Page 12 of Between the Lines

“Easy, man,” he said. “You’re—Whoa!”

It was Theodore Wishart, hair in his face and looking like he was trying to hock up a lung. When their eyes locked, Wishart’s widened in horror and he yanked his arm free. “I’mfine.”

“Yeah, you’re peachy.”

“I’m—” Another wave hit them, Wishart stumbled forward, and Luca had to grab him again to keep him on his feet. “Fuck,” Wishart hissed, slapping the surface of the water with his palm.“Fuck.”

“Hey, man, relax.”

Wishart scowled, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and started wading unsteadily toward shore. Luca followed, not letting go of his arm. In a low voice, he said, “Listen, have you had a drink? Because, I gotta say, swimming under the influence is a crappy idea.”

Wishart tore his arm free, furious. “I’m notdrunk,” he choked out. “I’mfine.”

Irritated, Luca lifted his hands in surrender. The water was shallow enough now that the waves only washed around their knees. “Hey, buddy, most people say ‘thank you’ when a lifeguard pulls them out of the water.”

“Well, I didn’t need your help!” spluttered Wishart, angry spots of color in his cheeks. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not a...achildwho needs rescuing.” With that, he stomped out of the water, hobbled across the band of shingle gathered above the tide line, and carried on up the beach without bothering to collect his bodyboard sloshing about in the shallows. Luca picked it up for him, keeping an eye on Wishart’s retreating back while he headed over to the lifeguard station. He couldn’t be certain because there’d been seawater streaming out of the guy’s nose, and his eyes had been red from the salt, but for a moment Luca thought he’d seen tears in Wishart’s eyes. Weird.

“Okay?” Ashna called as Luca leaned the cheap bodyboard up against his surfboard—it had a freakin’ flamingo on it.

“Uh, I don’t know. That was—” He squinted after Wishart. “That was the asshole from the property developer. Theodore Wishart. Mom’s making him stay at the Majestic to get to know the place.”

“Theodore Wishart? Nice name.” Ashna twisted around in the chair to take a look. “Ha! Guy walks like a freaking duck.”

He did, a little: an ungainly trudge up the beach, radiating fury with every step. Unfortunately it didn’t detract from the cuteness of his ass, and Luca found his gaze lingering there and then drifting up to consider the man’s narrow hips and slender back, remembering the feel of smooth, warm skin under his hand.

A towel hit him in the face. “Hey! When you’ve finished ogling the skinny white guy, you wanna get back to work?”

“I wasn’t ogling.”

Ashna gave him a flat look. “Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t! He’s the enemy, for crying out loud.”

She snorted, turning her attention back to the ocean. “An enemy you’d like to bang.”

“Shut up. He’s an ungrateful limey bastard.” Luca took one more look, saw Wishart closing in on the steps leading up the cliff to the hotel, and sighed. “But he’s an ungrateful limey bastard with a nice ass.”

“You’re the worst,” Ashna laughed.

He was afraid she might be right.

Chapter Five

Theo stood in the shower and let hot water flow through his hair, over his shoulders, and down to his feet. If only it could wash away the humiliation along with the salt and sand.

“Stupid,” he said, resting his head on the worn tiles. “Bloody stupid.”

He should have known better than setting foot in the water, should have known it would end with him being dragged to his feet amongst a bunch of toddlers by Luca Moretti—who was a sodding lifeguard. Of course he was! The guy Theo had clumsily tried to tip this morning was a lifeguard who thought Theo was drunk at midday.

He groaned and bumped his head against the tiles again. Maybe he should phone his father and admit defeat, let Grant Daly swan down here with his perfect abs and tangerine tan. He could give Moretti a run for his money: Theo could imagine them both jogging along the beach, looking sexy and gorgeous and utterly out of his reach.

His throat clogged, eyes prickling with frustration. It wasn’t fair. That was the thing. It wasn’t fair that all this normal stuff was denied him. For fuck’s sake, little kids could play in the sea on their bodyboards without ending up half-drowned. And yet, all these pleasures were beyond him however hard he tried—however much hewanted.

“Get a bloody grip,” he told himself. “You’re a grown man.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he let the water hammer down on his eyelids. He was an adult, he had a job to do, and he refused to give up. If convincing Jude Brennan that he understood the Majestic meant understanding the beach, then he’d bloody well understand the beach. Even if it killed him.

The problem with today had been the people. The water had felt like children soup. Too many bodies bobbing up and down, the waves washing them together in unpredictable ways, and the sand underfoot uneven and constantly shifting: too many random variables to coordinate all at once. Not to mention feeling like everyone was watching and laughing. No, he’d try it again but this time he’d do it early in the morning, before anyone else was in the water. Before Luca Moretti was around to laugh and point.

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