MADDY:
“That guy’s got to be the world’s worst surfer.” I murmured in disbelief as I shivered under my lifeguard’s jacket. The sleeting October rain made it hard to focus, but I couldn’t draw my gaze away from the tall buff figure clad in a black wetsuit about sixty meters out in the tumbling surf. I watched with guilty fascination as he squatted on his board, steadied himself, straightened.
And then sucked in a breath as he wobbled precariously.
The poor guy had been surfing — or rather attempting to surf — for well over an hour, in the sort of miserable Cornish weather that had given Wildwater Bay its name back in the sixteenth century. I’d been studying him for most of that time. The methodical way he paddled out on the rip, waited for the biggest wave, and then mounted his board. But he’d yet to ride a single breaker for more than a few seconds. I had to admire his perseverance, but I was beginning to question his sanity. He had to be frozen through to the bone by now and close to exhaustion — despite the muscular build displayed by his suit — and the undertow on this stretch of beach was a killer.
“I dunno,” said Dan, my fellow lifeguard, in his broad Australian accent. “He’s got good form. Gets onto the board all right.”
My breath gushed out as Bad Surfer crashed backward off his board for what had to be the hundredth time.
“No balance though,” Dan finished dispassionately, flipping up his collar. “You wanna call it?” he added hopefully. “Beach is closed in ten minutes anyway and that storm front’s gonna hit soon.”
Feeling a rush of relief as the surfer clambered back onto his board, I scanned the rest of the beach in the gathering gloom. Only a couple of hardy boogie-boarders remained inside the yellow flags we’d set up to mark the lifeguarded area. Otherwise, the beach was deserted. And with good reason. North Cornwall hadn’t had a great summer this year, but the weather had gone rapidly downhill as winter drew near. Even the hard-core surfer dudes had called it a day hours ago. All except one. Who was giving hard-core a whole new meaning.
“Sure,” I shouted at Dan above the gathering wind. “Let’s put him out of his misery.” Crossing to the lifeguard truck parked on the sand between the flags, I grabbed the loud hailer out of the cab, already anticipating the extreme hot chocolate with all the trimmings I was going to schmooze out of my boss Phil when I started my afternoon shift at the Wildwater Bay Café.
The booming sound of my voice as I called in the remaining boogie-boarders and the surfer whipped away on the wind, but the boarders responded instantly. Staggering out of the surf, they hurried across the acres of sand, making a beeline for the café. The pair waved and shouted a greeting as they passed — no doubt anticipating their own extreme hot chocolates.
“Crikey, he’s still at it.”
Hearing Dan’s incredulous comment, I spotted the surfer’s black board with its distinctive yellow lightning stripe bobbing back out towards the main swell.
“He’s bloody nuts. He has to be,” I whispered. Either that or he had a death wish.
The storm clouds had darkened in the distance, hovering over the horizon like smoky black crows, and the vicious crosswind had picked up pace, making the waves gallop and leap like bucking broncos. Even an accomplished surfer would have trouble riding swell that choppy. Mr. Couldn’t Keep His Balance didn’t stand a chance. I raised the loud hailer back to my lips.
“The lifeguard station on this beach is now closing. We strongly advise you to leave the water immediately.”
I repeated the order twice more, but the surfer and his board kept paddling in the wrong direction.
“Maybe he can’t hear us?” I said, trying not to worry.
The hailer had a special wind setting, but after the number of tumbles the guy had taken, his ears could be waterlogged.
“Let’s get the flags in,” Dan said at my shoulder, rubbing his hands together. “He’s a big boy. If he wants to kill himself, we can’t stop him.” Taking the loud hailer out of my numbing fingers, he slung it into the truck. “Plus, I’ve got a date with Charlie in an hour. With the promise of hot sex for dessert,” he finished, mentioning his new boyfriend of three weeks.
The surfer heaved himself up onto his board again, his movements sluggish.
I dragged my gaze away. “That’s what I love about you, Dan,” I said, forcing the niggling concern down. Suicidal surfers were not my problem. “You’re such a romantic.”
Dan chuckled as he rolled up the flag nearest the truck. “Hey, hot sex is romantic, if you do it right.”
I lifted the base of the flag and helped Dan to heave it into the back of the truck. “Is it really?” I gave a half-laugh, unable to disguise the wistful tone.
After a year spent rehabbing my granny’s cottage, plus the lifeguarding and waitressing shifts all summer at the Bay, and most evenings given over to creating my silk paintings, I hadn’t had time for romance. And I was pretty sure I’d never had hot sex. Did lukewarm count?
I frowned as we wrestled the second flag into the truck together. The wind sliced through my jacket and made my nipples pinch in reflex.
Come to think of it, it was probably a miracle my bits hadn’t dried up and died from lack of use. Or maybe they had. How would I know?
After Steve had stormed out last summer, accusing me of being more interested in my silk designs than I’d ever been in him, I hadn’t been able to deny it.
Even after spending every spare hour in my makeshift studio, the silk work hadn’t required nearly as much maintenance as Steve.
And okay, maybe my art couldn’t give me an orgasm, but it had come close when I’d completed the first of the designs inspired by the seascape at Smugglers Point — and Steve hadn’t been very reliable in the orgasm department either. Which only made it more pathetic that I’d put up with him for so long and agonized over our break-up for weeks.
I shuddered and plunged my hands into my jacket pockets, hunching against the wind. Still, at least I’d taken my brother Callum’s advice for once and hadn’t made the mistake of taking Steve back — or loaning him the two hundred quid he’d begged me for, which I knew I’d never see again.
The death of my libido and the loss of a warm body to snuggle up to at night — and wake up with in the morning — had been a small price to pay for my self-respect. Even if it hadn’t felt that way at the time. I needed to stop taking in losers and strays, as Callum liked to call them, and persuading myself I could fix them. Cal might be the last person on earth to give anyone relationship advice, given that he’d never had one that lasted more than a nano-second to my knowledge, but he’d been right about that. While our parents’ never-ending marital breakdown had turned Cal into a rampant womanizer with serious commitment issues, it had turned me into Little Miss Fixit.
Steve had just been one more in a short but depressing line of loser boyfriends — dating right back to Jamie Reid who’d given me my first, very disappointing, kiss at the Year Six leaving party and then pretended not to know me when we started secondary school. I’d decided over the long winter months, this year I was turning over a new leaf. I had turned twenty-four two weeks ago, which meant it was way past time to stop making the same bloody mistake over and over again.
This year there would be no more Miss Kissing Frogs, no more Miss Pushover. And definitely no more Miss Fixit. This year I was going to be the one who took control and got what I wanted. The one doing the using. Unfortunately, we were already ten months into the new year, and I’d yet to find a single candidate willing to be used.
“Hey, that’s weird. Where’d he go?”
Tearing my thoughts away from my disastrous love life, I noticed the sharp frown on Dan’s handsome face as he stared at the horizon.
My stomach plunged, and the concern that had pawed at the back of my head all afternoon leapt at my throat like a rabid dog.
“Did he come past us?” Dan murmured, far too nonchalantly.
Unzipping my jacket and dropping it on the wet sand, I grasped the rescue board leaning against the truck.
“No, he didn’t,” I shouted over my shoulder as I jogged towards the surf, frantically scanning the waves. The frigid water lapped at my ankles, exposed by my full-body wetsuit, as I waded into the shallows.
“I’ll call it in,” Dan shouted beside me as he drew level, his own board under his arm and the coastguard walkie-talkie at his ear. “We’ll have to get the chopper out.”
“No, wait. There’s his board.” I pointed, spotting the vibrant yellow flash in the turbulent waves. My stomach pitched and rolled as I realized the dark shape draped across it wasn’t moving. “I’ve got this.”
Dan shouted something back, but the sound was lost as I hurdled the incoming surf and dived cleanly into the water. The rescue board torpedoed me into the rising swell as I went under. Within seconds, the tug and pull of the tide had drained my energy, and I was riding the board through the waves on autopilot. Luckily, the injured surfer wasn’t too far out, the waves bearing him towards shore, but as the salt water scoured my eyes and I drew ragged breaths trying to conserve my strength, I saw him move his head. A vivid red stain stood out against his pale cheek.
Shit. He’s bleeding.
I redoubled my efforts, fighting the churning water, the distance telegraphing as my arms and shoulders began to ache and my legs numbed.
Reaching him at last, I shoved the rescue board under his torso.
“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” I yelled.
I grappled with the Velcro strap attaching his ankle to his board as a five-footer barreled down on us. I heard a groan as blood seeped from the surfer’s hairline and flowed over his sculpted cheekbone.
Concentrate. Undo the bloody strap.
I shoved his surfboard free and wrapped my arm across him just as the wave crashed on top of us with a deafening roar.
For a split second, fear froze me as the wave sucked us under. But then the training took over. I gripped the rescue board, my cheek pressed against his torso and kicked hard. We surfaced together, breaking back into the heaving sound and fury of the angry sea. It took me a moment to orient myself, then I paddled furiously, riding the swell as I clung to the stranger’s prone body. The shore seemed a million miles away, my legs so rubbery I could barely move them, my chest screaming with the effort to draw a decent breath. Pushing the panic down, I kept going.
After what seemed like several millennia, a large hand grasped my arm and hauled me upright. I squinted through the stinging salt and saw Dan’s dark hair plastered to his head.
“It’s alright, I’ve got him,” he yelled. “Stand up, you can walk from here.”
My legs shook, trembling uncontrollably as I struggled to lock my knees. How could I not have realized we were almost ashore? I hugged myself as Dan dragged the rescue board with the surfer onto the sand, then knelt beside him.
I approached in a groggy haze of exhaustion as Dan — who was much better qualified than me in pulmonary respiration techniques — examined our patient. But instead of putting him in the recovery position, Dan maneuvered the surfer onto the waiting spinal board and fastened the strap across his chest.
“He’s breathing. No need to resuscitate him.” Dan shot a quick grin over his shoulder. “Should come round in a second. Probably took a crack on the head from his board.” Dan tilted back on his haunches. “The paramedics can check him out properly once they arrive. Keep him strapped down just in case.” He got off his knees and stood up. “I’ll go get you both a rescue blanket to keep you warm till they get here.”
I shoved the straggles of hair out of my eyes as Dan strolled off towards the truck. Despite the lump of panic still wedged in my throat and the salt stinging my eyes, heat coiled low in my belly as I stared down at the man I’d saved.
I tilted my head to one side, transfixed.
Maybe he wasn’t classically handsome like Dan, but the dramatic slash of dark brows, high, hollow cheekbones, and the rough stubble accenting a strong jaw gave him a raw, pagan beauty that had my breath catching. My gaze wandered down. Broad shoulders, a perfectly defined six-pack, and long, leanly muscled legs were exquisitely showcased by the sleek and expensive wetsuit. The heat coiled tighter.
I shuddered, although I didn’t feel remotely chilled anymore, and noticed the faint blue tinge around his lips. A deep moan rumbled up his chest, and he moved, straining against the strap.
I jerked, shame washing through me and dousing the heat. What was wrong with me? Objectifying him as if he were a stripper at a hen party. The poor guy was hurt and probably freezing to death. I dropped to my knees, placed my hand against his cheek. Rough stubble abraded my palm and sent another inappropriate jolt of awareness through me.
Fuck’s sake.
“It’s okay,” I said, the words coming out on a breathy whisper. Mortified, I paused. Boy, did I need to kick-start my sex life again if I was now salivating over strangers — and unconscious ones at that.
“You’re okay. Don’t move,” I murmured, touching his forehead to brush back the thick, wavy locks falling over his brow. The blood that had been gushing in the sea had slowed to a sluggish crawl, seeping out of a narrow gash below his hairline.
I pressed my thumb to it, and his eyes snapped open. My pulse pummeled my neck as I stared into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. The brilliant turquoise of his irises contrasted with the bloodshot white and looked so pure and dazzling it reminded me of one of those filtered shots of the sea in places like the Maldives on Instagram, the color too rich to be real.
His brow creased as he tried to rise and came to a jerking halt, his body confined by the strap.
“What the fuck…?” He grunted. “Who tied me down?”
I placed my palm on his upper arm, hoping to reassure him. Unfortunately, the feel of the rock-hard biceps bunching under my fingertips had the opposite effect on me.
“We did,” I replied. “It’s for your own good.”
The magnificent blue eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”
My skin flushed hot despite the chill and the spitting drizzle of autumn rain. “I’m one of the lifeguards on Wildwater Bay. We had to bring you in. You hit your head.”
He stopped struggling and dropped his head back, huffing out a breath. “Shit,” he murmured. Bitterness clouded his eyes, but it didn’t seem to be directed at me anymore. “Thanks.” The curt word lacked conviction. “Now undo the strap.”
I tried not to let the arsey tone upset me. Polite was probably a stretch after what he’d been through.
“I’m not going to do that,” I said in my best firm-but-fair Florence Nightingale voice. “You have to stay put until the paramedics get here.”
His jaw hardened. “No paramedics,” he said. “Now, untie me.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied, still channeling Florence.
“Screw it, I’ll do it myself.”
I watched, astonished, as he tilted one shoulder down, twisted his torso, and then ripped the strap free with one hand. I moved out of the way as he struggled onto his elbows. He groaned and touched his forehead.
“Oh dear, did that hurt,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm.
Sod Florence. Nurse Jackie suddenly seemed more appropriate.
He swore softly and brought his fingers away. Barely glancing at the bright red stain, he fixed chilly eyes on me. Seeing the headache in them, I stopped myself from going the full snark.
“Now perhaps you’ll lie down and wait for the paramedics to check you over,” I said.
He leaned forward, obviously intending to ignore my very good advice and stand up.
I gripped his arm. “The paramedics will be here any minute. Seriously, you need to stay put.”
He glanced at my fingers, and I pulled my hand away instinctively.
“I decide what I need,” he said, his voice rough.
I fought for composure. Why was he being such a massive dick? “But you may have injuries you’re not aware of.”
His gaze drifted down to my tits, and my nipples chose that precise moment to thrust against my suit like torpedoes.
“I’ll risk it.” Cynicism edged the words as his gaze lifted to my face, but his lips twitched, almost as if he were struggling not to smile, and his eyes didn’t look nearly as chilly anymore.
Warmth spread up my neck. Unbelievable. Was the world’s grumpiest patient coming on to me? And why was I responding? But then he flinched, and I was sure I must have imagined it.
“Hey, mate, where are you off to?” Dan interrupted the charged silence, his arms laden with the silver body-warming blankets. I wondered if he’d been to Plymouth and back to get them.
“I’m leaving.” The surfer struggled onto his feet.
He staggered, and Dan steadied him. “D’you think that’s wise, mate? You took quite a tumble.”
The man sent Dan a cold stare. “I know.”
I bristled at his rudeness, but Dan seemed unperturbed. “At least take a blanket, fella,” he said, handing over one of the silver sheets. “You must be frozen.”
The stranger looked down at Dan’s offering, paused, and then took it.
“Thanks.” He wrapped the blanket clumsily around his shoulders, his hands trembling. I somehow knew that if he hadn’t been on the verge of hypothermia, he would have refused. Such a dick.
“Where are you staying?” Dan asked carefully, as if he were speaking to a wild animal that might bite his hand off at any minute. I knew how he felt. “You need a lift anywhere?” Dan added when the man shot him a look loaded with suspicion.
For a minute, the only sound was the rush of the wind and the thump of my heartbeat in my ears.
Finally, the surfer shook his head, the blood running unnoticed in a rivulet down his temple.
“I live at Trewan Manor,” he said, jerking his head toward the forbidding manor house that stood at the top of the cliffs overlooking the bay. “I can get there on the cliff path.”
My gaze lifted to the point, astonished by the news. I’d been fascinated by that huge old house ever since I’d first arrived at the bay last June. The towering gables and gray stone turrets made me think of Wuthering Heights – or maybe Pemberly on a really bad day. I’d assumed the place was empty, my artistic nature conjuring up all sorts of fanciful stories to explain its desolate appearance.
My gaze returned to the surfer. Given his wild good looks, the man fit his mansion’s grim Gothic beauty to a tee. What a shame he had both Heathcliff and Darcy’s big dick energy to match — traits that might be exciting in a book boyfriend but were a fucking nightmare to deal with in real life.
Even so, I couldn’t seem to stop myself lurching forward when the stranger turned to leave. “Hang on, you can’t just —”
Dan thrust his arm out to hold me back. “Don’t, Mads. He doesn’t want your help.”
“But that’s ridiculous, he could be seriously hurt,” I whispered frantically, not sure why it mattered to me.
“You can’t rescue everyone.” Dan sent me a rueful smile, reminding me of Cal, then wrapped the remaining blanket around me and gave my shoulders a reassuring rub. “Let’s get back to the café. The first extreme’s on me.”
I tightened my fingers on the blanket and nodded, but my gaze remained on the stranger as he walked away across the sand. The silver blanket fluttered in the wind like a cape. I frowned, noticing the pronounced hitch in his stride for the first time.
“He’s limping,” I murmured. “He’s hurt his leg.” Concern clutched at my heart again.
The guy paused to rub his thigh, then carried on walking with a labored, lopsided gait, his shoulders stiff and erect and oddly defensive.
“Looks like an old injury,” Dan said. “Must be why he couldn’t stay on the board.”
Concern and confusion tangled into a knot of irritation in my stomach. What sort of macho twat spent all afternoon attempting something he was incapable of? And nearly killed himself – and me – in the process?
“Nice arse, though,” Dan said cheekily, and my eyes dipped to the firm, muscular bubble butt, indecently displayed by the skin-tight neoprene.
My pulse accelerated again, and the coil of inappropriate arousal tightened in my belly. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Dan had a point.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s your type,” I muttered.
Dan laughed. “From the way he checked out your tits, I’d have to agree with you.”
Ignoring Dan’s comment – and the renewed flare of heat it triggered – I forced myself to stop objectifying the surfer’s assets. The man might have a cute butt, but he was clearly far too toxic – masculinity wise – for any sensible woman to want to handle.
I’d saved his life. And while I hadn’t expected him to thank me, exactly, he could at least have had the decency to be less of a massive pain in the arse. But as I climbed into the cab and Dan drove us across the sand to the café, my breasts continued to tingle alarmingly, and heat pulsed insistently between my thighs.
I squirmed in my seat.
Terrific.
Trust my desiccated lady bits to come out of hibernation and do a happy dance for a guy who might as well have had a neon sign above his head flashing the words: “Danger: Grumpy Arsehole Ahead.”
RYE:
I cursed as I hauled my leg up one more step. Dropping my head, I counted to ten and concentrated on keeping down the nausea churning under my breastbone. Not easy when my thigh throbbed like a motherfucker, in unison with the stabbing pain at my temple, and my whole body was so cold I was pretty sure I was about to lose several vital bits of it to frostbite.
“You stupid arsehole. This is your own bloody fault,” I muttered. “What the hell were you trying to prove?” I winced as the words bounced off the cliff face.
Great, now I’m talking to myself, too.
The mighty hadn’t just fallen, I’d landed flat on my arse, I thought grimly as I gripped my thigh – my hands clumsy with the cold – to force my leg up the final step. Pain shot through my knee and made the groin muscle cramp. I sucked in a breath and panted as clammy sweat mingled with the salt water, making the cut on my forehead burn.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I waited for the worst of the agony to pass. Unfortunately, that gave me way too much time to contemplate just how much of a stupid bastard I’d been.
Spending close to two hours proving that I’d never be able to surf again and practically getting hypothermia into the bargain hadn’t been the smartest thing I’d ever done. Head-butting my own board and then having to get rescued by a lifeguard – and a girl one at that – had added a nice thick layer of insult to the injury. But allowing my rescuer’s sultry emerald eyes, and her slender but surprisingly voluptuous figure, to taunt me into thinking I was capable of doing more with her than simply losing my temper had to count as one of the lowest moments of my life.
Maybe not as low as those first weeks in the hospital, doped up to my eyeballs, drifting in and out of agony and anchored to the bed. And maybe not as low as the day three months later when I’d discovered it wasn’t just my leg and my ego that had been irreparably damaged by the bike accident. But this latest fuck-up was still low enough to count as another milestone on the road to Shitsville my once wonderful life had raced down in the past six months.
I’d noticed the lifeguard’s impressive rack, almost by accident, then had come the now alien swell of something in my groin. But I’d barely had a second to rejoice at the surging heat before cold reality had doused it – leaving me feeling angry and bitter and like half a man all over again.
After they’d finished prodding and poking me, the doctors had assured me the impotence was most likely only temporary – brought on by stress from the physical and mental trauma I’d suffered. And I’d been desperate enough to believe them. Until the summer evening in my Kensington penthouse three months ago when the look of pity and disbelief on my now ex-girlfriend Marta’s face had made the truth inescapable.
One thing was certain: if a stark-naked Marta Mueller, with her expensive supermodel’s body and her trademark “fuck-me-now” pout, couldn’t get a rise out of me, no pixie-faced, sultry-eyed girl clad in a full-body wetsuit and looking at me like I was the biggest arsehole on the planet was going to manage it.
Pushing the ever-present humiliation to the back of my mind, I stumbled forward and focused instead on getting to the house without falling on my face again. My useless leg had seized up completely, forcing me to drag it across the rocky ground, my bare feet slipping in the mud. Each bump and slide sent pain stabbing under my kneecap and tightening around my thigh like a vise. I glowered at the black clouds, the sleeting rain, and the cruel wind – aware they were a perfect accompaniment to my spectacularly shitty mood.
I let out a shaky sigh as my fingers grasped the heavy brass handle. I butted the pantry door with my shoulder. As I shut out the angry weather and lumbered towards the house’s mud room to hose myself off, trailing mud and water on the marble tiles, my rough, humorless chuckle echoed in the darkened hallway.
If only my grandfather could have seen me now. In one of the many lectures Charles King had given me as a rebellious teenager when I’d first arrived at Trewan Manor, he had warned me I would have to pay for my bad behavior eventually.
Just my luck, that the miserable old bastard would get the last laugh in the end from beyond the grave…
