so funny? Is my tie crooked or something?’ Con asked as he entered the house with a suspicious glance at the knife drawer. Sheba, fortunately, greeted him with her usual lack of restraint, and once satisfied that he smelled right the dog rolled over to have her tummy rubbed.
Verna chuckled louder as she explained, carefully choosing her words, and was rewarded by a grin of what might be called sceptical amusement.
‘You wouldn’t bite me, would you, old girl?’ Con said to the rolling figure. ‘You know how to keep a fellow happy without all this nonsense of trying to bring him down to your level, eh?’
Verna bit her tongue to keep back the sharp retort that immediately sprang to mind. No, she thought. No fighting tonight no matter what he says.
‘I’m ready when you are,’ she said instead, flashing Con her brightest smile as; she picked up her evening bag. Looking at his immaculate pale blue suit, she was glad of her own choice in clothing and equally glad of the look he’d given her to show his approval.
As they drove back towards Bundaberg, Verna found her eyes drawn to the lights on top of the Hummock, the only hill in the immediate district of the sugar cane city. She realised with momentary surprise that this was the first time she’d noticed, driving past the Hummock at night, that it seemed much higher than in daylight.
‘I suppose you haven’t even been up there for a look around?’ Con’s soft-voiced question startled Verna, mostly because of the uncanny way he seemed to have of reading her mind.
"No, I’ve hardly played tourist at all,’ she replied.
Then she had to stifle a giggle as he began to relate the history of the Hummock in a deliberately put-on tourist guide voice.
‘The Hummock is only three hundred and sixteen feet high, and it was once an active volcano,’ he chanted in a high falsetto. ‘It is because of the volcano that the land around Bundaberg is so extremely fertile. From the top of the Hummock, on a dear day, can be seen Childers and Hervey Bay to the south and south-west, and Burnett Heads and Bargara to the north and north-east. The Hummock is totally surrounded by fields of sugar cane, and during the cane firing season it is a most popular look out. On top of the Hummock is a memorial to Bundaberg’s greatest airman, Bert Hinkler.’
‘My, you do that well,’ she said laughingly. ‘Have you ever considered becoming a tourist guide?’
‘Only on my most depressing days,’ he replied with a grin. 1 only remembered that bit because I was so struck by an entire district venerating a piddly little hill like that. The view’s good, though, I must admit that; we’ll stop on the way home if we’re not too late.’
‘I’d like that,’ Verna replied honestly enough.
‘You’ll probably change your mind when I tell you it’s rather popular as a passion pit,’ Con laughed. ‘Especially since that handbag’s too small to hold your carving knife. Or have you got a smaller one for going out in public?’
Verna coloured at his bantering, wishing he’d abandon all mention of that particular incident for ever. But when she said so, he only laughed at her.
‘Easy for you to say, it wasn’t you that was almost cut off in the peak of your vibrant young manhood,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry about it, you’re perfectly free to argue with me any old time, just so long as you keep your hands in your pockets.’
‘Perhaps it would be easier if we didn’t argue at all,’ Verna replied in what she hoped was a meek voice. Anything, she thought, if it would make him change the subject.
‘Easier, but booorring,’ he answered, drawing out the last word in a sing-song tone. ‘And that’s the one thing I could never accuse you of, being boring.’
‘I suppose that’s some kind of compliment,’ Verna said quietly. ‘Or is it?’ She couldn’t help but remember his comment that first time in the restaurant, nor could she still her traitorous tongue. ‘Or didn’t you mean it when you said virgins at any age are boring?’
‘What do you think?’ His mouth quirked into a wry smile, but he kept his eyes on the road ahead.
1 think you’re evading the issue,’ she said with a sudden determination. Gone was her promise to have a quiet, non-aggressive evening, and she was glaring dagge
rs at him, poised for a quick retaliation no matter what he replied.
‘And I think some people have unhealthy obsessions about things that are their own business and nobody else’s,’ he replied calmly. ‘You brought it up, not me; if you want to fight, fight with yourself.’
There was a long silence then, lasting until they’d passed through the outskirts of the city and turned past the massive brick structure of the East Water Tower. Con drove carefully, but Verna could see his anger in the tightly- bunched muscles of his jaw.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally. ‘It was my fault for bringing it up.’
‘Okay,’ he replied, ‘I’ll forgive you this time.’ Then, as if nothing had happened, he switched on his tourist guide voice again with a wave at the water tower.
‘Built in 1902 at a cost of one thousand eight hundred and ninety-one pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence,’ he chanted. ‘The tower is one hundred and twenty feet high, with a thirty-foot inside diameter and walls that taper from a thickness of four foot six inches to about one foot. An absolute masterpiece of bricklaying.’
‘You’re amazing,’ Verna laughed. ‘You just made that up!’
1 did not!’ Con managed to sound quite indignant at the suggestion. ‘It’s all perfectly true, according to the local tourist brochures. I’m a sucker for hoarding bits of totally irrelevant information.’
‘It must come in handy sometimes—for your books, I mean,’ Verna replied. ‘Or don’t you bother mixing facts with all the sin, sex and sadism?’ She wondered immediately what had prompted such a provocative question, but to her great relief Con only laughed.
‘That’s what I like, another faithful fan,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about work tonight; both of us get enough of that during the day.’
Swivelling the car through the centre-parking section of Bourbong Street, he secured a parking slot squarely in front of a restaurant called the Peacock Garden.
‘I’m quite looking forward to this; I’m told it has superb Chinese food,’ he said, then walked around to hand Verna out of the car.
Inside, they discussed the menu only briefly before Verna admitted her limited knowledge of Chinese cuisine. ‘I’ll put myself entirely in your hands,’ she said, and instantly regretted the extravagance when Con ordered a variety of dishes and then specified bowls and chopsticks.
‘I don’t know how to handle chopsticks,’ she said, only to be told, ‘There’s only one way to learn. Don’t worry, I won’t let you starve to death.’
‘Of course not, you’ll just sit there and laugh at me all the way through dinner.’ It was a snippish reply that Verna regretted, as usual, only after it was out.
Con raised one eyebrow and shook his head sadly. ‘You really have a thing about being laughed at, dear girl. Makes me wonder how you ever came through the journalistic ranks in the first place, with such a poor sense of humour. Or is it only poor when the joke’s on you?’
There was just enough seriousness in the remark that Verna was forced to take herself in hand. This would never do! It would be impossible to get through the evening if she bridled at his every remark. ‘It’s not poor at all, usually,’ she replied. ‘It must be that you and I have what’s commonly called a personality clash.’
‘Hah! Don’t go trying to blame it on me,’ he retorted. ‘And it’s not a personality clash—it’s a guilt complex. That’s what’s the matter with you, Verna, you feel guilty because your little mongrel friend stole my pants, or so you think. And because you’re convinced I’m holding your sexual secrets over your head like a headsman’s axe.’
She didn’t ... couldn’t answer, only look down at the table and hope nobody in the restaurant could hear him.
‘Come on, admit it,’ he said, and Verna raised her face to meet a pair of icy blue eyes that seemed to scorch her very soul.
‘Admit what?’ she said demurely, stalling for time and knowing he understood that very well indeed.
Well, for starters you might try admitting that you’re only guessing when you accuse me of having been your naked fantasy figure on the beach,’ he said chillingly.
‘You’ve never denied it,’ Verna replied hotly.
‘Nor have I admitted it, you might remember that. Especially since you’ve already refused to tell me just what it was that I did — presuming it was me, of course — that’s been upsetting you ever since. I find that quite unfair.’
‘I’ve already told you ... if it was you then you already know, and if it wasn’t, it’s none of your business.’
‘See, you’re admitting you’re not sure,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Which means you either wish it had been me — or you wish it hadn’t. Which?’
There was just no way in the world Verna could answer that question, any more than she could bring herself to tell this infuriating man what really had happened on the beach that morning. What if it hadn’t been him after all? ‘But it was you, I know it was,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Well then, it won’t hurt to tell me all about it,’ Con replied, ‘or would you rather deal with this other little matter first?’
‘What other matter?’ He’d lost her for an instant, but as soon as she’d asked, Verna regretted it.
‘Why your little secret, of course. The little secret that you told me, unasked and uninvited, after our first dinner together. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it already?’
His grin was a clear invitation for Verna to blow her cool entirely, and he knew it. ‘I would really like to know why you’ve got such an obsession about the whole thing in the first place,’ he continued. ‘It’s perfectly obvious that it’s a situation that exists by your own choice, and you must have had hundreds of opportunities to do something about it if you’d wanted to; you’re a gorgeous woman, you’re obviously a very passionate person, and when you get yourself in the right circumstances, with the right man, the problem will take care of itself.’
Verna had dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, but now she looked up to meet Con’s own gaze, unsure just what expression she would find there. To her slight surprise, he was regarding her quite soberly, without even a hint of humour or ridicule in his eyes. And he’d called her gorgeous, passionate even! He must be laughing at her.
‘I’m not, you know.’ He said it very gently, and despite her immediate surge of anger at him reading her mind, she couldn’t deny the honesty in his eyes. He wasn’t laughing at her.
‘I realise that,’ she said. ‘And I suppose I am overly defensive about it. It’s just that...’
Con’s blue eyes took on a strange expression, one that seemed to act like a magnet that started the flow of her words. Hesitantly, at first, and then suddenly in a great rush of pent-up emotion and anger, she told him about Stephen, about her own feelings for a man who’d lied to her, cheated her, and finally ...
‘He laughed at me,’ she said bitterly, ‘and it wasn’t funny laughter; it was like somebody laughing at a cripple. And then he ... he offered to … to fix it for me!’
Con’s explosive oath was so foul that at first she didn’t believe her own ears, but the icy look in his eyes, the whiteness of his clenched fists on the table before her, suggested she’d actually heard right. He looked away from her, and she could sense his embarrassment, and knew somehow that he wasn’t embarrassed about what he’d said, but about Stephen’s actions.
‘There are days I’m almost ashamed to be a man,’ he said then, so softly she could barely hear the words. His fingers clenched and unclenched, and Verna could feel the table vibrate with the tension inside him. Without thinking about it, she reached over to take one of his fists in her own slender fingers.
His eyes, like two pieces of flint, stared at her unseeing, then gradually slid back into focus with a softness so warm, so gentle, it took her breath away.
There was a moment, a moment a lifetime long, when it seemed to Verna as if she and Con were the only people in the entire world. She looked in
to his eyes and wanted to drown there, aware that her own eyes were crying out her love for him, and totally uncaring that he should hear that cry. Then the waitress arrived with the first course of their meal, and Verna could have shot the woman. Con’s eyes returned to normal, and he turned away almost brusquely to order a bottle of wine before turning his attention to the food.
‘Okay,’ he said to her in a voice she barely recognised. ‘This stuff is chicken in rice paper, which probably isn’t the best dish for you to learn to handle chopsticks with, but it’s the best one to start a meal, far as I’m concerned.’ Rising from his chair, he came around the table to stand behind Verna using his own hands to guide her movements as he instructed her in the use of the curious instruments.
‘The bottom one stays steady and you move the top one against it,’ he said, demonstrating with his own and gently manipulating her fingers until she began to get the feel of it. The mere touch of his fingers sent such shivers of absolute ecstasy through Verna that she could barely control her own fingers, then all too soon it was over.
‘Don’t worry about being a bit sloppy,’ he grinned at her from across the table. ‘I’ve already destroyed your table manners in print anyway, remember?’
‘Well, even if you hadn’t, I’d have done it myself before this meal was over,’ she grinned back, dropping her portion of paper chicken for the third time just as it reached her mouth.
For some reason, she found the honey prawns easier to handle, although Con scowled at her when she tried to spear one on a chopstick instead of delicately picking it up as he did. The barbecued chunks of pork chop gave her a bit of trouble, since eating them involved holding the pieces in the chopsticks while she bit off a portion, but by the time she got round to trying the fried rice Verna was able to handle the chopsticks reasonably well.
The Sugar Dragon Page 8
