The Driftwood Dragon Read online

  The Driftwood Dragon

  By

  Ann Charlton

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE DRIFTWOOD DRAGON

  Dru's surprise at finding that Locke Matthews' real character was quite different from his Ramage image, soon became love for the tender and vulnerable man still haunted by dreams of Eva. But the dark held a real threat for them both…

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  First published

  in

  Great Britain 1985

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Ann Charlton 1985

  ISBN 0 263 75202 X

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was years since Dru had been afraid of the dark. Even the dark in this darkest hallway where it dodged around a corner to the staircase. As a child she'd always held her breath when she came to its end, imagining nameless night horrors waiting around the bend. The moment of truth had always come when she had to slide her hand around the corner to the light switch. She had to press it quickly or something horrible would get her. In her child's mind it had been as certain as the fact that pavement cracks had to be avoided at all costs. The switching on of the light had been the signal that would send the monsters with the clawed, gruesome hands and clanking chains shrivelling into no-man's land until next time.

  Whatever had roused her had got her up and to this corner without turning on the wan hall light. She stood there, almost as reluctant as she'd been as a child to put her hand around the wall edge to turn on the stair light. It was nothing. She listened. Only the hush and crash of the ocean that had finally hypnotised her into half-sleep on this third night. Nothing. The stairs creaked. That didn't mean a thing. The holiday house had fallen into picturesque disrepair. Almost everything about it creaked, groaned or needed painting. She decided to go back to bed.

  Then she heard the tiny clink of metal. Old images of chain-draped creatures flashed through a sleep starved mind and Dru froze in the dark, prey again to the old panic. Her hand went to the light switch. Fumbling, she found the cold plastic in the dark. The back of her neck tingled, and she held her breath to listen. There was something—something…

  Something warm squeezed her fingers.

  'Ssssh.'

  The sound raised the hair on her neck. Dru screamed the scream that had been ready for just this when she was eight. Again a hiss of sound came close to her. The thing closed about her, practically lifting her off her feet and smothering her shrill cry. She fought. Her elbows struck something warm and solid and there was a grunting noise. Tight, thick fur brushed at her bare neck and her skin crawled. Whatever was over her mouth smelled of oil and hide. She tore at it and her fingers touched several hard, cold protuberances that brought another scream up from her diaphragm. Claws.

  Outside she heard the sound of a car and the normality of it made her struggles wilder. She threw her body sideways and nearly broke loose but she was caught from behind.

  'For Pete's sake, Shelley, be quiet. It's me,' a voice hissed in her ear and the human sound of it stilled her for a moment. Then there were sounds of people outside. More voices floated up to Dru like something out of a dream. That was it—a dream. She was asleep.

  'You can't be serious. He wouldn't be seen dead in a place like this.'

  'I thought I saw him turn in this direction—'

  'Come on—the place is a shack, almost falling down.'

  'Yeah, I guess you're right. He'll be heading for one of the high rise places further up the coast—hell! Talk about a needle in a haystack…' The voices faded.

  A dream, Dru insisted. It must be. She'd finally got to sleep after nights of wakefulness and this was what she got. But the close warmth of the man seemed real enough—so did the hand over her mouth. Dru began to struggle again.

  'Darling—shut up,' he whispered and kept her gagged until the car doors slammed. A deep sigh left the man. The warmth of it gusted past Dru's ear. The car growled away again on the unsurfaced road and as the hand slid from her mouth Dru yelped.

  'Help—help—you get away from me—' This last as he let her go then came after her as she shrank back against the wall. He was a dark grey shape on a pitch background. 'Don't you touch me again—you get out of here, do you hear me—' her voice began to rise, 'I don't care if you're a monster or not—'

  He found the switch. Her voice cut off instantly. Reality returned with the light that wanly revealed the familiar landing walls and the narrow stairs, that sloped off to the lower floor. And the man. Dru stared at him. He was tall and broad—his hair a dark, reddish brown as far as she could tell, and mussed. He wore a thigh length jacket with a sheepskin collar and she remembered its animal feel against her bare skin. Trousers, long boots and leather gloves that had small metal studs on the backs. Claws, she had thought in her idiotic half-sleep. There was something menacing about the way he removed the gauntlets and slapped them lightly against his arm. He came closer. His fine brows arched and his greenish eyes flicked over her. There was the faintest hint of freckling on his skin which was tan enough to save him from the sandy looks of a redhead. His hair really was russet, she saw now as the light fell on him. His brows and lashes were dark, another plus for one of his colouring and his mouth and nose might have been modelled by a sculptor of classical inclination.

  'Sorry to frighten you darling—but I couldn't have you screaming, now could I? With your projection, you'd be heard in Tweed Heads.'

  Projection? What was he talking about? Was he mad? Dru edged away as the man looked around. 'My God, I did ask Eric to find us a place off the tourist track, but I didn't think we'd have to make do with a dump like this. He must have let that brainless secretary of his make the booking.' Us? Dru wondered which way she should run to escape this crazy man. Up or down? her foot slid on to the next downward step. Down—she might make it to Sam's cottage…

  His smile flashed out again and she was dazzled by it—the shape of that smiling mouth made her blink. Where had she seen a smile like that before? Dru pressed back into the shadow.

  'I'm glad you came. It's been a long time hasn't it?' he said easily. 'Remember last time—wonderful.'

  'Last time—now look—'

  'Why the devil did you have to make such a fuss when you heard me coming? You were expecting me and you were obviously waiting for me—' he indicated her nightgown and Dru's mouth dropped open. 'Very flattering of course darling, but I've done a bit of travelling tonight and I'm beat. But tomorrow—' the green eyes smiled promises galore and he took a step that brought him up to Dru's cold, shivering form. His hands rested on the wall either side of her. He lowered his head and touched his mouth to her shoulder. Dru shrank from him. In comfortable familiarity he curved a hand to her breast.

  '
Ah, Shelley—' he sighed.

  She kicked him in the shins. He was booted and it couldn't have hurt but it surprised him enough to step back.

  'First of all I am not your darling,' she said coldly, 'Second, I am part-owner of this dump and am here on holiday.'

  He stared, bent his head and peered at her in the part-shadow. One hand went out to push back her heavy hair for a closer look but she slapped him down.

  'You're not Shelley,' he said.

  'No.'

  'I thought there was something different about you—but in this light—there seems to be some mistake. I rented this place. Eric said—'

  'Look—who is Eric?' she demanded, her head reeling with the idea that he might be the tenant she'd been expecting to take the other half of the house while she was here. That didn't appeal to her at all. They rented to nice, ordinary family groups who arrived at a conventional hour. She looked again at the powerful figure, the vaguely familiar face. Oh no, she couldn't have him here.

  'My manager,' he said. 'He paid in advance for the flat. Or rather his secretary did. Eric would never have knowingly booked—' He glanced around then seemed to remember he was talking to the proprietor, 'Here's the key I used to get in.' The metal chain and tag clinked as he pulled it from his pocket.

  'That's my spare—you should have one with a blue tag.'

  He shrugged. Dru cooled somewhat. It had been a genuine mistake. At least that was a relief. It wasn't the first time the agency had supplied the key to the owner's flat instead of the one they rented out. But it was the first time it had created a mini-drama.

  'Why did you manhandle me like that and why were those men looking for you?'

  'I would have thought that was obvious— Miss ?'

  'Winters. Dru Winters. And no, it isn't obvious. We'd better sort this out. You go downstairs and I'll put something on.'

  She put on a dressing gown. When she went down he was standing in the lounge room, hands sunk in his pockets. The light was a blaze here compared with the dimness over the stairs. Dru watched him for a moment where he stood by the television set. And her brain made the association. He saw her eyes go from him to the television screen and his eyebrows went up.

  'Don't tell me you didn't recognise me?'

  For maybe ten seconds she stared at him, beginning to think it was a dream again. This was the Ransome Man.

  'I just realised,' she said shortly, her misgivings tripling, 'the light on the landing isn't as strong or as flattering as the ones you usually work under. I suppose I should say I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Matthews.'

  Locke Matthews. Screen and television actor whose international career had literally balanced on a razor's edge. It had kicked off as the result of an advertising campaign for Ransome razors and blades. In each of six different commercials, Matthews portrayed the action man in a perilous mini-adventure that had him fighting, fencing, sky-diving in hair raising escapes from danger. At the end of each, bloodied, muddied and ruggedly ragged, he would gaze into the camera, raise an eyebrow and say: 'And if you think that was a close shave…' Then a quick shave with a Ransome razor and the acid test of the smooth chin would be carried out by one or more luscious, lustful-eyed women. 'A Ransome Man is a handsome man—' one would purr rather unnecessarily as the now suave, tuxedoed Matthews sipped cognac, viewed his fine art, or idly made a brilliant chess move. The Ransome Man became one of those wild advertising successes, like the Winfield cigarette ads that long before had launched Paul Hogan. Locke Matthews had played the role ever since off screen as well as on with regard to the women, if the press could be believed. His television series, Ramage had run three seasons, was into re-runs and rumoured to be going into production again soon. In it Matthews did all the things that the Ransome Man had done, except that it took an hour each time instead of two minutes. In his films, the same things took over two hours. It said a lot for the economy of advertising. But his ratings were high, the Ramage show took out regular television awards and he was popular both on and off screen. Locke Matthews was a rare thing among the new crop of Australian stars. Still a bachelor and still choosing to live in this home country in spite of international film success. Both circumstances endeared him to press and public alike—the former relishing his many affairs and the latter forgiving him all because he was not only sexy, successful and single but he managed to subdue his ego in interview to emerge as Mr Nice Guy himself.

  Had she not been so frightened, Dru might have known him sooner and apparently Mr Matthews was thinking the same thing.

  'You must have been terrified,' he said drily.

  'It's not every night that the country's number one sex symbol drops in and grabs me as if I'm a sack of potatoes,' she said sharply. 'Anyway, you look different in person.'

  'So I'm told.'

  'You don't look so—red-headed on the screen and the freckling doesn't show,' she told him, angered by his calm assurance as he followed her into the kitchen and sat down.

  'No?' He leaned back and put the backs of his hands to his eyes, flexing his shoulders so that the sheepskin collar fell apart to reveal a chest hugging tee shirt. 'I wish more people had trouble identifying me, Dru. It would make life easier if there were a few less fans about. How about some coffee?'

  He looked tired she thought, as his hand went to the back of his neck in a massaging movement. And he sounded sincere. Perhaps he wasn't as conceited as she thought. After some hesitation she put on the kettle.

  'I suppose those men looking for you were Press.'

  'You got it.'

  'Is it still the business of the M.P.'s wife?' she asked distastefully as she put out two cups and the sugar. The stories linking him with Dorothy Falkland had been gathering strength for weeks. It served him right to be hounded. Anyone with his moral outlook should expect it. But it was a pity he'd landed on her doorstep. Her hand shook as she opened the jar of coffee. That shock on the stairs had pumped so much adrenalin into her system that she would be lucky to sleep tonight after all. And that raised another problem which she shelved temporarily.

  He sighed. 'Damned papers.'

  'How did you get here?'

  'Bike.' He reached for the coffee, wrapped his hands about the cup. Bike? She should have guessed by the clothes. But what was the star of Ramage doing travelling by bike? Dru sat down opposite him at the scrubbed timber table. Screen actors just didn't drop in to her ordinary life—on a bike—pursued by the press. She looked down at her sensible blue dressing gown and a snort of laughter escaped her.

  'Something funny about a bike?'

  'No. It just occurred to me that I might be dreaming all this.'

  He smiled as if he was used to women thinking his presence a beautiful dream. Which he probably was.

  'Don't let it go to your head, Mr Matthews,' she said and he blinked at her tone, 'I'm not one of the swooning female fans who make life difficult for you. But as you've just scared me out of my wits in the middle of the night I might be excused for thinking I was having a nightmare.'

  'You certainly were scared,' he said, as if she was chicken-hearted, 'You fought like the devil.'

  'You think that's unusual?' Dru retorted, 'Ask any woman how she'd react if you grabbed her in the dark and see what she says.' His quirked brow made her see how crazy that was. Most women would react favourably to being grabbed by Locke Matthews—in the dark or anywhere at all. 'Any sensible woman,' she added.

  'And is that what you are, Dru? A sensible woman?'

  'Too sensible to be overwhelmed by a celluloid image, Mr Matthews.'

  'What? I won't have to fight you off?'

  'No. You can sleep in peace. As your—friend— hasn't turned up you probably will.'

  'Are you always so direct?' he asked, annoyed.

  'Mostly.'

  'Then I imagine you always sleep in peace.'

  Colour flushed her cheeks. 'I do.'

  'With some women I'd be inclined to take that as a challenge.'

  'With some women you'd
be right.'

  'But not you?'

  'Just think of me as your landlady. Will you be staying the whole two weeks?' She waved a hand at the cosy but dilapidated surroundings. Not what he was used to.

  'As a hideout it has its merits.' He drained his coffee cup and stood. 'Thanks for the coffee. Now if you give me the right key, I'll move into my flat.'

  Dru took a deep breath. 'That's a problem, Mr Matthews. I don't have a spare with me at the moment. My brother took it away with him unintentionally last time he was down here.'

  'You mean I can't get in?'

  'Not tonight I'm afraid. However, I'm sure you'll find a suitable motel back along the highway—' she began when he raised a hand tiredly to his eyes. There was a certain eloquence to the gesture that caught at her. 'On the other hand, I do have a spare room with bunks and I suppose you could have that—' she hurried on as he trained those green eyes on her, '—just for tonight. I can get the proper key from the agent tomorrow.'

  'I'd be grateful,' he said in a mellifluent voice that reached up and down her spine. She was instantly dubious about her decision.

  'There's no need for gratitude, Mr Matthews. It's my fault as part-owner that the spare key wasn't here.' She walked from the kitchen to the stairs. Her shadow on the landing was overlapped by his as he followed her, picking up a leather bag on the way through.

  She switched on the light of the small bedroom that was piled with odds and ends in boxes and a couple of suitcases. Double bunks stood along one wall.

  'I'm afraid you'll have to share with some baggage.'

  'I've shared with worse.' He dropped his Gucci bag on the floor.

  'I'll bet.' She muttered and went to fetch sheets and a towel from the linen cupboard. When she returned the sheepskin collared coat lay across the lower bunk and he had stripped off his tee shirt. As she stopped in the doorway, he tossed the garment on top of the coat and came forward to take the linen from her. It might have been a scene from his show. Getting the shirt off was a must in every Ramage episode.