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'Can I help?'

Steve pushed a hand through his brown, curly hair, leaving an oil smear, and sighed. 'You know you can't. Next year, when you're 18, you can start training to join the crew, but –'

'Oh, great. I'm supposed to go away to uni next year, in case you'd forgotten! All part of Mum and Dad's grand plan, isn't it? And who cares whether I like it or not?'

'Well, I didn't make the rules, so don't blame me!' Steve changed his mind about peacemaking. This morning, it obviously wasn't worth it. 'Look, if you've just come here to wind me up, then I'm too busy, so go away and bother someone else.'

'Right!' She pushed herself away from the wall. 'Sod you, then. I know when I'm not wanted.'

'Good. Go in the sea or something.'

She took two steps away, then stopped. 'I just might. The water's freezing and my wetsuit leaks, so I'll probably get cramp and then you'll have to turn the boat out to rescue me.' Her eyes, which were the same grey as his, glinted slyly. 'That'll give you something to do, instead of drooling over some up-country bimbo who wouldn't even look at you if you were...'

Her voice faded as she stalked away, and the last few words were lost. Steve sighed again, turned back to the boat – and came face to face with the black-haired girl.

She had moved from the railing and was standing three paces from him. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. But her smile was stunning.

'Hi, hello,' she said. She had an odd accent that he couldn't place. Italian, maybe? With that hair, she could be.

'Hi,' said Steve, returning the smile. 'Can I help you?'

'I don't know. I was just looking at the ... boat.'

This, he thought, is a come-on. His grin became as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. 'Anything you want to know, just ask. I'm in the crew, you see; helmsman, actually. My name's Steve.'

'Steve' She nodded but didn't tell him her name. OK, he thought, try again. 'She's known as an Inshore Life Boat. D-class; that's the smaller of the inflatable types. Used for coastal rescues rather than deep sea; surfers in trouble, people cut off by the tide, that sort of thing –'

The girl interrupted. 'The tide. How far ... out does it go?'

'Not much further than it is now. That's why you have to be careful, you see. It's amazing how many people don't realise that the tide actually comes in as well as ...' The practised explanation tailed off as he had the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn't really listening. Wishing he could read her expression behind those shades, he finished lamely, 'Are you on holiday?'

'Holiday. Yes. Can I get round to the next bay while the tide's ... out?'

'Sure. Over the rocks; it's not difficult. But don't stay too long. No more than a couple of hours, or you could get cut off.'

'A couple of hours. Right' She seemed to make a habit of repeating

what people said to her. Maybe her knowledge of English wasn't that good. Steve was about to ask her where she came from, but before he could say it, she abruptly turned on her heels (they were ridiculous shoes for beach walking.' and added, 'Thank you very much. You have been most helpful.

Steve began, 'Wait a moment. I wondered if —'

But she was walking away, and she didn't look back.

Her companion was waiting on the balcony of the beach café, which was built high up against the cliffs and reached by a flight of wooden steps. He made an odd figure against the brilliance of sun, sky and white paint; dressed in black, and with black hair and shades like hers, he was incongruous, not part of the scene. The girl glanced over her shoulder, saw that they were out of sight of the boathouse, and climbed the steps to meet him. As she reached him, he caught hold of her arm.

'What were you doing?' His voice was a whisper. He was not speaking English, or anything resembling it.

She replied in the same language, and as quietly. 'Finding out a few things.'

'You were talking to someone.'

'So? It doesn't matter.'

'It does matter! You know the rules — don't get friendly