Thanks and an Uncle Joe’s Mint Ball to the whole gang at BSB, especially my editor, Cindy, for her feedback and support, and for knowing which veggies float and which sink. To Sheri for getting the cover absolutely right. To Kel for her “Crock Om Boosh”—I can’t believe I managed to sneak that in! To all the folks who read my books, send feedback, bake their own bara briths, and happily chat about daft stuff online. To my funny, permanently knackered, and loving family in green, both present and past. And to Cat, who spends hours working on these books with me, helps me chase through fields after lost lambs, and loves me no matter what.

Dedication

For Cat

Always

Chapter One

“Oh God, don’t let me die. Help! Please help me!”

The wind tore at the man’s thin wail, breaking it into pieces, half of his entreaty heading south to the Manchester Ship Canal and the other half whipping across Barton Bridge. Lying flat on her front, her boots hooked over the rim of the hard shoulder and her elbows in a puddle, Jem trained her torch on the hapless bloke and tried not to look at the water swirling a hundred feet below.

“Bloody hell,” she said. Trevor, her crewmate for this latest run of weekend nights, stalked toward their ambulance, his curt request for assistance drowned out as the rope suddenly slipped and the man shrieked.

“I’m falling! Tell Bella I love her!”

Jem rechecked his position: he wasn’t falling. He was dangling in midair a few inches lower than he had been, but he wasn’t falling.

“Try to keep still,” she shouted.

He gave her an incredulous look as the wind spun him in a slow three-sixty. “Fucking brilliant advice! Any other bright ideas?”

“No, not really,” she muttered and then jumped as a hand clapped her on the shoulder and a policewoman in a scarlet beanie hat and a high-vis jacket squirmed into a prone position beside her.

“What’ve we got?” the officer asked, apparently oblivious to the puddle she was now sharing with Jem. She peeked over the ledge and snorted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m guessing he’s the groom?”

“The L-plate would certainly imply that,” Jem said.

The “Learner” tag, and the loincloth to which it was attached, were the man’s sole items of clothing. His friends had stripped him before tethering him to the stanchion and leaving him to it, and although they probably hadn’t intended his current predicament, a combination of slip knots, high winds, greasy metal, and a shitload of alcohol had been a recipe for disaster.

“My mate’s requesting Fire and Hazardous Response,” Jem said.

The officer shook her head. “We’re stuffed there. A warehouse went up in Ardwick about an hour ago, and every man and his dog are otherwise engaged.” She eyeballed Jem. “How are you at abseiling?”