She pulled on jeans and an old shirt, not even bothering with make-up, and headed down towards the terrace. For some reason the door from the drawing room was open – maybe Steve had already started decorating, and that was how the dog had got out.

Realizing how heartbroken Meredith would be to lose her, Jo started to sprint down the front steps, through the neat rows of vines, bright spring green with new growth, towards the river. Thank God for all that bloody yoga, she said to herself, grateful that all that getting up early and sitting in draughty gyms had actually been worth it and made her fit.

The dog was now out of sight. Jo stopped for a moment to think, but there was no logic to the path of a frisky dog on a bright spring day, so she started up again and careered straight into the arms of Liam, who had bent down to examine a vine.

‘And good morning to you too,’ he greeted her with a disarming smile. ‘Are you chasing the disreputable dog? If so, you can relax. I just returned her to the kitchen and gave her some chicken from the fridge. I left her looking appealingly at Steve the builder’s bacon sandwich.’

‘She would!’ Jo blurted, to cover her embarrassment as he let her go. ‘And he’ll give her some, too. You’re starting early.’

‘We Kiwis are early risers. That damn Protestant work ethic. It’s our number one characteristic.’ Again, the disarming smile.

‘I thought it was being bonded to the land,’ Jo replied without thinking.

This time he laughed outright. ‘Been reading up on the seven characteristics of the New Zealander, eh?’

Jo blushed furiously. He’d realize she’d been reading it because of him.

‘It’s a very well-known survey and a load of nonsense,’ he added with a grin. ‘So much for Kiwis being stoical. I get man flu with the best of them. And I don’t always start this early. It’s a busy time with the vines.’

‘So when does the winegrower’s year begin?’ asked Jo, grateful to be able to change the subject.

‘The new growth cycle begins in March. The sap starts rising in the vine branches as they grow and oozes through any scars left by pruning. Look,’ he leaned over a vine branch and showed her the sticky liquid. ‘The French say the vine is weeping!’

‘Very poetic,’ smiled Jo. ‘I didn’t know sap did actually rise. It reminds me of all those English folk songs about maidens and young men heading out on midsummer mornings.’ Oh God, how had she got herself back on shaky territory?

‘Very romantic. Our job is a bit more down to earth. Removing any branches that might weigh down the vine unnecessarily. Believe it or not, it’s called suckering.’

Jo grinned. ‘Very Groucho Marx.’