Sue’s purposeful march slowed somewhat as she reached the top of the hill, which was known locally as Millionaires’ Row, although in fact the cliff top was dotted with only four dwellings, which hardly constituted a row of anything. Blake Fletcher’s was the biggest, and was concealed behind ten-foot security fences, a gate and quite a lot of CCTV. It was fair enough, Sue supposed, if a world famous celebrity was going to choose Poldore as his not so secret bolt hole then he’d want to go to some lengths to make sure it stayed that way. Not that the people of Poldore ever talked about their celebrities with outsiders, or indeed treated them any differently from any of the more usual part-time residents, which was partly why it was such a popular destination for the rich and famous, including Blake Fletcher, owner of the most famous face in the whole world right now.

It happened to be the face of an extremely handsome man in his forties, rugged, with those crinkly sort of eyes, like melted chocolate, a square jaw and an old-style movie star dimple in his chin. He had a smile that had made millions of women of a lesser constitution than Sue Montaigne swoon on the spot.

And he was American.

But under the circumstances she couldn’t hold that against him.

She pressed the button on the intercom, which didn’t make any discernible noise, and peered up at the camera, wishing that she’d thought to bring her glasses with her, and actually, now she came to think of it, maybe done something with her hair, although there was not a good deal that could be done with her riot of tight flaming red curls, but she could at least have brushed the muddy paw prints off her jeans, perhaps rooted out some mascara. However, she was here now and there was nothing else for it, she was just going to have to face the official Hottest Man in Hollywood, looking like a forty-something-year-old mother of three, with an ageing castle and control issues, which is what she was.

Except that no response of any kind came from the intercom.