Page 92 of Washed Up

And then she got it.

They wouldn’t. It was the perfect place. Maybe he had kind of liked her, but maybe it really was the solitude that was most appealing. The privacy. And she could see why. He could sow his wild oats in peace and return to his life, no doubt leaving her broken and bruised, but perhaps that was his MO.

Or – wait – was he just checking it out ready to bring an international IT girl like Lindsey Luft or a Rockington sister here? Perhaps that had always been his plan. Maybe he’d been scoping out Jethou, the private island just off Herm. Maybe he was planning a secret love hideaway. Somewhere they could have total peace. It wasn’t about Frankie at all.

Her brain was on overload.

By the time Frankie had finished her coffee Dylan wasn’t only dating Lindsey, but he was also planning to propose. Move her to the island. Start a whole new life. Have babies.

Bastard, she thought, before catching herself. Come on now, Frankie. This is the behaviour of a psychopath, she told herself. Don’t be ridiculous. The poor man is trying to get a fortnight of peace from his busy life. That’s it.

But it was too late. The damage was done. Something rankled in her chest. She had convinced herself that Dylan Wright was just using her and there was no way she was standing for it.

That definitely didn’t mean she wasn’t going to go on this date, though.

That would be rude.

And even if he was using her… No, stop that, she told herself. She just needed to play it cool. Never mind that Frankie had never played anything cool in her entire life. There was always the opportunity to start.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It was an agonising wait for Wednesday night. An agonising few days with no sign of Dylan at all, just whispers and a few stares from the other islanders, and one or two quite impertinent questions as to where he was staying and what he was up to. It seemed even on Herm there were a few residents who were outright celebrating his return, desperate for a glimpse of the man himself. Chance would be a fine thing.

The day came at last and Frankie sneaked into the hotel half an hour before their meeting to get Sally’s advice on her outfit again, even though she’d already exhausted any possibilities from her mother’s collection and had been forced to go with the least awful of her flowery skirts and T-shirts. Sally hadn’t exactly thrown up at the sight of her but she had made a little grimace, handed her one of her own much tighter cropped T-shirts, and quickly taken charge of Frankie’s ever unruly hair, hauling it between two large clips so it was at least swept off her face. She then teased out a couple of curls, cursing when more came out than she intended and pushing it all back in again.

Which meant Frankie was fashionably late by the time she walked into the restaurant, pulling the T-shirt down self-consciously over her stomach and schooling her features into what she hoped was casual yet sophisticated calm as she scanned the tables. But there was no sign of Dylan.

There was still no sign of him twenty minutes later and the waiting staff, youthful summer employees who all made Frankie feel as old as the hills, were starting to throw pitying looks and side-eyes her way. Did they know who she was meeting? She felt like more of them might have been lingering near her table if they did.

That’s if he ever showed up.

Frankie had studied the menu for as long as she could without making it look like she was having some difficulty reading the words, and was now staring at her phone again, to save face if nothing else. Where the hell was he? This was mortifying. She had been right, after all. This was some kind of elaborate game.

Frankie resolved to give it five more minutes, then she’d leave.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ came a voice behind her, and her shoulders dropped two inches.

‘Good evening,’ she said with a smile, as Dylan slipped into the seat across from her.

His face was pale. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.’

‘It’s okay. Are you, though? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Dylan ran a hand down his face. ‘Yup. Yup. Fine. Just had a difficult phone call. How are you?’

‘Delighted that you’re here. The yoofs were circling.’

One corner of his mouth quirked up as he glanced around them. ‘Did they want blood?’

‘I think the one in the corner wants something else entirely from you,’ she said, indicating a petite blonde who was staring at Dylan. ‘And that one over there currently wants me dead.’ A tall redhead was staring daggers.

‘Word gets round the island fast, eh?’

‘I mean, most of them would have known you were here the second you stepped onto the harbour.’

Dylan grabbed a breadstick from the pot on the table and waved it at her. ‘You didn’t.’

‘You got me there.’