Oyster (Island Love #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Low tides threw up all kinds of unexpected and random treasures. A haul of driftwood, for instance, kept the greedy wood burner fed for a week. Wedding bands were not uncommon, bold flashes of gold and silver, each hiding a tale. Hurled from a yacht in a fit of scorned temper, perhaps? Slipped unnoticed from a knobbly old finger, shrivelled after a cold swim? One time, as a kid, I found a platinum watch with ruby gemstones set in the shape of a heart around the waterlogged face. My dad flogged it, and we spent the proceeds on a slap-up meal in La Rochelle.

Not all the ocean’s generous gifts were appreciated. Gelatinous blobs of dead jellyfish made me thankful for my thick rubber waders. Unidentifiable rotting carcasses were not for the squeamish, fainthearted, or, in an ideal world, before breakfast.

But a real live mermaid, wallowing in the shallows? That was a first, and I’d been at this job near enough every day of my whole goddamned life. My dad, lugging a couple of twenty-kilo oyster pouches from the trailer to the racks like two bags of sugar, scarcely lifted his head.

“She’s going to end up in hospital with hypothermia if she’s not careful.”

“More like fish food on the ocean floor.”

My brother, Max, gave a huff of laughter, a sound that didn’t flow too free and easy between any of us these days. “Look at her! Drunk as a donkey, she must be. She can’t even sit up straight.”

Tides didn’t roar in on our stretch of beach, but they didn’t hang around either. Already, icy tongues licked at the woman’s knees. Like the sea had coughed up a rare species of anemone, her floaty white dress billowed around her. Any deeper and it would become a waterlogged anchor.

Funnily enough, at five thirty in the morning, with a cool dawn still pulling itself together, the rest of the beach was deserted.

“She’ll have a splitting headache later.” My dad, no stranger himself to a spot of overindulgence, straightened, rubbing at his back. “She’s had a very good night by the way of things.”

A bit early in the season for wild tourist parties, but he was probably right. The rich folk with holiday homes on the island were a law unto themselves.

A wave, more ambitious than the rest, rolled up the beach. The woman’s slim frame wobbled to the side before, with a jolt, she righted herself, leaving one hand trailing in the water, the other curled around her bent knees. She flopped her head down again, as if exhausted.

“Putain, I’ll go,” I said. “I’ve finished this row of pouches anyhow. I’ll see you back at the shed later.”

“Good luck. ’Bout time you found yourself a girlfriend and settled down.”

“Fuck off, Max.”

He snorted. “Can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by. Beggars can’t be choosers, mate.”

Younger brothers, eh? Who needed them? “Talking about yourself again?”

I zipped my coat higher, turning up the collar to stop the wind whistling down my neck.

“Check you out, smartening yourself up,” scoffed my dad. Putain, whose side was he on? “A proper knight in shining armour.”

I laughed. Hardly. More like oilskins and thermals. And marinating in the unique and pungent aroma of diesel and honest sweat, blended with the salty tang of seaweed and rotten squid. (The last creature had attached itself to my jacket, and Max neglected to point it out until I was halfway down the beach.) The chances of this leading to a romantic encounter were slim to non-existent. And anyhow, I didn’t need a bloody girlfriend. Or a special someone. I was quite content living in the moment, thank you very much. On my tod.

The woman remained oblivious to my noisy waders splashing through the shallows until I was almost upon her.

“Bonne matin, Mademoiselle! Good morning! Party’s over! I think it’s home time, don’t you?”

When I repeated myself a little louder, she stirred with a groan, briefly lifting her face up to blink at the misty grey horizon. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the bother, she sank down again, her forehead coming to rest on her forearms. Two thick curtains of shoulder-length dark hair shielded her face.

“Madame! Morning! Rise and shine!”

Through the damp fabric of her flimsy sundress, I gave her shoulder a gentle shake. As cold as marble. What the hell was she thinking? Maybe she’d taken something, drugs or whatever. Putain, she was lucky we were working this stretch of the oyster beds this morning, instead of joining the rest of our crew on the section around the headland in Ars.

“Hey. Madame. Time to get yourself home.”

Another shake, and I squatted next to her. The spoiled-apple stench of stale alcohol immediately assaulted my nostrils. No surprises there. “Come on, let’s get you up. We’re going to be doggy paddling to shore if we don’t get a shuffle on soon.”

“Cold,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “So… cold.”

“I know, sweetheart. Up we get.”

“Happy staying here.”

“You might be, sweetheart, but you’re making me nervous. The tide’s on its way in. What’s your name?”

A violent shudder rippled through her, pebbling the pale bare skin of her forearms,

“éti.”

“Well, éti, I’m Nico. Nice to meet you. And happy or not, you are not allowed to freeze to death or drown on my beach. Too much paperwork involved.”

Placing one arm around her narrow shoulders and tucking my other hand under a sodden armpit, I hauled her to standing, the water now washing over my knees. Not fighting me, she swayed, then staggered sideways before collecting her balance. As she sagged against me, I slipped my arm from her shoulders to a firmer grip around her waist.

“Off we go, sweetheart. That’s right. One foot in front of the other.”

While we headed higher up the beach, I concentrated on where I placed my feet. Some heroic rescuer I’d be, tripping on the submerged slippery boulders and knocking myself out.

“Gonna be sick,” she croaked as we reached the shore.

Oh, joy.

I ducked behind her out of the firing line, and just in the nick of time. A torrent of yellow liquid pebble-dashed the wet sand at our feet, accompanied by a heaving groan. As my empty belly turned over, I gave a thick swallow, determined to keep my eyes trained on the dark fall of hair at the back of her neck. Another lavish deposit followed, then another, the muscles at her trim waist cramping violently under my fingers. Nope, still didn’t need a girlfriend. Super happy on my own. This encounter was living proof, and as I often reminded my friend Florian (always trying to hook me up with a special someone), my life wasn’t destined to be romantic. Realistic was enough to keep me satisfied.

A couple of minutes passed. We were over the worst. “Better out than in,” I offered in the way of conversation.

“That’s a lot of sick.” She sounded glumly impressed.

Straightening, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth before trying a couple big gulps of air, retching on the second.

“Take your time. It’s okay.”

My arm hovered at her waist. Once more, she bent forwards, hands on her knees, catching her breath. She cleared her throat and spat a few times, cursing. I waited, then peered over her shoulder.

“Do you think you’re done?”

The tide had caught up with us; freezing water swirled at our feet. Hers were bare, long, and slim. And an unhealthy shade of blue. Since the puking stopped, her whole body vibrated with cold.

“Yeah,” she slurred. “As a m… matter of f… fact, Nico , I think I am.”

“In which case, you’d better stick this on.”

My jacket engulfed her angular frame. A fisherman’s stinky oilskin and a pretty white sundress. Quite the fashion statement. We stepped away from the patch of vomit and the encroaching tide. Or rather, I stepped. The woman lurched. Putain, how much had she drunk? Plastered across her bowed face, a strip of wet hair obscured her vision. More clumps whipped around her head as her shaking hands fumbled with the zip.

“All fingers and thumbs,” she mumbled. “Ten fingers and thumbs, no… eight fingers and two thumbs. I think I’m going to need to grow some more. Ones that work better.”

Giggling, she wiggled her painted nails at me. “?a alors! How much fun I could have with an extra set of hands. You’re very handsome, Nico, by the way.”

I laughed. She couldn’t focus on putting one foot in front of the other, let alone check out my face. “I bet you say that to all your rescuers.”

“Nope, I’m very dis…discer…I know what I like. I’m very fussy, Nico. A fussy, fussy girl. And my fussy, fussy mind has decided it doesn’t like this zip. It’s very fussy too.”

Under different circumstances, maybe over a drink in a quiet corner of the warm bar at L’Escale, I’d probably enjoy an evening in the company of this lively woman. Just the one evening, mind. I rarely stretched to two, no matter how scintillating my companion.

“And this coat stinks of dead fish. Beurk.”

I laughed again at the childish sound of disgust accompanying her brutal honesty. “Yes, it does. But at the moment your need is greater than mine. Let me fix it.”

As I knitted the two ends together and drew the zip higher up her body, she turned her head aside in a deliberate move to shield her face. Embarrassed, I should think. A pale trembling hand shoved a curtain of hair back across her cheek.

“We need to get you indoors. Do you live nearby?”

“Up there. Somewhere .”

She pointed to a gap in the low dunes. A dense row of pine trees lay beyond, sheltering the secluded holiday homes of the rich and famous from prying eyes. A private sandy path snaked down the beach from each one. That figured, although I was surprised her husband or partner, or friends, hadn’t realised she was missing. Maybe they were all comatose, sleeping off the night’s excesses.

“I’ll see you safe inside,” I said, as much to myself as her. From her swaying, she’d never make it unaided. Of equal importance, I needed my stinky coat back.

The sky lightened as we weaved up the shallow sandy incline towards the dunes. Purging her guts roused the woman somewhat. She kicked at a stone, cheering as it soared up into the air.

“And she scores!”

Pleased with herself, she did it again, effortlessly sending this one even farther. “Yess! Goal! Ouch! Merde!” She hopped on one foot, swearing. “Did you see that one? Better than Ronaldo!”

To be fair, it was impressive, even more so barefooted. As was the next attempt, somehow cleverly balancing the pebble on the front of her left foot before flicking it up a metre or so, then catching it mid-volley to launch it into the stratosphere. The sort of trick only drunk people pulled off. She’d feel the bruises when she sobered.

“Steady, sweetheart. Let’s concentrate on walking, shall we? Leave the soccer skills to Ronaldo.”

“But I am better than him,” she said, sounding mulish. “Much better.”

As if to prove it, she took a swipe at another. “Ow! Better than Ney-mar.” She sang out the name while she kicked up another, doing the clever balancing thing before this one soared too. And another, chanting famous footballing names with each kick. “Better than Mbappé, ow! Better than Mess-i, fuck! Better than Benze-ma, better than…”

She spoiled it by tripping over a jutting rock. If I hadn’t grabbed her, she’d have landed flat on her face.

“Whoopsie! Pretend that didn’t happen.” She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “And promise me you won’t tell Ronaldo!”

“Only if you stop that nonsense and concentrate on what you’re doing.”

I tightened my grip on the back of my jacket. For the next few paces, she dipped her chin, focusing on the sandy ground, again, deliberately fluffing her hair around her face. Perhaps she or her husband were famous—lots of low-key celebs and politicians chose the island as a retreat. Less glitzy than Monaco or Antibes, they could swan about incognito most of the time, especially out of high season, like now.

“Be careful here, éti. The ground is very uneven. You’ll rip your feet open.”

“No, I won’t. Everyone knows I have very fa..fancy footwork.” Tripping over another rock, she chuffed a low husky laugh. “Like a… dancer. That’s what I am, you know. I’m a fancy pantsy dancer.”

I smiled. We were a long way off dancing. Stone kicking must have worn her out because by now I was near enough carrying her. Although slight of build, her firm body was heavier than I expected. “More like staggering and falling than dancing.”

She held up a finger. “Staggering, yes. I accept staggering. But not falling. I always stay on my feet.” She gave a brisk shake of her head. “Beurk . I’ve got sick in my hair.”

Hell, we’d all been there. Despite wishing I’d used my older-brother prerogative on Max—he’d be back in the warm shed by now with coffee brewing—I found myself smiling again.

The narrow path through the dunes ended at an unprepossessing wooden latched gate, hanging ajar. Through the shadowy garden beyond, a low villa squatted, the interior lit up like the Eiffel Tower. Two glass doors leading in from the terrace were wide open too. Good. At least the other residents appeared to be home, and I’d soon be absolved of responsibility for the young woman. Together, we negotiated the hurdles of a covered swimming pool and sharp-edged patio furniture. Even with my jacket, she was shaking again, her teeth chattering ten to the dozen.

Steering her through the glass doors, I headed for the nearest horizontal surface. “Who’s at home with you, éti? Let me sit you somewhere comfy. Then I’ll go and wake them up.”

“Demons,” she drawled in a dramatic fashion, draping herself across the sofa. Her head lolled back, thick brown locks hanging over her face. “Just little old me and all of my demons.”

“Ah.”

That put a different spin on things. As did the detritus surrounding her semi-comatose body. Half a bottle of vodka, Grey Goose no less, but more alarmingly, a little trail of white pills strewn between the bottle and an upturned plastic container.

My plans for a sharp exit evaporated. We laughed about it now, but I’d led my parents a very merry dance in my teens and early twenties. Always in trouble at school, I got my first tattoo at fourteen—done by a mate. A grinning skull smoking a joint, halfway up my left forearm. Predictably, my mum went ballistic and threw me out of the house. Though only for about six hours, until she started panicking that I wouldn’t come back, that it would get infected, and I’d wind up in hospital.

But the tattoo had been merely the start. The following year, as if tormenting her with tattoos, dodgy haircuts, and piercings wasn’t enough, I discovered girls. Girls, and more girls, and late nights spent drinking on the beach, endeavouring to be cool to attract girls. Once, after sneaking under a tarp with a mate for a crafty joint, I was arrested and cautioned for almost setting a whole bloody yacht on fire.

Scroll on a decade, and that lanky wild kid who kept his mum awake at night? Who nicked a bottle of whisky from the village shop, crashed his moped, and gave her premature grey hairs? He was long gone. And he’d taken his suspect morals with him.

Nowadays, twenty-eight-year-old Nicolas La Forge of La Forge Oyster Farms still had the tattoos, and he was still lanky, and he still hadn’t found a girl special enough to settle down with. And his proud, hardworking mum and dad had brought him up too well to ever turn his back on someone in distress.

“Hey. éti. How many of these have you taken?”

“None of your onions. Go away.”

With a groan, she shifted, trying to turn on her side and curl into a tight ball.

“Right, in that case I’m phoning for an ambulance.”

That word got through her addled brain without any trouble. “No ambulance, Nico. No ambulance. No ambulance.”

Giving her another gentle shake, I stood over her. “éti, listen. Look at me. What are these? What have you taken?”

“No ambulance, no ambulance, no ambulance,” she sang in a slur, her voice hoarse. “See? I’m fine.”

She curled up even tighter, chin tucked into the top of my zipped jacket. “No ambulance. No ambulance. I’ll be a good girl. Lemme be alone.”

“Tell me what these pills are.”

I grabbed the bottle, not understanding a word of the chemical shit written on the side.

“They are for my poorly leg. My very, very poorly leg. Which is much better now. That’s all. My doctor gave them to me. She said they’re not very strong.” éti let out a hollow laugh. “She was right.”

“How many did you take?”

“Who cares? I’m a good girl, and I’m tryin’ to sleep. Nighty nighty.”

Dozing seemed like a terrible idea. What if she never woke up?

“How many, éti?” Louder this time, my thumbs hovering over my phone, ready to dial. “Did you take an overdose?”

“Yes I did, Nico. As a matter of fact, I took two of them. Me and my rebel heart. Two whole tablets, although I chopped them in half because I’m not very good at swallowing. Said the actress to the bishop.”

She giggled drunkenly.

“Um… only two?”

My alarm bells ratcheted down a notch. Far be it from me to belittle anyone’s mental torment, but this didn’t have the feel of a serious overdose attempt, accidental or otherwise. Not unless the tablets were arsenic. And while not jolly, éti didn’t seem down in the dumps either. I didn’t know how to describe her mood. Unpredictable?

“Two,” she repeated. “Because I am such a rebellious rule breaker. The correct dose was…” she beat an uneven drumroll on the sofa cushion… “one.”

With a theatrical drawn-out sigh, like explaining herself was a terrible chore, she added, “And I sicked them both up anyhow.”

Another attack of shivering seized her. Seeing as the doors had been left open half the night, the room wasn’t much warmer than the beach. At least nothing suggested she’d been burgled.

“Can I phone a friend for you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want you to. Don’t have any. I’ll be fine. Just tired now. Wanna sleep.”

On a deep inhale, unsure what to do next, I glanced around the room. A recessed fireplace was prepped with kindling and logs, ready for a match. A couple of blankets lay strewn across the back of the sofa. Maybe I should phone my dad for advice. Him and Max would have finished oyster grading by now and be locking up for a few hours. Our working pattern followed the tides, this week condemning us to night shifts. Or I could phone Florian. He could always be relied upon in a crisis. He’d know what to do.

I looked back at the woman, hunched into a trembling tight comma. More strangers invading her home and seeing her at her worst.

“Okay,” I decided. “No ambulance for the moment. And no friends. But let’s get you out of these wet things and into something dry. And sort out a hot drink.”

A stubborn grunt. “Don’t want to.”

Kneeling on the floor, I gave her arm a firm shake, keeping well clear of the fall of hair and the suspicious matter clogging it. “Please, éti. Change and then I’ll leave you alone. I promise. You’re so cold, sweetheart. You’ll make yourself ill if you stay like this.”

I tugged at the sleeve of my jacket. With a protesting moan, she unfolded a little. “Can you sit up for a second, so we can get this off?”

To my astonishment, she complied. Perhaps it was the promise of sleeping in peace. Or maybe the grubby ocean smell of the jacket worsened her nausea. With a last hurrah, she clutched the arm of the sofa in both hands and heaved herself upright, sitting almost primly on the edge. Or as primly as a girl could with vomit flecking her hair and tragic puddles of mascara smudging her cheeks. Lifting her chin in an imperious fashion, she pushed back the mop of wavy dark curls.

Which afforded me an unobstructed view of her face.

Merde . Her face.

Merde.

A face exceedingly familiar to any French person not living under a rock. Familiar to a huge chunk of the rest of the world too.

Merde, merde, merde .

No, it couldn’t be. My heart stuttered. Putain de merde.

“You… you’re…”

The words dried on my tongue as I stared and stared at her, unable to tear my eyes away. No, it couldn’t be. No way.

Le petit danseur.

Between us, the oilskin jacket lay half clutched in my hands and half around her shoulders. “Mon dieu, you’re…”

Speech deserted me. Defiant, le petit danseur stared back . Le petit danseur. The fucking little dancer . A fancy-pantsy dancer. Staggering not falling. Always staying on their feet. Even when those feet were bare, shooting at pebbles, soaring them high into the sky.

The grey eyes alone, matching the fathomless hues of the ocean at dawn, were enough. And the slender winged brows above, possessing a language all of their own. I hadn’t needed to see the soft slope of the nose or the curve of full lips above haughty, almost proud cheekbones. If scraped from that high Gallic forehead and tied back in a neat band, the trademark mass of thick hair would have been recognisable in an instant, too. Less so hanging in damp strings over a woman’s shoulders and drenched in seawater and vomit.

My tongue swelled, too clumsy to form the right shape. “I… I know you. Putain, you’re…”

“éti,” she growled back. Twin storm clouds of grey flashed at me, all playfulness, all drunkenness gone. Challenging me to disagree.

“I’m é-ti,” she repeated, pronouncing the two syllables more clearly than any of her drunken ramblings. “ é-ti. ” Her mouth was a blurry smear of red lipstick. “You don’t know me. You think you do, but you don’t. No one does. I’m éti, okay?”