‘Mishaal needs to learn more feel.’ He let the second vodka burn into him. ‘Right now, he thinks showjumping is just about steering and staying on.’ The thirteenth child of a high-ranking royal, the young prince was a go-cart driver with a Grand Prix ego.

‘If anyone can teach feel, you can, yes?’ Signe slapped her small palm against Luca’s, fingers interlacing to draw his hand to her mouth, bonbon blue eyes gazing up into his. He sensed she knew exactly how cute she looked.

‘As Mishaal keeps reminding me, his showjumping coach is a four-time gold-medallist from California.’ He gently removed his forefinger from her mouth, its soft, wet suck too fast-track. ‘I’m just here to warm up the saddle for him.’

‘You’re way more than that.’ Signe was indignant. ‘You are the Horsemaker. Does golden boy have any idea how lucky that makes him?’

Luca was grateful to her, cupping her face, tipping his twice-broken nose against her upturned one, then ducking away from another kiss to finish his vodka shot.

Luca O’Brien – known to all as the Horsemaker – had a well-renowned knack for settling difficult horses, making his home wherever he laid his Samshield helmet. It had kept him packing light and flying long haul for a decade, a literal globetrotter.

The horse he’d accompanied on this job was more difficult than most: Bechstein was named after the exquisite handmade concert piano, which was fitting given that it took a virtuoso to get a tune out of him. Highly strung, sensitive, headstrong and explosive as a Zeppelin, he was also off-the-scale talented. Produced by Gestüt Fuchs, one of Germany’s top studs, the stallion had been hothoused to jump at the highest level, achieving his first Olympic qualification at just seven. With his distinctive dappled-grey coat like filigree silver, pure white mane and flamboyant style, he’d already earned a fan club in Europe, a collective roar of outrage going up when he’d been sold six months ahead of the London Olympics for a record-breaking amount. Although his youth and volatility had kept him from selection at home, his qualification for the games was a golden ticket.

Somewhat astonishingly, nineteen-year-old Prince Mishaal had an Olympic qualification of his own, achieved on a horse so experienced he could have taken a toddler round a World Cup track blindfold, but also so pensionable the veterinary team could no longer keep him legally sound. To continue his son’s Olympic dream, Mishaal’s father had not only bought the most hotly tipped showjumper in the world, but also the only rider who could keep the horse sane enough for a rookie to compete. It wasn’t a job Luca would normally have taken, however fat the cheque; if he hadn’t been carrying a big open wound in his heart, he’d be spending winter somewhere with unspoilt young horses to break and snow on the ground as crisp and crunchy as the crystals in the vodka bottle. But somehow, head spinning from hung-up calls and hangovers, he’d let himself be talked into it, hoping six months of baking heat might finally hang his heart out to dry.