Page 15 of Between the Lines

The perfect end to the perfect bloody day.

Chapter Six

As always, Luca rose with the sun. It poured liquid gold through the square window in the back of his van, urging him to get up, pull on his running shoes, and head for the beach.

The tide was halfway out, leaving a wide expanse of pristine foreshore. The hard wet sand was perfect for running and he liked to do six laps of the beach before breakfast. By the time he was on the third there were a couple of surfers trailing down from the campsite, carrying their boards between them, wetsuits peeled down to reveal toned, tanned chests.

Luca enjoyed the sight, although his mind was preoccupied this morning. Wishart’s departure last night had been so abrupt he’d half expected the guy to check out there and then and head back to New York—I can’t possibly eat food prepared by someone without a Michelin star, Father, how could you make me?Jude had told him he was being ridiculous, but even she’d been confused. And a little worried.

“See if you can’t befriend him,” she’d suggested. “If he leaves now, he’ll never fall in love with the place. And I’ve got a feeling... I think he’ll love it here.”

Luca thought she was kidding herself. He turned at the far north of the bay, close to Hanworth Hall, heading back down the beach with the sun streaming over the water through a cloudy horizon. The surfers were past the breakers now, catching some pretty sweet waves. It was clear they knew what they were doing, so the lifeguard in him relaxed. A rogue wave washed across the sand ahead of him and he diverted further up the beach to keep his running shoes dry, dipping back down to the foreshore as the water receded. Which was when he noticed someone else in the sea. He slowed, shading his eyes against the low sun. Yep, there was a guy in the water with a bodyboard. Luca stopped dead, shoes sinking into the wet sand.

That board, with its ridiculous flamingo design, the jet black hair and slender back... It was Wishart, apparently having made a miraculous recovery. Luca knew he’d been lying last night, but what the hell was he doing all alone in the ocean at this time of day?

What he was doing, or trying to do, was bodyboard. He was failing spectacularly: too timid, flinching at the waves, and mistiming every jump. A smile tugged at Luca’s lips—what a dork—until he noticed the surfers coming in way too close. Christ, one of them only narrowly missed Wishart. Even from halfway up the beach, Luca could hear the surfer cursing. Oblivious, Wishart just clung to his board and bobbed along in the water—right into the rip.

“Hey!” Luca started jogging down the beach. “Hey, Wishart!” The guy’s head popped up and Luca waved him to the right. “Go that way! Can you stand? Walk that way!” He didnotwant to swim out to save him, but was already kicking off his shoes when Wishart stood up and Luca saw, with a thud of relief, that the water only reached his hips. “There’s a rip current,” he yelled, splashing into the shallows. “Head that way.”

With the tide streaming out fast, it was a strong current and Wishart looked like he was struggling even to walk against it. Not helped by the dicks on surfboards still coming dangerously close. One of them yelled at Wishart, who looked around, startled, only to get a wave in his face, knocking him off his feet.

For crying out loud. Luca waded deeper into the water, grabbed Wishart’s arm as he surfaced, and jabbed a finger at the surfer. “You! Stay the hell away from swimmers.” The kid looked ready to argue, but then noticed Luca’s lifeguard t-shirt and ducked under a wave instead, paddling out past the breakers. “Jerk.”

Wishart, meanwhile, was staring in astonishment. He looked like a drowned rat, but he was watching Luca like he’d sprouted wings. “What?” Luca snapped.

“I—Nothing.” He looked away, just as another wave smacked into his back and washed him into Luca’s arms. Scrabbling to get hold of him, Luca was suddenly hyperaware of Wishart’s body against his own, of his slender weight and the slick caress of cool skin beneath his palms.

Startled, he jerked his hands away. “C’mon, you can’t swim here.” This timehewas the one avoiding eye contact. “That rip’ll sweep you right out to sea.”

They waded to shore, Luca braced to have Wishart bite his head off again, but the man was silent. When the water was sloshing around their ankles, Wishart stopped and pushed his hair out of his face. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “You’ve had to rescue me twice now.”

The unexpected apology took Luca off guard. “Yeah, well,” he said, tapping his shirt. “Just doing my job.”

“I, uh, wasn’t very gracious yesterday.” As always, Wishart’s gaze fell shy of Luca’s eyes. “I was—It’s just that this stuff makes me feel so stupid.”

“Bodyboarding?”

“All of it.” He shrugged, a slight lift of his shoulders. “I’m crap at it.”

Well, there was no denying that. “You need some practice, is all.”

“Trust me.” A bitter laugh. “In my case, practice doesnotmake perfect.”

“Trustme. Anyone can bodyboard with a little coaching. I’ve taught some real no-hopers.”

Wishart lifted an eyebrow. Somehow, despite his wet hair, he managed to give the gesture a supercilious air. “Notme, I’m afraid.”

“What makes you so damn special?”

Wishart’s flickering glance met Luca’s, then darted away. “It would just end badly, is all.”

“So you don’t think I can do my job?”

“Your job...?”

Luca jerked his head toward the Surf Hut. “I’m a surf instructor.”

Again, that eyebrow rose but this time Luca wasn’t certain whether the glint in Wishart’s eyes was arrogance or amusement. “When you’re not acting as lifeguard or chef?”

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