Still a flirt, then. Her mother-love trigger finger twitched.

Out came the O’Brien smile.

And that hadn’t changed a bit.

‘You must be hungry.’ She wondered what on earth she had in to feed him, hoping it wasn’t revenge served cold.

‘Only for work.’ He stifled a yawn.

‘Plenty of that here.’

‘It’s why I came.’ He turned sharply as Cruisoe, the old stallion, bellowed from his corner box. ‘That and my undying loyalty.’ The smile switched back to her.

Disarmed, Ronnie felt mother love surrendering. Their party days on the continent were long gone, but he was still young Lochinvar beneath the beard – so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war – that all-knowing green gaze excitingly grown-up. No wonder Blair had stomped off in a huff.

‘Let’s get your bags inside,’ she said, turning to lead the way to the house.

With the intuitive rear-view mirrors of a woman under physical scrutiny, Ronnie sensed Luca’s eyes on her backside, wishing it didn’t feel quite so gratifying. It was her family’s livelihood she was laying in his hands, not her ego, she reminded herself. As if in agreement, one of the mares in the far yard let out a shrill squeal to call the shots. Far closer came a stallion’s roar, so loud it was like a motorbike starting up.

She spun round, adopting a power stance she hoped was somewhere between board director and Wonder Woman, ready to lay down some ground rules.

But Luca wasn’t looking at her at all. He hadn’t even followed her. He was standing outside Beck the stallion’s stable with his back to her, the blond curls buffeted like sea foam, almost white at its ends.

Man and horse were equally breathtaking, one a war-like musketeer arriving on foreign soil to do battle, the other already armour-plated with anger, his head a dished silver visor in which huge dark eyes and nostrils flared, his perfectly proportioned body rigid with unease, primed to fly or fight at a pin drop.

Ronnie retraced her steps and the stallion stamped in protest, flattening his ears at her as she came to stand beside Luca.

‘Bechstein,’ he breathed.

‘You remember him?’

‘I backed him.’

‘You did?’ It hadn’t even occurred to her, but now it felt like kismet. ‘How marvellous!’

She should have guessed he’d know the horse. Luca had been a regular feature in the huge German stud where Beck had spent his early life, breaking hearts and horses, starting off elite youngsters and keeping the trickier competition stallions sweet between stud work and circuit. With many millions of euros of horseflesh under its roof, Gestüt Fuchs was the Harrods of sports horse breeding, its owner an old friend of Henk with whom Ronnie had lived and worked a decade earlier. Visiting the world-famous stallion station every few weeks had been one of life’s highlights back then, the horses out of this world. The first time she’d seen Luca in the saddle had been there and Ronnie had been blown away by his skill.