Washed Up

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

‘Hello?’ The faded blue door of the cottage was swinging on its hinges in the breeze. Frankie pushed at it tentatively with one hand and called up the stairs. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’

No response.

This was to be expected as the tiny rental cottage was meant to be unoccupied until the end of the week. But Frankie couldn’t shake the eerie feeling there was someone in the house. Someone upstairs.

There was no noise and nothing to suggest it, really. Except for a sense of wrongness. Of otherness. And the faintest scent of something spicy in the air.

‘Blondie?’ she called out, thinking it would be typical of that dog to find her way in here. But then there was no way she wouldn’t have been bowled over by now. Blondie was never one to miss the opportunity for a Big Entrance, or a Big Cuddle for that matter.

‘I’m coming up,’ she said to the ether, shaking her head at her own foolishness as she put down her tray of cleaning supplies and headed gingerly up the creaky stairs.

Heron Cottage was positively tiny. If there was someone else in the house, they surely must have heard her by now.

Nothing. This is ridiculous, she told herself, but still, she climbed.

At the top of the narrow staircase, Frankie paused, held her breath and listened for a moment.

Then she turned to the left and pushed at the first of the stripped pine doors, the one that led to the master bedroom.

The door squeaked on its hinges as it swung open, and as it did so Frankie’s heart jumped into her throat.

There, sprawled across the double bed in the middle of the room, was a man she had never laid eyes on before in her life.

He was fast asleep. No. Maybe. Was he fast asleep or was he…?

She edged closer. The man was dressed in black cowboy boots, a pair of ripped dark jeans and some kind of black leather waistcoat that was open, revealing a taut, tanned chest and stomach that Frankie tried not to look at.

Much. It wasn’t the sort of outfit she usually associated with this place.

He had floppy dark hair that surrounded his head almost like a halo, a jawline dotted with stubble and an open, handsome face, although even in sleep she could see tiny worry lines across his forehead.

One arm was thrown above his head onto the pillow, almost like a child’s.

But he was very much not a child. This was an – ahem – fully formed adult man asleep in her holiday cottage. At least, she hoped he was asleep.

Still definitely not looking at his bare chest, she edged closer, creeping around beside the bed and praying to Jesus this strange man wasn’t dead.

‘Hello? Excuse me…?’ she said, softly.

Nothing.

‘Are you okay?’

No response.

Should she try to shake him awake? That’s what people did in the movies, wasn’t it?

There was no way she was about to get close enough to listen to his breathing.

She ran her eyes down over his neck to his torso, checking for signs of movement.

Nothing. Her heart shuddered and then, just as the panic was beginning to build…

there. There it was. His chest rose and fell with a long, deep breath. Thank God. He’s not dead.

Frankie sighed and stepped back from the bed.

He wasn’t dead but he was definitely passed out asleep.

Possibly drunk. Definitely not waking up any time soon.

And now she had a problem. Because she had no idea who this person was, he was asleep in her family’s holiday cottage… and Frankie knew everyone around here.

She looked the stranger over one last time, then backed out of the room slowly and pulled the door to.

She headed cautiously down the stairs, heart still thudding, and sat on the soft white armchair in the sitting room at the front of the house, trying to get her thoughts in order.

This was not the sort of thing that usually happened on a Saturday morning, but then this was not the average Saturday morning.

As if reading her mind, a strong wind rattled the tiny shutters on the front of the cottage.

Frankie peered out through the window at the darkening clouds on the horizon and frowned.

At that very moment, there was a thud from the floor above. And then a man’s voice, making indistinct groaning sounds.

‘Is someone there?’ came a deep gravelly voice.

Frankie stood up. Her first instinct, ridiculous as it was, was to run out of the front door. She stood at the bottom of the steep staircase and took a deep breath. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You can handle this. He’s the interloper. You have every right to be here.

‘Hello? Are you all right?’ she called out, walking into the hallway.

‘Erm. It’s unclear at this point,’ came the reply. There was a bit of rustling about, a couple of bangs and clatters and some minor swearing, and then the man’s tousled head appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice groggy. ‘And where the hell am I?’

‘I think I should be asking you that question,’ said Frankie.

His eyebrows raised. ‘I would hope you already know where you are.’

‘You know what I mean.’ The rest of his body came into view and Frankie felt her cheeks flush. She dropped her eyes. ‘I’m Frankie. And you’re in my cottage.’

The man looked around him as if seeing it for the first time. ‘This is your place?’

‘Kind of. It belongs to my parents.’

‘Bugger. Sorry about that. This. I’m Dylan, by the way.’

‘Don’t you have any other clothes, Dylan?’

He looked down at himself, then grinned at her. ‘Don’t you like it? The semi-naked look is all the rage in London. Apparently.’ He rubbed at his face with one hand. ‘I… I don’t know why I said that. God, I need a coffee.’

Frankie put her hands on her hips. ‘How did you even get in here?’

He shrugged. ‘Door was open. I needed to sleep.’

By now any nerves had been replaced by sheer irritation. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that this place might belong to someone? What if someone else had been staying in the house?’

‘But they weren’t, were they?’ He angled his head to the side. ‘Unless… you weren’t here, were you? I think I would have remembered you.’

‘Certainly not.’

Dylan blinked at her. Once. Twice. Then abruptly began stumbling down the stairs towards her.

Faintly alarmed, Frankie backed into the sitting room again and sat down, on the sofa this time, her hands twisting in her lap.

Maybe she should run and get her father?

Maybe she should get someone? Not her mum, though.

Definitely not her mum. Frankie’s mother could not be trusted around men like Dylan.

After a disturbingly long time and more swearing, the man himself wandered into the room, almost banging his head on the low beam that ran across the threshold as he did so.

He glanced over at her, then flopped down into the armchair she had recently vacated, and groaned, stretching out his long legs and throwing his head back into the squishy cushions.

‘My head,’ he moaned.

‘What happened to it?’ said Frankie.

‘A bottle of tequila, I think,’ he said with a little chuckle.

‘That explains a lot.’

Dylan raised his head and looked at her properly for the first time. He had deep blue eyes and a look as if he’d seen far too much. For reasons she didn’t want to examine, Frankie was finding it hard to look directly at him.

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it does,’ he said, and grinned again, so suddenly and deeply this time that Frankie felt a bit hot and bothered.

She clicked her tongue at him in an effort to get things back on track. ‘You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.’

He leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. ‘Relax. No harm done. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. It’s great hair, by the way.’

Frankie patted her brown curls self-consciously. ‘No need for sarcasm.’

‘No sarcasm here. I mean it. Love curly hair.’ His voice was soft, distant.

‘You’d better not be falling asleep again.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

Frankie sighed, then went to the kitchen and got him a glass of water, which she practically had to press into his hand. His head remained firmly cushioned against the back of the chair, those eyes remained closed, but he grunted a thank-you.

‘Drink this, then get up. We need to get you out of here before the ferry stops running.’

‘Before the what now?’

‘The ferry? To the mainland?’

Dylan’s head flew up at that, eyes snapping open. ‘The what to the where now?’

Frankie sighed and spoke as slowly as she could manage. ‘The… ferry… to… the… mainland.’

He frowned. ‘Which mainland would that be, exactly?’

‘Guernsey, of course.’

‘I’m not on Guernsey now?’

Frankie laughed. This was like something out of a movie. ‘No. You are most definitely not on Guernsey.’

‘You don’t have to say it like that. I thought Guernsey was very nice.’ He sipped at the water, wincing at the coldness.

‘Oh, it’s lovely. Of course, it’s lovely. We all love Guernsey. But this is not it.’

‘So where the heck am I, Frankie, if you don’t mind?’ His voice was low. Gravelly. Something about the way he said her name felt a little too familiar.

There was only one thing for it. Frankie took a deep breath and went into full tour guide mode. ‘You are on the island of Herm. It’s about twenty minutes from Guernsey by boat. Population, sixty-five. Number of cars, zero. Number of roads, zero.’

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where doesn’t have roads?’ When she didn’t reply, the laugh died on his lips. ‘Wait, I am still in the UK, right?’

‘Here. Here doesn’t have roads,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And yes.’

Dylan looked at her for a long moment, his forehead creased. Then his eyes grew wide as some kind of realisation dawned.

‘Those absolute bastards,’ he said, jumping out of his seat. ‘I’ll kill them for this.’