She could hear another engine approaching along the stud’s long drive, too throatily diesel to be her mother’s. Please let it just be the postman, she prayed as she ran underneath the arch, hit by the full force of the wind. Let loose again, her red curls spiralled up, whipping round overhead like a lasso which she scraped sideways to watch a Land Rover Defender snarling its way into the arrival yard far too fast, Bay Austen at the wheel.

The comfort of horses bolted away. It was too late to run inside and hide. Engine cutting, he jumped out, all expensive tweed and turned-up collars. ‘Pax!’

Why did her stomach hollow so instantly? ‘Hello, Bay.’

Unlike Blair’s affably grating greeting, Bay was a smiling, smooth-shaven charm assassin, armed with a welcoming kiss that could stop a weaker heart. Placing a manicured hand on her arm, his mouth swooped straight to her cheek, far too close to her lips, claiming back a decade in a breath. He smelled of expensive aftershave and predatory freedom. She curled away, belly folding itself inside out.

‘Who is this darling creature?’ He stooped to greet Knott who was shivering against her shins.

‘If you’re here to see Ronnie, she’s out.’

‘Hardly.’ He was up again. ‘That bloody woman’s been guarding this place like Rapunzel’s mother all week, stopping me coming to see you.’ He tilted his head, looking at her flying tresses, reaching out to touch them. ‘I used to love climbing up that hair.’

‘I’ve got to be somewhere.’ Pax jerked away and gathered it into a bunch to twist tightly under her collar again, feeling a rare rush of gratitude to her mother for keeping him away. ‘If you’ll excuse my rudeness.’ She set off towards the cottage.

‘No, I won’t,’ he said, following. ‘You’re being rude. At least offer me a drink.’ He stooped to pick up the wine from the doorstep. ‘Blair brought these, no doubt. Gnarly Dudes. How apt. Where is old Mr Tight-arse?’

‘Sit Tight,’ she corrected.

‘Bloody fleeced me.’

‘You’re the one who bought the horse?’ She was astonished.

‘Had to be quite the detective to track her down.’

‘I’m surprised Monique fell for anything of ours.’ She knew Bay’s wife only by icy reputation. ‘Isn’t she a dressage purist?’

‘Purist being a polite way of saying total snob.’ Bay laughed unapologetically. ‘Eventing is her groom’s thing, whose boyfriend insists that mare is the next Headley Britannia. Monique’s mentoring them both.’

‘And you’re their sponsor?’

‘Only way to stop her staff from walking out is to buy them presents every time she makes them cry. Now invite me in and we’ll find some wine glasses.’ He looked at her, the blue conceit of his eyes taking her aback. Their youthful virtue was long gone, sold to the devil for acreage and adultery.

Oh, for the warm, slaking juice of good red wine. The taste was already a ghost in her mouth, its energy coursing through her, galvanising her to tell Bay exactly what she still thought of him, that he would never hurt her again, that he was dead to her. She longed to grab the bottle from him, twist the lid off and neck it right back on the step.