Issie lobbed the balled-up newspaper into the bin and took a deep breath before attending to the newcomer. Straightening up to face him, she was met once again by those long-lashed green eyes smiling at her.
“I was gonna order a beer but I’m not sure I can risk it,” he said, and a corner of his mouth lifted. “Will you pour mine all over the floor too?”
An American? In the village pub, in January? This was almost unheard of.
“It’s an ancient Cornish custom,” she told him, flicking her braids back from her face and meeting his gaze head on. “If you think you can handle it, then feel free to order.”
“Far be it from me to disrespect ancient customs,” the stranger replied. His slow drawl brought to mind sunshine and open spaces, a world away from the jumbled cottages and leaden skies of Cornwall. “As long as it isn’t any of that Morris dancing,” he added. “I have two left feet.”
“Morris dancing is strictly for locals only, I’m afraid,” Issie deadpanned.
“Aw hell, I was kinda looking forward to that. I guess beer it is then.”
Issie waited for him to make a choice. “Which beer would you like?” she prompted, when no further information came.
“Huh?”
“Welcome to Cornwall. We serve lots of real ales. Pol Brew, Doom Bar, Tinners and Hooky, for starters.”
His brow crinkled. “Uh, you lost me at the first one. How about you choose?”
“Pol Brew,” Issie decided firmly, reaching for a glass and pulling a pint. “It’s the local ale.”
“That’ll put hairs on your chest, boy,” chipped in Big Rog, raising his glass. “Cheers!”
Issie couldn’t see the American’s chest, but she was certain that it would be muscular and smooth – and warm beneath her fingertips too, if she were to skim them over the tanned flesh. Her face grew warm at the thought; it was just as well the pub was so dimly lit.
Once the drink was poured and safely in the stranger’s sun-browned hand, Issie busied herself with the till and tried to calm her racing heart. Honestly! What on earth was the matter with her? She must have been back in the village too long if one good-looking guy was having this effect on her. Besides, he wasn’t even her type. Having grown up in a seaside town, Issie was more than used to young outdoorsy guys with tanned firm bodies, slightly-too-long hair and a wicked twinkle in their eye. Her brothers, particularly Nick and Zak, rocked this kind of look to perfection – as did the Penhalligan boys – and it worked wonders with female holidaymakers. The local lads got through girls like Big Rog got through beer, but Issie had always thought herself totally immune. No wonder she’d fallen so fast and so hard for neatly cut dark hair, gold-rimmed glasses and intellectual conversation…
She stole a look from under her lashes at the American, just to reassure herself that he really wasn’t her type, and was jolted by a sharp tug of longing. He was seated on the furthest bar stool, one long lean leg swinging idly – and when he caught her looking he smiled, the flash of perfect teeth shockingly white in his tanned face.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass and tipping back the golden liquid. The muscles in his strong throat rippled and Issie looked away hastily. When she glanced back he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and his nose was wrinkled in disgust.
“Goddamn! This is gross! Your beer’s warm!”
There was a ripple of amused laughter from the crowd of locals at the bar.
“We drink our beer warm here,” Little Rog told him helpfully.
“No shit.” The stranger shook his head in bewilderment. “Why would you do that?”
“I think what you might have wanted was lager,” suggested Caspar Owen kindly. “When I was on my book tour of the States I drank cold Budweiser.”
“Girl’s drink,” scoffed Big Rog. “Just right for you though, Cassie!”
Caspar, clad much as usual in a frilly shirt, neckerchief and flowing velvet coat, took this good-naturedly enough, by flipping Big Rog the bird.
“You’re in England now! Get that beer down your neck and have a pasty,” boomed Eddie Penhalligan, striding into the pub and settling himself onto his usual bar stool. “Or did my trip make you feel too sick to eat?”
“Your boat didn’t, but this beer sure does.” The stranger turned his wide green eyes to Issie imploringly. “Honey, could you translate for me? What the hell’s a pasty?”
There was a chorus of horrified disbelief from the regulars.
“Kick him out!” said Big Rog to Adam Harper. “Heathen!”
“Pasties are the food of the gods,” said Eddie, patting a stomach that had clearly seen more than its fair share.
“Food of the peasants, more like,” sniffed Caspar. To the stranger he added, “It’s rather like a pie. It’s a kind of pastry filled with steak and potato and turnip, and it’s what the miners here used to eat.”
“Swede! Not turnip, you blooming emmet! And diced steak with onions!” bellowed Eddie.
“And no carrots,” added Little Rog.
All the locals nodded. A carrot in a pasty was a serious issue indeed.
“To be fair, I didn’t actually mention carrots,” Caspar pointed out. Nevertheless, a very heated discussion soon arose regarding the correct filling of this local delicacy. Before long, Caspar and Eddie were on the verge of having fisticuffs over whether swede and turnips were one and the same thing, and the Pollards had to drag them outside to cool off.
“Carry on and I’ll bar you all,” Adam called after them.
“Jeez, I’m sorry I asked,” said the American to Issie. “Are they always like that?”
Fetching a bottle of Bud Light from the fridge and popping the top, Issie passed it to him and tipped the ale in his abandoned pint glass away. “Pretty much; they just can’t help squabbling. Sorry about that anyway. Have this on me as a welcome to Cornwall.”
“Hey, thanks! That’s real nice of you.” He raised the bottle and smiled at her, a cute and quirky smile that made Issie’s pulse skitter. “I’m Luke. Luke Dawson.”
As if in a trance she let Luke Dawson shake her hand, and a delicious thrill chased a path down her spine. Unused to feeling like this, Issie could hardly think straight. She took comfort from the fact that all the other women in the pub were looking at him admiringly – even her grandmother, who was enjoying lunch with Jonny St Milton for the second time in a week. Whatever was that all about?
“And you are?” the American prompted, while Issie stood gazing into those green eyes of his.
“Oh! I’m Issie. Issie Tremaine.”
“Nice to meet you, Issie Tremaine,” Luke Dawson said. “Thanks for rescuing me from warm British beer.”
She laughed. “No problem. Not sure I can save you from pasties though.”
The broad shoulders shrugged. “Hey, no big deal. I guess since I’m gonna be staying here for a while I should get to eat the local food?”
“You’re staying in the village?” Having had Luke Dawson down as yet another day-tripper here amid all the hype, Issie was both surprised and pleased.
“Sure am. I’ve rented this damp old place just up from the beach.”
“Edmund Courtly’s house?” Issie felt sorry for him if this was the case. That cottage might have amazing views across the bay but it made the River Wenn look dry.
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. Everywhere else was booked. This place is crazy busy.”
“We’ve had an old galleon uncovered by winter storms, so everyone’s down to look at it and hunt for the supposed treasure,” Issie explained. To be honest she couldn’t quite believe the response to the find and was starting to regret opening her mouth on national television.
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here too. I saw it on the news.”
“It was on the news in America?” Issie couldn’t believe it. Seriously? She’d been on the telly in America?
“Sure was. I caught it in Florida, and since I majored in history and I’m real interested in the smuggli
ng trade in eighteenth-century England, I thought I’d have a vacation and do some research.”
“No way! I was reading history too, and the local stories about smuggling were what got me interested in it. Are you writing a paper on something to do with all this then? Is it for your masters?”
Luke Dawson paused. “Uh, yeah, something like that.”
Issie was on the brink of asking him more about this when Adam Harper flicked her with a beer towel and made a sarky comment about whether or not she actually wanted her job.
“I’ll get you fired if we keep talking. Perhaps I should go find one of those pasties for lunch instead. Maybe catch you later?” Luke said, necking his beer and setting the empty bottle down on the bar. “When do you finish?”
“Five,” Issie said. Lord, that was three hours away. She wasn’t sure how she could bear to stay here all that time now.
“How about I meet you at five then? If you want?”
If she wanted? Like, duh!
“Sure,” was all she said. “Sounds good.”
Issie pretended to turn her attention to stacking the glass washer, doing her best to look as though she was intent on this task, when in reality she was watching Luke cross the pub with that panther-like grace. He was just at the door when another man blocked his way.
Teddy St Milton.
Oh crap. All the time she’d been chatting to Luke, Teddy must have been sitting in the corner, working his way through his JD and watching them from the shadows. He’d been so odd since New Year’s Eve, sending all those bouquets and accidentally bumping into her wherever she happened to go. It was almost like having a stalker.
Issie made a mental note not to snog guys who were keener on her than she was on them. Especially if they were used to getting their own way.
“Adam! I think there’s going to be trouble,” Issie hissed.
“There will be if he sends any more flowers,” the landlord muttered. Then his eyes narrowed when he realised what was going on. “Issie Tremaine, I sometimes think having you behind the bar is more trouble than it’s worth.”
Issie ignored her boss. Over the years she’d had several stints working in The Ship, and Adam had been only too glad to have her back again when Kelly, his previous barmaid, had defected to The Plump Seagull. Issie was good at her job and customers had started coming back especially to see her, which the landlord knew full well. She’d probably been making him a fortune already.
“Excuse me, buddy, but you’re in my way,” Luke was saying mildly. At over six feet tall and with a muscular build, he made Teddy seem slightly smaller than usual.
“Not nearly as much as you’re in mine, buddy,” Teddy St Milton snarled. He took a step forward and, looking upwards at the tall American, added, “Stay away from Issie, do you hear me?”
Luke raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me who I can talk to? Are you for real?”
“Bloody right I am. I saw the way you were looking at her.”
“I’m not sure I care for what you’re insinuating.” Luke spoke quietly but there was no mistaking the strength in his voice. “We were just chatting.”
“I don’t care what you were doing. Just keep the hell away from her!”
“Or what?” Luke asked softly. There was a mocking light in his eyes now. “Last time I looked, buddy, it was the twenty-first century, where women are free to talk to whoever they choose. At least, that’s how it is in the USA.”
“Or I’ll show you how we do things in England!” Teddy threatened.
In answer, Luke Dawson threw back his head and laughed. “Pasties at dawn, is it? Or maybe a warm-beer duel? Whatever. It’s all cool with me. Just name the time and the place, buddy.”
“I’m not your buddy and you can take the piss all you want. I’m not afraid of you,” Teddy blustered, putting up his fists. “How about right here?”
Teddy’s raised voice attracted the attention of everyone else in the pub, including his grandfather and Alice, who looked over from their seats by the fire.
Luke’s eyebrows had shot into his curly hair now. “Are you seriously asking me for a fight?”
“All right, son, that’ll do.” Adam Harper stepped forward and laid a large hand on Teddy’s Barbour-clad shoulder. “Why don’t you step outside and cool down?”
But Teddy shook him off. “Why don’t you tell him to go outside?”
“Because he’s not had too much to drink and isn’t making a fool of himself!” snapped Issie.
What on earth had she been thinking, getting involved with Teddy? Yes, he was boy-band cute with his floppy blond hair and designer clothes, but he was also spoilt and petulant and, unfortunately for him, paled into insignificance next to a guy like Luke. If she hadn’t already regretted kissing Teddy on New Year’s Eve, then Issie certainly did now. That was it; she really was giving up the booze.
Adam crossed his arms over his chest. “On your way, Ted, there’s a good lad.”
Teddy raised his chin. “Make me.”
“Excuse me, Adam, but is there a problem?” Jonny St Milton, leaning heavily on his stick, had left his fireside seat and joined them. His face had a grey tinge and he looked exhausted.
“Not if your grandson does as he’s told,” replied the landlord.
“Edward, come and sit down with me,” Jonny said.
“No way!” Teddy’s cheeks were bright with anger as he jabbed a forefinger at Luke. “He’s insulted me! No one insults a St Milton.”
Issie rounded on him. “Well I do! Try this for size: Teddy St Milton, you’re a moron! And if I didn’t think so already then I certainly do now!”
“Look, I was just leaving. I don’t want to cause any trouble between you and your boyfriend,” Luke said quickly.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Issie said. Furious, she stood herself in between them. “He was never my boyfriend and he never will be. Besides, you’re not causing trouble; he is! Stop making an idiot of yourself, Ted! Go home.”
But Teddy St Milton, filled with the bravado that comes with several whiskies, was in no mood to listen to reason. If anything, Issie’s words had only incensed him further. He lunged at Luke, who neatly sidestepped the punch. Teddy went hurtling into a table. Seconds later he was sprawled across the sticky pub floor, dripping with beer. The eyes of everyone in The Ship were on him now.
“Careful, bud,” Luke said mildly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Issie couldn’t help herself; Teddy looked so utterly ridiculous that she started laughing. Slowly, ripples of amusement spread around the pub. It seemed that everyone was sniggering – with the exception of Jonny and Alice, who looked mortified.
Luke held out a hand to Teddy but his conciliatory gesture was ignored. Instead Teddy picked himself up and marched to the door. With his fingers still on the handle, he turned to stare at Issie – and his black expression made the laughter die on her lips.
“You’re going to wish you’d never done that,” he told her softly.
Issie swallowed. All of a sudden her grandmother’s warning about the dangers of playing with people’s emotions was ringing in her ears. Issie had the uneasy feeling that she’d just made a very dangerous enemy.
Luke reached out and took her trembling hand.
“C’mon. I think we should get you the hell out of here.”
Without so much as a second thought, Issie twined her fingers with those of this total stranger, and followed him into the chilly afternoon.
Chapter 12
“Who the hell,” said Luke, “was that?”
He and Issie stood on the quayside. Their fingers were still tightly laced and as his questioning gaze met hers, Issie struggled for an answer. Lord, this was a tricky one. What exactly was Teddy St Milton to her?
“Forgive me, this is none of my business,” Luke Dawson continued, “but if he is your boyfriend you really should think twice, because that dude has some serious anger issues.”
Issie shook her head. She was still quite
unable to believe the scene Teddy had caused in the pub. He wasn’t her boyfriend; at least, she’d never viewed him this way. Teddy was an old friend and, although he’d often been away at boarding school, he was part of the Polwenna Bay gang she’d known all her life. When she’d fled uni he’d been somebody fun to hang out with and a distraction from all the complications of Mark; Issie had never for a minute believed that the time they’d shared was leading to something more serious. Teddy was cute-looking in a One Direction kind of way, had money coming out of his ears and drove a fast car – but there had to be more than that to make Issie want a relationship. She’d truly thought they were just having fun.
But Teddy, it now transpired, viewed things very differently.
“No. He’s definitely not my boyfriend. He’s just… just…” she struggled for words and was horrified to discover that she couldn’t find them. “God, this sounds awful, but he’s just somebody I’ve been hanging out with a bit. It’s stupid and I should never have let it get this far.”
Luke squeezed her hand and then released his grasp. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve been in similar situations.”
Issie stole a sideways glance at him. His face was sun-kissed and his nose was dusted with a cinnamon sprinkling of freckles. But it was his eyes that really drew her, as green as the deepest rock pools along the coast, and glittering with life and energy. Yes, she could well imagine that Luke Dawson understood exactly what her situation was. Women would elbow each other out of the way just to be with a man like him. And yet there was an aloofness about him that suggested he held back from getting too close to anyone.
“He’s called Teddy St Milton and his family pretty much own most of Polwenna Bay,” she told him.
“Kinda used to getting his own way, huh?”
“You could say that. His grandpa dotes on him. I suppose he’s a bit of a spoilt brat, but to be honest I’ve never seen that side of him before.”
“So it was all cool before I rocked up.” Luke ran a hand through his springy curls. “Jeez. I’ve only been here five minutes and there’s hell up. It doesn’t bode well.”
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