She half nodded, half shrugged.

‘And your children?’

‘Still asleep round at their nan’s.’

‘You can fill hay nets.’

‘Yay!’ She did a little victory punch in the air which, despite himself, Lester found rather endearing.

The outdoor bell for the telephone started ringing. Grumbling, but aware that it might be Pax whose continued absence concerned him greatly, he limped into the cottage as quickly as he could. ‘Stud.’

‘I must speak with Luca O’Brien.’ It was man’s voice, American possibly, but hard to tell because he was snarling like a bear.

‘He’s not here, sir.’

‘I just spoke with his family in Ireland. They said he’s coming straight to you.’

‘Have you tried his portable telephone?’ Lester suggested.

‘He’s barred my number.’

‘In that case I suggest he might not wish to speak with you. Good day.’ He lifted the receiver towards the cradle.

‘Wait!’ The bellow was so loud he felt duty-bound to ask what the matter was.

‘I’ll leave him a message,’ was hissed. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lester.’

‘Lester, tell O’Brien that if he comes anywhere near my daughter again, I’ll shoot him.’

‘And your name, sir?’

‘He’ll know.’

*

Across the dim hotel room, Luca eyed Pax from beneath the baseball cap, gauging her sobriety and sanity.

She was sitting up, wearing his crumpled clothes, long fingers rubbing her face.

He’d foolishly imagined Ronnie’s daughter would be just like her, a pocket-sized dynamo with no off-switch. But she was wired to self-destruct. They looked nothing alike; a head taller than her mother and freckled like an English foxglove, Patricia Forsyth was one of those bony, breedy British types who rattled with neuroses. If she had a battle with her sobriety that was sad – he’d been there recently enough to know its damage – but that was not his problem.

The stud was.

‘Are you awake yet?’ he asked smoothly.

She felt her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven.’

She clambered across the bed and sat on its edge, blinking as her head spun. ‘I’m so sorry; I didn’t introduce myself last night.’ Like Ronnie, her voice was throaty and velvet, but several semitones deeper. Her red hair, washed in shower gel and dried on a pillow, was a cloud of dull frizz, her face chalk white.

‘I knew well enough who you were.’

‘I can explain…’ She stood up shakily, having to grab at the borrowed breeches to stop them falling down.

‘Save it for later.’

Luca knew very little about the Percy family, but from what little he’d gleaned, Ronnie’s three children had wasted no time trying to sell off the once-legendary Cotswold stud after their grandfather died, and Luca’s summons here was to prove them wrong by steering it off the rocks and making it profitable again.

If Ronnie’s other two children were anything like Pax, those profits were being served on the rocks and knocked back in one.

The puppy wriggled out of his arms and bounded over to her, far more forgiving.