Dragon's Lair (2 page)

must have come as an unwelcome surprise to him.

Her mother's opposition to the marriage had been instant and

hostile.

'You can't marry him,' Mrs Greer said, her face white and pinched.

'A man like that! He must be twice your age, and he's positively

uncouth.'

'He's a writer—a poet.' Davina had tried to reason with her. 'I know

he doesn't correspond with your idea of one— but he's famous

already ...'

'On the strength of two novels and a few poems,' her mother had

sneered. 'A television celebrity—until the next nine-day wonder

comes along, and then he'll soon be forgotten about.'

'Uncle Philip doesn't think so.'

'Of course your uncle would defend him.' Mrs Greer smiled thinly.

'He's his publisher, after all. Oh God, I wish you'd never gone to

that party, then you would never have met him.'

'Oh, but I would.' Davina lifted her head, her eyes shining. 'It was

fate.'

'Fate!' her mother scoffed angrily, and turned away. 'Well, you won't

marry with my consent, Davina.'

'Then we'll marry without it,' Davina said angrily, and saw her

mother flinch. Compunction overcame her then, and she went to

her, laying a hand on her arm. 'Mother, if you would just get to

know Gethyn—properly.'

'As you do, I suppose,' Mrs Greer returned impatiently. 'How long

has this—whirlwind courtship lasted? Three weeks? Do you really

imagine that's a sufficient period of time to find out about a man

with whom you intend to spend the rest of your life? If you must

continue with this —relationship, why not just become engaged? At

least one can withdraw from an engagement honourably before too

much harm is done—but marriage!' Mrs Greer shuddered.

'I don't want to withdraw from it,' Davina said desperately. 'And

neither does Gethyn.'

Her mother's lip curled. 'That I can well understand. He's doing very

well for himself, after all. A miner's son from some obscure pit

village in Wales, marrying his publisher's niece. Another rung on

the ladder from rags to riches. Of course he wants to go through

with it. He'd be a fool not to. No doubt by now someone will have

told him about the money that's to come to you from your father's

estate when you're twenty-five, and that will be an added incentive.'

There was a long silence, and then Davina said huskily,

'That—that's an appalling thing to say.'

'The truth often does hurt,' he mother returned inimically.

Mrs Greer had not attended the ceremony at Caxton Hall a few

days later. Uncle Philip had been there, however, with Gethyn's

agent Alec Marks to act as the other witness. It had been swift and

rather impersonal and very far from the sort of wedding she had

once day-dreamed about when she was younger. Gethyn was

different too in a dark formal suit which contrasted strangely with

the denims and dark roll-collared sweaters she was accustomed to

seeing him wear.

That was what he had been wearing the first time she saw him at

the party Uncle Philip had given to launch his new volume of

poetry. Poems were often considered by publishers to be a drug on

the market, and yet this book would sell, her uncle knew, because

Gethyn Lloyd had written it.

The first thing Davina had thought when she set eyes on him was

that he didn't look 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. In-depth

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 it with relief.

She knew the reason for her mother's opposition, of course. She

was terrified that Davina would be brought into contact with

Gethyn again through her work. But it hadn't happened. For one

thing, as far as she had known until today Gethyn was still in

America, teaching creative writing at some New England college.

And for another, in the two years they had been apart, he had

apparently not produced another manuscript of his own. While he

had been in the States, he had written the screenplay for the

successful film of his first book, A
Power for Good
, but no new

work had been forthcoming from him, and although he had never

discussed it with her, Davina knew this had been a major

disappointment for her uncle.

She went into her small room and sat down with a sigh, her eyes

fixed absently on the scrap of paper in her hand. She really ought to

make a start on returning these calls. One of them at least would

probably be urgent. But the names and numbers kept dancing

meaninglessly in front of her eyes, and eventually she dropped the

piece of paper impatiently into her in-tray to await her attention in

the morning.

Her door opened and the smooth fair head of Jan Preston, her

uncle's secretary, appeared.

'Oh, you are back,' she exclaimed in surprise. 'I've been trying to get