Read Named of the Dragon for Free Online

why did you let me use that photo? I look hideous."
    It was her first book in the Llandrah series. Lewis, efficient as usual, had provided gifts to suit all ages, even those barely old enough to read. Not wanting to think of the baby next door, I looked away quickly. "Right then, I'll just go wash up, if you'll point me to the bathroom."
    "Out the door and to your left. But don't be too long, will you?" she called after me, "I really am dying for tea."
    Downstairs, Christopher had set out biscuits on the kitchen table with our teacups, and a rather tempting plate of cold ham sandwiches. ' 'You can thank James for those,'' he told us, nodding at the sandwiches. "He thought you might be hungry."
    "Darling James," said Bridget, tucking in. "Where did you say he was?"
    "I didn't." Christopher leaned back against the door-jamb. "He's gone up to the Hall, actually. Shooting pheasants."
    Bridget looked surprised. "But James doesn't like guns."
    "True. But then he's not the type to disappoint the local gentry. He's not as rude as I am. I declined the invitation," he explained, helping himself to a biscuit. "Blasting birds out of the sky isn't my idea of an afternoon's fun. And with James about, it's just as likely to be me that gets blasted, instead of the pheasants."
    The resemblance between the brothers really was quite striking, I thought, looking at him. They shared the same blue eyes, the same dark golden hair that my mother had once termed "British blond," the same angular jaw and the same dashing smile that displayed teeth so perfectly straight one could hardly believe they were natural. But Christopher, I decided, was the younger by at least five years.
    His eyes were still on Bridget, assessing her, trying to charm.
    "When James told me he'd invited a fellow writer for the holidays," he said, "I must admit I didn't think he meant someone like you."
    She smiled. "You were expecting tweeds and brogues, then, were you?"
    "Not really. Some tall, gaunt creature dressed in black, with granny glasses and a fringe, perhaps."
    "Sorry to disappoint."
    "Not at all." He turned to me. "You're going to think me awfully rude, I know, but I'm afraid I've forgotten your name."
    I was used to that, in Bridget's company. "It's Lyn. Lyn Ravenshaw."
    "My agent," Bridget added. "Although I suppose she doesn't fit your image of a literary agent, either."
    "On the contrary." He looked me up and down. "She looks exactly as an agent ought to look."
    I sipped my tea, amused. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
    But he'd already returned his attention to my more entrancing client. "You write children's books, James said. That must be fun."
    "I'm not sure any form of writing can be called 'fun', " said Bridget. "Fulfilling, yes. Enjoyable, yes. Bloody hard work, definitely." She took another sandwich to replace the one she'd eaten. "I take it you don't write, yourself?"
    Christopher shook his head. "No, I'm not as clever as my brother. Can't even scribble a sentence."
    "So what do you do?"
    "Antiques," he said. "I have a shop in Bath."
    She glanced up, intrigued. "Do you?" She'd always had a weakness for antiques. But Christopher, not knowing this, failed to take full advantage of his opportunity. Instead he shrugged and played the matter down.
    "Not nearly as exciting as a writer's life, I shouldn't think. I feel quite dull, compared with you lot."
    Watching him smile, I had a suspicion that Christopher Swift never thought himself dull. His ego would never have permitted it.
    To me, he said, "You and I are the odd ones out, you know. There seem to be more writers down here in Angle than locals."
    I saw a chance to satisfy my earlier curiosity. "Yes, Bridget did say you had a playwright here, as well, but I didn't catch the name ..."
    "Was that a car?" asked Bridget, tipping her head to listen.
    Christopher stopped, and listened, too. "I don't hear anything."
    "My mistake."
    "Now what were you asking ... ?"
    "The playwright," I prompted him, ignoring