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ALEX RYDER
was born and raised in Edinburgh and is married with three sons. She took an interest in writing when, to her utter amazement, she won a national schools’ competition for a short essay about wild birds. She prefers writing romance fiction because at heart she’s just a big softie. She works now in close collaboration with a scruffy old one-eyed cat who sits on the desk and yawns when she doesn’t get it right, but winks when she does.
Shores Of Love
Alex Ryder
AVALON swore under her breath, then clenched her fists and bit her lip in anger. It had happened again! How was it possible? You’d have thought that just for once Fate might have given her a break instead of dropping her in the sludge yet again. You’d have thought that just for once it might have left her to get on with her life in peace. What did it have against her, for heaven’s sake? She was kind to animals and she always gave up her seat in the bus to older people or young mums with kids. But no. Someone up there really seemed to have it in for her. And this time it wasn’t just your common-or-garden-type disaster. She was used to coping with them. This time it was mind-blowingly serious. When someone poked a gun into your ribs and snarled, ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ then pushed you into your cabin and locked the door, you were entitled to break into a cold sweat.
She shivered with apprehension, then took a deep, steadying breath. One thing was for sure. Panic wouldn’t get her anywhere. If she was going to get out of this mess in one piece she’d have to keep her wits about her.
The cabin was tiny and too cramped to pace back and forward so she sat down on her bunk, her green eyes flickering with anger. She’d had a bad feeling about this job right from the start and she should have trusted her instincts. There had been something about Mr Smith and his partner—not to mention their ‘wives’—that hadn’t rung true, but at the time she’d been desperate enough to put her suspicions aside and jump at the chance of working her passage back to England. Anyway, when you were stranded in a foreign country with no money, no passport and nowhere to sleep, your options were pretty limited.
She’d warned them that she was no cordon bleu cook but Mr Smith had assured her that all that would be required of her was plain, simple fare. As long as she could scramble eggs and grill an occasional steak they’d be satisfied.
The lying toad, she thought bitterly. They hadn’t wanted a cook. They’d hired her to be a scapegoat in case anything had gone wrong with their plan and now that she’d found out what they were really up to they were going to make damned sure that she never got the chance to go to the police. They were probably going to dump her overboard when they were far enough away from the coast.
From their point of view it couldn’t have been simpler. Her job was done. No one but they knew that she was aboard this motor-cruiser and if she mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth there was no way they could be connected with the affair. Anyway, who would miss her enough to make enquiries? Not one single soul that she could think of.
Well, either she could sit here moaning and getting more terrified by the minute as she waited for Mr Smith to return or she could do something about it. Getting resolutely to her feet, she leaned over the bunk and peered through the porthole. It was almost dark but she could see the even darker mass of a coastline barely a quarter of a mile away. Where were they, anyway? It had been five days since they’d left Portugal. Surely they must be near England by now?
The porthole wasn’t very big, but then neither was she. It would be a tight squeeze but she reckoned she could make it. The cabin was right at the stern of the boat, so unless anyone happened to be looking back from the bridge she should be able to get away without being spotted. She was a fairly good swimmer and the sea didn’t appear to be too rough.
If only there were a sign of habitation ashore. A light from a house. Anything. She’d have to get in touch with the authorities and she couldn’t do that if she ended up on some deserted little island. If that happened she’d either die of starvation or exposure.
Suddenly she blinked, and rubbed her eyes and stared towards the land. There! There it was again! A bluish-white light flickering—like a huge candle-flame. It died away but her heart had already given a wild beat of hope. A light meant people…civilisation!
Realising that it was now or never, she quickly unscrewed the brass butterfly nuts and opened the glass cover, then put her arms and head through the opening. Once her shoulders were through she turned awkwardly on her back and reached up. Her scrabbling fingers found the edge of the deck and she pulled and hoisted the rest of her body through the porthole. For a ghastly moment her slim hips got firmly wedged and she could neither get out nor go back in. She kept squirming and struggling and bruising her skin against the hard edges then, like a cork out of a bottle, she popped free.
Six feet beneath her the dark, oily-looking water slid by and she could see the frothy wake astern of the ship. She was in a crouching position, her toes on the bottom lip of the porthole and her fingertips desperately clinging to the deck above. The big danger now was the propellers. She’d have to jump far enough backwards to be clear of them. Raising herself higher, she took a quick look forward towards the bridge to make sure that no one was looking astern then, taking a deep breath, she pushed with her legs and launched herself into space.
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