Dragons Lair. Sara Craven

at all like the star of the show. She had been at many such parties in the past, and writers often, she found, behaved either with a becoming diffidence or an excessive eagerness to please when confronted by the media men, or sometimes both. Not so Gethyn Lloyd.

      He hadn’t been the tallest man in the room, yet he had seemed so. There was something about his lean, muscular body, the dark harsh lines of his face, that made the other men seem positively effete. He stood a little apart, gazing broodingly into the glass he held, his dark brows drawn frowningly together above that hawk’s beak of a nose which surely must have been broken at some stage in his career. Then he had looked up suddenly, so suddenly that she had been unable to avert her gaze in time, and his cool green eyes had locked startlingly with hers. And the firm sensual lines of his mouth had relaxed into a smile—not the hurtful mockery she had come so painfully to know later—but with a charm that made her heart turn over.

      He came to her side, dealing summarily with a woman journalist from a popular daily who tried to detain him. His eyes swept over her, missing nothing, she thought dazedly, from the dark auburn hair piled smoothly on top of her shapely head to the silver buckles on the shoes just visible beneath the deep plum velvet trousers.

      ‘I don’t know who you are, but I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.’ His voice was low and resonant, with an underlying lilt which was undeniably attractive.

      She smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when you learn my identity,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m Davina Greer.’

      He studied her reflectively for a moment, then swung to look at Philip Greer, deep in conversation at the opposite end of the room. ‘Daughter? You’re not much alike.’

      ‘Niece—and I’m supposed to resemble my mother’s side of the family.’

      ‘Hm.’ That devastating green glance was on her again, assessing the candour of her hazel eyes under their long sweep of lashes, the high delicacy of her cheekbones and the sweet vulnerable curve of her mouth. ‘Then I must meet her. They say, don’t they, that if you want to know what your girl will look like in years to come, take a look at her mother.’

      ‘Do they?’ She lifted her brows coolly, trying to conceal the instinctive tremor that had gone through her when he’d said ‘your girl’. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

      ‘Oh, I’ve a fund of such information,’ he said softly. ‘Stick with me, lovely, and you could learn a lot.’

      She was on her guard instantly, aware that there was an implication in his words that put them squarely into the category of doubtful remarks, to be dealt with by cool politeness. She gave him a formal smile, and changed the subject.

      ‘Will you be in London long, Mr Lloyd?’

      ‘Long enough.’ His eyes never left her face. ‘And at least until I’ve persuaded you to have dinner with me.’

      ‘You’re very persistent,’ she said helplessly.

      ‘I’ve been accused of worse things,’ he returned laconically. He put out a finger and lifted her chin slightly, forcing her to look at him. ‘What’s the matter? Surely I can’t be the first man who’s fancied you?’

      No, she thought, but you’re the first man I’ve ever—fancied, and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened.

      She smiled again, moved slightly so that his hand was no longer even fractionally against her skin. ‘Well, hardly.’

      ‘So what’s the problem, lovely?’

      She managed to meet his gaze. ‘Nothing, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Lloyd. I’d like to have dinner with you.’

      Which was a tame way to describe this sweet insidious excitement which was beginning to take possession of her.

      ‘Good.’ He drained the contents of his glass. ‘Shall we go?’

      She stared at him. ‘But the party—it isn’t over yet.’

      ‘It is as far as I’m concerned. I’ve answered all their questions. Now I’m leaving them in peace to drink and talk at each other, and that’s what they really want to do. Most of them only came here today anyway because someone in the higher echelons suddenly decided that poetry might be trendy. Besides, there’s always a story in me—a miner’s son who can actually string words together like a real person.’

      ‘That’s rather bitter, isn’t it?’

      ‘Probably, but it’s the way I’m feeling at the moment. Indepth interviews and expensive whisky seem to affect me like that. I’m relying on you to exorcise all my evil spirits.’

      ‘That sounds a tall order on such a short acquaintance.’ She pulled a wry face.

      ‘Who said our acquaintance was going to be short?’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to worry. I think, if you wanted, you could coax wild beasts and dragons to eat out of your hand if you put your mind to it.’

      She was embarrassed at the personal turn to the conversation and took refuge in flippancy. ‘Even a Welsh dragon?’

      He gave her a long look, and she made herself meet it steadily.

      ‘Oh, that most of all, girl,’ he said. ‘That most of all.’

      Somehow she found herself apologising to Uncle Philip for her early departure and calling goodbyes to the surprised glances which were noting it around the room.

      As they waited for the lift in the corridor, she began to laugh.

      ‘It’s far too early for dinner. There won’t be a restaurant open.’

      ‘Then we’ll walk and talk and generally further our short acquaintance.’ He allowed her to precede him into the lift. The doors closed noiselessly, shutting them into a tight enclosed world where they were quite alone.

      Davina said breathlessly, ‘We need the ground floor. You have to press the button.’

      He slanted a glance at her. ‘I’ve been in lifts before. Why are you so nervous?’

      She moistened her lips. ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Don’t lie to me, Davina. Not now, not ever. What do you imagine I’m going to do? Leap on you?’

      She felt herself go crimson. ‘Of course not,’ she denied too quickly.

      His lips twisted slightly. ‘Then you’re far too trusting,’ he told her mockingly, and sent the lift on its way to street level.

      She was recalled abruptly back to the present as a child’s coloured ball bounced towards her and she instinctively put out a foot to stop it. She stood quite still for a moment, assimilating her surroundings, and telling herself that these things were all in the past now and could only have the power to hurt her if she allowed them to. But her eyes were stinging suddenly and she fumbled in her handbag for her dark glasses, insisting to herself that it was only the sunlight that was too strong.

      She was dazzled now, as she’d been dazzled then, and as she walked on, the words, ‘Too trusting. Too trusting …’ began to sound a bitter knell in her tired brain.

      In the end, she took another taxi and went back to the office. The publishing firm of Hanson Greer was situated in a quiet street not far from the Post Office Tower. She pushed open the glass door and went in with a smile for the receptionist in her panelled cubicle. She accepted a list of the people who had telephoned her during her absence and took the lift up to her office.

      Her mother had not wanted her to work here, yet at the time it had seemed a perfectly logical thing to do. Her father had been a director of the firm until his death, and if she had been a boy, it would have been quite natural for her to follow him into publishing. And this was supposed to be the age of equal opportunities, so … Besides, Uncle Philip’s offer of a job had come just when she needed it most—when she was looking round desperately for something to fill this emotional vacuum inside herself, and she had seized