Coming Home to Wishington Bay

Chapter 1 (#ua8719c1c-b52e-55e6-bce1-37ea06a98a1e)

Chapter 2 (#u547004d1-0573-5a7b-848a-653cc68ad6be)

Chapter 3 (#ub2a5c3f3-22c4-5a36-b3b0-afd5e43f40ae)

Chapter 4 (#u477f8040-a309-5576-a12c-6cac3d4c0898)

Chapter 5 (#u6eed3a82-4742-574e-b396-54b501f24818)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

For James

Chapter 1 (#ulink_e645ae8e-75dc-5e80-8edd-5f5020fe228f)

It was strange waking to the sound of soft waves rather than angry car horns and emergency vehicle sirens. Especially as, for the last ten years, I had been attempting to create this very scenario with the help of a little machine from which I could pick a range of background noises, depending upon where I wished to be deposited in my mind’s eye. Most of the time I played it safe and kept away from the exotic-sounding Tropical Jungle or Wild Flowing River, opting instead for the simple and ever-reliant Waves. But today there was no need for a machine. Today I had the Real Thing, which was much, much better. And it didn’t even need batteries. Although, if I’m honest, ever since I found out that the man I’d been dating thought girlfriends qualified as a ‘two for the price of one’ deal, batteries were something I tended to keep a stock of. You know. Just in case.

I lay in the soft, comfy double bed a little longer, listening to the swoosh of the water and watching the barely there breeze kiss the light voile curtains I’d hung last night. Shutters closed out the light and gave me privacy but the drapes softened the look, making it more feminine and pretty. Not that I was too worried about privacy. The house – a 1930s Art Deco inspiration that had been split into two dwellings decades ago – was set right on the beach and was accessed down a private, winding lane that only went to this place. I was sure to hear my neighbour’s car and it was unlikely that anyone else would be just passing by. And, whilst I wasn’t generally the type to be wandering around naked in my home, I didn’t feel I should have to rule out the option entirely.

After a quick but invigorating shower, I pulled open the top drawer on the old dresser I’d hurriedly unpacked into last night and lifted out a matching set of ridiculously expensive underwear. I smiled as I put them on, at the complete indulgence of it all. Although beautiful, they were also incredibly overpriced. And frankly, this set wasn’t even that practical – but oh so pretty! Still. Everything else in my life was sensible. Ordered. This was my one outlet. Even if I was the only one who ever got to see them.

I grabbed hold of that particular thought and tossed it to the back of my mind where it belonged before slipping my arms into the silk kimono robe I’d bought on a holiday to Japan several years ago. Leaving it flowy and unbelted, I wandered into the bathroom. Picking up my toothbrush from the cut-glass holder on the side, I oozed some paste onto it, gave it a quick flash under the tap and started brushing. With my other hand, I reached over and pulled up the blind. And suddenly I was no longer the only one getting to see my posh undies – the bloke on the ladder at my window was currently also getting a complete eyeful!

My scream of fright was immediately followed by the clatter of my toothbrush as it bounced into the sink. His cry of surprise and swift disappearance was immediately followed by a louder clatter of the ladder hitting the ground. I quickly belted the gown and rushed down the stairs, grabbing my mobile on the way. I hadn’t got a good look at my potential burglar before he went tumbling earthbound but my mind had registered that there had been a sizeable bulk on the ladder – albeit briefly. Definitely more than I could realistically wrangle into a citizen’s arrest anyway. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t be hurt, just mildly unconscious, and would stay that way until the police arrived.

Hurrying through the door and out onto the patio, I came to an abrupt halt when I saw that the man was not unconscious as I’d hoped, but sitting up, inspecting a cut on his shin. He wore a loose T-shirt which looked like it had seen better days, well-washed cargo shorts and bare feet. The entire look was now accessorised with a liberal application of fresh, white paint. But the most exceptionally inconvenient thing was that, without doubt, he was the most good-looking man I’d ever met. His gaze shifted from his shin to me.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

He stared at me for a moment with a look that could freeze ice before glancing away again, ignoring my question.

Bristling, I crossed my arms. ‘You should know I’ve called the police!’

‘Great. That saves me doing it,’ he said calmly, a slight Australian accent coating his words.

‘Excuse me? Why would you call the police? Oh wait! I get it,’ I said, sticking my hands on my hips. ‘You’re one of these burglars who hurts themselves breaking into someone’s property and then sues the innocent owner! Well, good luck with that one. I’m friends with two of the top barristers in the country so if you think—’

‘Good for you,’ he cut across me. ‘I’m not a burglar.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ I replied, my words heavy with sarcasm.

‘How many burglars do you know who paint the properties they’re breaking in to?’ He got to his feet and bent to pick up a brush from the ground, holding it up to me in order to emphasise his point.

‘How do I know that’s not a prop?’

He gave me a look that made me think that it probably, most definitely, wasn’t a prop.

‘I suggest you get dressed unless you want the police to cart you away in your underwear.’

I glanced down at my attire, and realised the belt was slipping, giving him yet another glimpse. Yanking at it, I tied it tighter, wincing as it pinched me. Wiggling things a little looser, I tried again.

‘I am not being carted off anywhere, thank you very much. I have every right to be here. You, on the other hand, have none. Even if you’re weren’t trying to break in to my house, you still had a ladder up against the wall, peering in my window! That’s also illegal, in case you didn’t know!’

‘I had a ladder up against the wall because I was painting the window frames! The blinds and shutters were closed, same as they’ve been for months. I had no idea you were even here! Believe me, spying was not on the agenda. I’ve absolutely no wish to peer at you. I can think of better ways to spend my time – no offence.’

Oddly enough, I was a little offended, although I wasn’t entirely sure why. ‘Well! That’s a relief!’ I huffed out.

‘And, by the way, you don’t have a right to be here. I think you and your solicitor pals need to do some swotting up on your squatters’ rights. So, if you really have called the police on me, and don’t want to get arrested yourself, I’d get moving.’

‘I beg your pardon – my what? Do I look like a squatter?’ I asked, palms to the sky. ‘This is my house.’

‘Well, now I know you’re lying. This place belongs to Betty Gardner’s granddaughter, Holly.’