Turning the Tide Read Online Free Page A

basket where they had been curled up together, presumably having a post-coital nap, to turn accusing eyes on her. Frankie, weaving his small, honed and subtly tanned frame through the gap at the end of the counter, dumped the tulips in a bucket and laughed. ‘Well you needn’t think that Phil’s taking all the blame. Why should he have to suffer? She’s the one egging him on. Not just him, either, by the way she keeps slipping out when she thinks no one’s looking.’
    ‘I wonder where she’s got that from,’ muttered Trevor, with a touch of bitterness.
    ‘How about this for an idea?’ Harry said, nipping a potential scrap in the bud and silently marvelling at Frankie’s air of injured innocence. ‘What do you think of someone who opens a new restaurant here, installs some low lighting and a high-class chef and claims he’s going to have wealthy townies buying up properties left, right and centre?’
    Frankie rocked back on his heels. ‘Since when did Little Spitmarsh acquire a patron saint?’
    Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear. ‘Frankie, the old yacht clubhouse has been sold and the guy who’s bought it, Matthew Corrigan, reckons he’s going to reopen it as an upmarket restaurant.’
    Trevor clapped his hands down on the counter, frightening the dogs. ‘Excellent! It’s about time there was a decent place to eat here.’
    ‘Oh, Trevor! Do you mean to say you don’t enjoy those flaccid baguettes they have the nerve to serve at The Admiral?’ Frankie clucked. ‘Other towns may have gastropubs, but we’re the only ones lucky enough to have a gastroenteritis pub.’
    Was she the only person capable of seeing past the end of her nose? Trying to make first George and now Frankie and Trevor recognise the dangers of Matthew’s scheme was a bit like warning children not to accept sweets from strangers.
    ‘Look, it’s not just that; he’s also approached me about buying my land to build houses. The man’s ruthless; luckily, he’ll soon find out that he can’t just march into Little Spitmarsh and expect everyone to roll over.’
    Just then the doorbell jangled for a second time. Phil cocked his head expectantly, his stump of a tail switching into first-gear wag, whilst Kirstie flipped over onto her back and poked a coquettish tongue out of the side of her mouth.
    ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’ Frankie drawled softly.
    ‘Harry,’ said Matthew. ‘Just the person I was hoping to see.’
    How dare he make it sound as if he knew what she had on underneath her dungarees?
    Frankie pulled himself together. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Harry?’
    Matthew grinned, extending his hand. ‘I’m Matthew Corrigan.’
    Since Trevor had gone back to gawping at Matthew, he didn’t seem to notice Frankie’s reluctance to let go of his hand. Pity, thought Harry; an outbreak of bickering might be just the thing to break the spell Matthew was casting.
    Then Frankie opened his mouth. ‘If you’re here to order flowers I guarantee that at The Flowerpot Men we aim to offer superb arrangements and unparalleled personal service,’ she was aghast to hear him say. ‘We’ll send any flowers you like wherever you like, but you’ll also be needing someone to take care of the flowers when you open your new restaurant, won’t you?’
    Any satisfaction Harry felt about the flash of irritation Matthew sent in her direction was completely extinguished by her horror at Frankie’s audacious sales pitch. Hadn’t he listened to a word she’d said?
    ‘Let’s just start with one order, shall we?’ Matthew said, looking pained.
    Frankie drew himself up to his full five feet eight and took a deep breath. ‘This is my partner, Trevor Dillon. There’s not a lot of call for it in Little Spitmarsh, but Trevor’s had considerable experience in dealing with flowers for some of London’s best hotels. He’s handled everything from small-scale weddings to grand corporate occasions and he isn’t