USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE discovered she loved romantic fiction at about the same time she discovered boys and sheâs been admiring both ever since. With this in mind, her first brilliant career plan involved marrying Paul Newman. As she was thirteen, Paul was pushing fifty and there was the small matter of Joanne Woodward, that didnât quite pan out. Brilliant career plan B involved a job as a film reviewer for a national newspaper, but one wonderful husband, two beautiful sons and a lot of really bad B-movies later and she was ready for a new brilliant career planâso she branched out into the wonderful world of romance writing. Her first novel was published in 2007 and she hasnât looked back since. She lives in London but loves to travel, particularly in the US, where she does a Thelma and Louise road trip every year with her best mate (although they always leave out the driving-off-a-cliff bit). And sheâs having so much fun, sheâs almost not sorry that first brilliant career plan didnât work out.
Heidi loves to hear from readersâyou can e-mail her at [email protected], or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com.
âTHAT guyâs got to be the worldâs worst surfer,â Maddy West-more murmured in disbelief as she shivered under her lifeguardâs jacket. The sleeting October rain made it hard to focus but she couldnât pull her eyes away from the tall athletic figure clad in a black wetsuit about sixty metres out in the tumbling surf. She watched with guilty fascination as he squatted on his board, steadied himself, straightened.
Then she sucked in a breath as he wobbled precariously.
The poor guy had been surfingâor, rather, attempting to surfâfor well over an hour, in the sort of miserable Cornish weather that had given Wildwater Bay its name back in the seventeenth century. Sheâd been studying him for most of that time. The methodical way he paddled out, waited for the biggest wave and then mounted his board. But heâd yet to ride a single breaker for more than a few seconds. She had to admire his perseverance, but she was beginning to question his sanity. He had to be frozen through to the bone by now and close to exhaustionâdespite the muscular build displayed by his suitâand the undertow on this stretch of beach was no joke.
âI dunno,â said Luke, her fellow lifeguard, in his broad Australian accent. âHeâs got good form. Gets onto the board all right.â
Maddyâs breath gushed out as Bad Surfer crashed backwards off his board for what had to be the hundreth time.
âNo balance, though,â Luke finished dispassionately, flipping up his collar. âYou wanna call it?â he added hopefully. âBeach is closed in ten minutes anyway and that storm frontâs gonna hit any second now.â
Feeling a rush of relief as the surfer clambered back onto his board, Maddy scanned the rest of the beach in the gathering gloom. Only a couple of hardy boogie-boarders remained inside the yellow flags theyâd set up to mark the lifeguarded area. Otherwise the beach was deserted. And with good reason. North Cornwall hadnât had a great summer this year, but the weather had gone rapidly downhill as winter drew near. Even the hard core surfers had called it a day hours ago. All except one. Who was giving hard core a whole new meaning.
âSureââ she raised her voice above the gathering wind ââletâs put him out of his misery.â Crossing to the lifeguard truck parked on the sand between the flags, she grabbed the loudhailer out of the cab, already anticipating the Extreme Hot Chocolate she was going to wheedle out of her boss, Phil, when she started her afternoon shift at the Wildwater Bay Café.
The booming sound of her voice as she called in the remaining boogie-boarders and the surfer whipped away on the wind, but the boarders responded instantly. Staggering out of the surf, they hurried across the acres of sand, making a beeline for the café. The pair waved and shouted a greeting as they passedâno doubt anticipating their own Extreme Hot Chocolates.
âCrikey, heâs still at it.â
Hearing Lukeâs incredulous comment, Maddy spotted the surferâs black board with its distinctive yellow lightning stripe bobbing back out towards the main swell.
âHeâs nuts. He has to be,â she whispered. Either that or he had a death wish.
The storm clouds had darkened in the distance, hovering over the horizon like smoky black crows and the vicious cross wind had picked up pace, making the waves gallop and leap like bucking broncos. Even an accomplished surfer would have trouble riding swell that choppy. Mr Couldnât Keep His Balance didnât stand a chance. She raised the loudhailer back to her lips.
âThe lifeguard station on this beach is now closing. We strongly advise you to leave the water immediately.â