Chapter 12.

Easier but not right. That had been Lucy's first thought as she'd woken up the next morning in the boxroom of Creekside Cottage to rain drumming on the roof and wind lashing the creeper against the panes.

She was almost sure saying no to Nick had been the right thing to do for his sake as well as hers. As for fleeing the aftermath by running off to Cornwall, well, it was only for a month until the heat died down. She'd soon be back home, back to... well, back to whatever. She didn't want to think about that right now.

In the morning light, she saw her cell phone lying on the rickety table by the bed and wondered if she should try and contact Nick again or whether it was better to give him some space. Or was that a cop-out?

She didn't know what to do. Whichever way she jumped was wrong.

She listened for the sound of Fiona moving about but it was becoming difficult to hear anything above the noise of the gathering storm. At least nothing was leaking yet. Above her a patch of damp was visible on the sloping ceiling and a cobweb nestled between the beams. The room had a faint odor that reminded her of her gran's place when she'd been little. Mothballs, maybe, but did moths actually have balls, she wondered.

Although it was only eight thirty, she was surprised Fiona hadn't been woken up by Hengist. Perhaps they'd already gone out for a walk or maybe the heavy night and long drive had finally knocked them both out. Right now, being knocked out for a couple of weeks would be a huge relief, rather than having to face up to what had happened.

Deciding that she needed a coffee, Lucy pulled a fleece over her camisole top and knickers and ventured out. The wooden boards felt strangely comforting under her bare feet as she padded out onto the landing. The stairs creaked as she made her way downstairs, through the tiny hallway, and into the kitchen. There was still no sound from Fiona's room and she now knew why. Propped up against the coffee jar was a note: Luce, Hope your hangover isn't too bad. Mine's a bitch but worth it. Gone with The Hound to semi-civilization a.k.a. Porthstow, to try and track down some Lucozade Sport and a wireless card for the laptop and/or email my agent from the local library if it hasn't been closed for sheep dipping or whatever. I'll be back by lunchtime with more supplies and possibly Pinot Grigio. I may be some time...

Hugs Fi x P.S. I'm expecting the proofs of Wax Murderer from my publisher. Post usually arrives around ten-ish so can you sign for them?

Lucy glanced out of the window at the gray sky and dripping bushes. She could barely see the end of the garden, the rain was hammering down so fiercely. Fiona was going to get soaked. Then again, there was an upside. It would have to be a very determined reporter-and a very wet one-who would track her down to Creekside Cottage.

The coffee was black and bitter but she found a left-over doughnut they'd bought at a garage en route to the cottage. Back upstairs, armed with a yellowing copy of the Porthstow Mercury, Lucy had just sunk her teeth into the doughnut when she heard the noise. Even above the deluge, the banging was loud and clear. She froze, a large bite of sugar and jam melting in her mouth. There was no way she was answering. They'd soon get bored and go away.

The hammering started again.

The boxroom overlooked the back of the house so Lucy couldn't check who it was. Then she remembered Fiona's note. Well, it was a bit early, but you might expect a few surprises down here. Doughnut abandoned, Lucy walked back down the creaky stairs. Through the bottle glass in the door, she could see the postman's dark jacket. His hood was pulled right over his head and she didn't blame him, poor man. He must be drenched.

Pulling open the door, she gave him an encouraging smile, then her face fell. She could clearly see the camera poking out from under his coat.

"Bugger off," she said, starting to close the door.

"I'm sorry?" said the man.

"I said bugger off."

"Right. I suppose that's fairly clear, if verging on the blunt side."

Lucy was unrepentant. "Yes, well, I don't like to be rude but you lot have driven me to it. How's this, then? Bugger off, please."

Rain dripped off his hood and thunder rumbled overhead. He looked absolutely freezing and despite the hood, his face was spattered with moisture and mud. Lucy suppressed a giggle.

"What's so funny?"

She snorted in derision. "You are. Your outfit. Did you honestly think I'd be fooled by that getup? You haven't even made an effort, have you?" She was really warming up now and she had nothing to lose, not even her knickers. Let him plaster her all over his paper if he wanted to. "And by the way," she said. "Your Cornish accent's rubbish."

"Maybe that's because I was born in Peckham, but I suppose you're entitled to your opinion."

"No? You don't say? Gee, I'd never have guessed. Shame your lens is showing."

The man glanced down at the camera. "Ah. This. Doing a spot of bird-watching."

Lucy snorted. "Can't you think of anything more original than that?"

"No, because it's true."

"Yes. Of course it is. I suppose you collect stamps and hang round restored railways noting down engine numbers. I bet you even volunteer at the local youth club."

"Well, now you come to mention it..."

"Somehow, I think not."

He pulled his hood off and Lucy did a double take. He didn't look like any of the photographers or reporters who'd hung about outside her flat. It wasn't an unpleasant face-in fact, he was startlingly good looking, all razor cheekbones and cool blue eyes. But the Prison Break buzz cut gave him such a hard, uncompromising edge that she felt her bravado rapidly ebbing away. What if he wasn't a paparazzo? What if he'd escaped from somewhere? Wasn't there a jail on Exmoor-or was that Dartmoor?

Tiny beads of rainwater glistened in his thick eyelashes. He attempted a smile which managed to make him seem more threatening than ever. "So, are you going to be sensible and let me in, or are you going to make me stand out here in the rain all day?"

She curled a lip in what she hoped was defiance. "I think, on balance, I'm going to be stupid and let you get wet."

Then she slammed the door on him and locked it.

After his encounter with the mad girl who'd moved into Creekside Cottage, Josh headed to the club to help Sara out with a novice windsurfing course. Even before he got there to find no one had turned up, he'd known it would be a washout. Only a nutcase, or him, would want to go out on a day like this. Now he and Sara were watching the rain and wind whipping up whitecaps on the estuary and Josh had made the mistake of mentioning what had happened.

"She did what?" said Sara.

"Slammed the door in my face," said Josh, scrolling through the weather reports on Windguru.com.

"And this is Fiona?"

"No, this is the friend."

"Doesn't sound very friendly. What does she look like?"

"Hell, I don't know. Average. Tall-ish," he said, closing the browser on the computer.

"As tall as me?" she asked.

He thought for a moment. "A bit taller, I guess."

"Slim? Fat?"

Josh knew he had to close down this discussion quickly. He guessed what Sara was fishing for. She was a hundred percent beach babe, fit and tanned. He'd often told her so, and yet it still didn't seem to satisfy her. Lately, she'd wanted constant reassurance that she was attractive. She needn't have worried. From what he'd seen of her, the mad girl was fair-skinned and curvy in a way Sara would have derided.

"How old is she?"

"Same as us, I guess. Difficult to tell."

Sara nodded. "From London?"

"I suppose so, she had one of those non-accents."

"So average, no accent, medium height, but mad as a hatter."

"She had unusual hair," he said, suddenly recalling the girl's black hair curling over her shoulders. He had to kill a smile as he remembered her expression: she'd acted as if he was an ax murderer or a Peeping Tom-or maybe the law.

Sara's eyes lit up. "How do you mean, 'unusual'? Spiky? Punk? Goth? Pink?"

"Dark, I suppose," said Josh, jumping down from the desk and lacing his arms in front of him in an effort to ease his aching shoulder. Maybe it was a good job the course had been rained off, for the sake of his back. Someone had to save him from himself.

Sara pressed on. "Dark as in black or as in brown? I need detail."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "OK. Let me see. Her hair was black like the paint job on the Wilsons' Sunseeker, maybe with some kind of purply thing happening like the sails on the Mirage dinghy Dave Hollins just bought off Esme Trerice. And her skin was a sort of creamy-white-you know, I think it was exactly the color of the leather upholstery in that French couple's Beneteau thirty-six-footer and..."

Sara's mouth gaped open.

"Well, you did ask me."

"Not to make fun of me!"

He lifted her chin and planted a quiet kiss on her mouth. "Would I? Sara, I really have no idea what she looked like and, frankly, I don't give a toss. Now, I have to get back. I need to fix the dishwasher in Porthcurno Cottage before the guests arrive, and maybe Fiona will be at Creekside to let me fix her heating."

She nodded as he picked up his keys from the in-tray. "So, shall I see you later? There's a gig at the Smugglers tonight..."

He smiled and hesitated just long enough to sow a seed of doubt in her mind. "Why not? Pick you up around seven?"

"Cool."

He was halfway out of the door when he turned back. "Sara?"

"Yes?"

"That mad girl at Fiona Thingy's place?"

Her eyes lit up and for a moment he had second thoughts about teasing her. "Yes?" she said eagerly.

"She had jam round her mouth."

Leaving a kiss on her indignant face, Josh strode out of the office, across the slipway to his pickup. He wasted no time in driving back to Tresco Farm. The high season was nearly here and as usual, he had a list of jobs as long as his arm to get on with. Ten minutes later, he was pulling up in the courtyard. A joyful bark from inside told him that Tally, at least, was pleased to see him.

"Don't have to ask how you are, do I, girl?"

In response, Tally leapt to her feet and padded over, tail thumping against the stove in excitement. Crouching down, Josh ruffled her ears and tickled her belly as she rolled onto her back in pleasure.

"Sorry, girl, I don't have time for a walk," he said as the dog jumped up and raced for the back door. "Later."

Outside, the rain was easing. Josh could see the row of cottages opposite and, beyond that, he could almost make out the sea now, gray against a gray sky. The cottages never ceased to inspire him with wonder. That they belonged to him at all, he still found hard to believe.

From his background, with all that he'd got up to in his youth, even in his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined running a business and owning property. If it hadn't been for Marnie Trewellan, his foster mother, Josh had no idea where he'd be now. Probably the same place his brother Luke was-on the streets. But Luke had had the same chances and Josh had tried hard enough to find him and give him a share of what was rightfully his. What could Josh do if he'd chosen a different path? And now wasn't the time to be wringing his hands over Luke. He had work to do.

"See you later," said Josh, gathering up his tool kit from the kitchen countertop. Tally laid her head on her paws in misery.

"It won't work," he said, seeing her soulful eyes.

Tally flattened herself onto the quarry tiles and Josh shook his head.

"Why do you do this to me every time? Come on, then-but don't leave hairs on the bed."

At that, the dog leapt to her feet, paws slithering on the quarry tiles, and stood panting by the stable door that led out onto the yard. Outside, a peep of blue sky was now peering down between ragged clouds. Josh set off through the yard. Once pigs and hens had been kept here, but now it was graveled and provided extra parking for the guests of the cottages. Tally sniffed around the walls. Josh turned to look at the house, all dour gray stone, with roses and some purple plant running wild around the doors and windows.

He knew he ought to cut the climbers back or they'd block out the light, maybe destroy the mortar, but he was way too busy trying to keep the rental cottages in good repair. Tresco Farmhouse had managed for three hundred years; it could wait a while longer.

A hundred meters away from the farm stood the four former farm workers' cottages which included Fiona's place, Creekside. He knew Fiona had persuaded Marnie to sell her the property years ago while Josh had been away at college, struggling to get a degree in business. The other three cottages belonged to him.

They rented out well enough, considering Tresco Creek was off the beaten track. Seaspray was empty right now but Porthcurno had guests arriving later. With Mrs. Sennen still laid up with a sprained wrist, it fell to Josh to clean and prepare the cottage for the next guests. He also needed to repair the dishwasher, although he'd rather be carve jibing in a Force Five, flying over the water of the estuary. He smiled. Getting it wrong, more like, and catapulting into the creek, salt water shooting into his mouth, eyes, nose...

"Work, Tally!" called Josh, and the dog came to heel and trotted after him toward the cottages.

Chapter 13.

Lucy turned on the shower in the bathroom and hoped that the trickle of hot water dribbling out of the faintly mildewed head might someday be powerful enough to wash in. She fiddled with the controls and then the water suddenly whooshed down, icy cold. After a shriek and some hasty adjustments, it heated up. At least in here she was safe from reporters.

She'd decided that the scary guy with the camera had to have been from the press and wondered if he was from some local paper, hoping to make his name out of snapping her in her knickers. She had no idea how he'd found out she was here unless he'd been tipped off by the people who maintained the cottages. If so, why would Fiona have told them who she was? Above the hiss of the shower, Lucy heard the cottage door open and the familiar sound of Hengist's bark. There was a clattering of claws on stairs.

"Fiona?" she called.

"Hi!" Fiona called back. "Shower working OK?"

"Fine," lied Lucy, hastily turning off the shower as the hot water ran out unexpectedly.

"I'll make some coffee. I managed to get some almond croissants. There's a posh new patisserie opened in Porthstow," called Fiona.

"OK. Thanks. I'll be down in a minute," said Lucy.

Wrapping herself in a towel, Lucy brushed her teeth and checked her face in the cracked mirror above the sink. She still looked pale but definitely not "haggard." Maybe a few weeks of fresh air and sun would help with the outside, but her inner paleness would take longer to go. She wondered how Nick was coping. Gathering up her pajamas and wash bag, Lucy lifted the latch.

"Oh my God!"