the surf. Heading to the far left of the beach.
If this was a local she’d know the water. She was heading to the left and waving at him.
Maybe that was where the rip cut out.
She was running into the water. She shouldn’t risk herself.
He tried to yell but he was past it. He was pretty much past anything.
The woman was running through the shallows and then diving into the first wave that was over chest high. Of all the stupid... Of all the brave...
Okay, if she was headed into peril on his behalf the least he could do was help.
He fought for one last burst of energy. He put his head down and tried to swim.
* * *
Uh-oh.
There’d been a swimming pool in the basement of the offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe. Some lawyers swam every lunchtime.
Claire had mostly shopped. Or eaten lunch in the park. Or done nothing at all, which had sometimes seemed a pretty good option.
It didn’t seem a good option now. She should have used that time to improve her swimming. She needed to be super-fit or more. There was no rip where she was swimming, but the downside of keeping close to the rocks at the side of the cove was the rocks themselves. They were sharp, and the waves weren’t regular. A couple picked her up and hurled her sideways.
She was having trouble fighting her way out. She was also bone-chillingly cold. The iciness of Bass Strait in early spring was almost enough to give her a heart attack.
And she couldn’t see whoever it was she was trying to rescue.
He must be here somewhere, she thought. She just had to fight her way out behind the surf so she could see.
Which meant diving through more waves. Which meant avoiding more rocks. Which meant...
Crashing.
* * *
Something hit him—hard.
He’d already hit his head on the rocks. The world was feeling a bit off-balance anyway. The new crack on his head made him reel. He reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was that had hit him—and it was soft and yielding. A woman. Somehow he tugged her to face him. Her chestnut curls were tangled, her green eyes were blurred with water, and she looked almost as dazed as he was.
He’d thumped his head and so had she. She stared at him, and then she fought to speak.
‘You’d think...’ She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You’d think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.’
He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn’t push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She’d reached him and she was joking?
Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.
‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,’ he gasped, and then realised he’d spoken in French, Marétal’s official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania’s icy waters. Get back to the beach. I’ll follow, he’d wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she’d already understood.
‘How can you follow? You’re drowning.’ She’d replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn’t her first language.
‘I’m not.’ He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.
‘There’s blood on your head,’ she managed.
‘I’m okay. You’ve shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I’m following.’
‘Is there anyone...?’ The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?’
Anyone else to save? She’d dived into the water to save him and was now proposing to head out further and save others?
This was pure grit. His army instructors would be proud of her.
She didn’t have a lifejacket on and he did.
‘No one,’ he growled. ‘Get back to the beach.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Go.’ He should make her wear the life jacket, but the effort of taking the thing off was beyond him.
‘Don’t you dare drown. I’ve taken too much trouble.’
‘I won’t drown,’ he managed, and then a wave caught her and flung her sideways.
She hit the closest rock and disappeared. He tried to grab her but she was under water—gone.
Hell...
He dived, adrenalin surging, giving him energy when he’d thought he had none. And then he grabbed and caught something...
A wisp of lace. He tugged and she was free of the rocks, back in his arms, dazed into limpness.
He fought back from the rocks and tried to steady while she fought to recover.
‘W...wow,’ she gasped at last. ‘Sorry. I...you can let go now.’
‘I’m not letting go.’ But he shifted his grip. He’d realised what he’d been holding were her knickers. He now had hold of her by her bra!
‘We surf in together,’ he gasped. ‘I have a lifejacket. I’m not letting go.’
‘You...can’t...’
He heard pain in her voice.
‘You’re hurt.’
‘There’s no way I can put a sticking plaster on out here,’ she gasped. ‘Go.’
‘We go together.’
‘You’ll stretch my bra,’ she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.
‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I’ll get an eyeful—but not until we’re safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.’
‘I’ll try,’ she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.
* * *
She couldn’t actually swim.
There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn’t sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he’d been holding
