She was here with Michael.

But, then, who was she kidding? She was interested in anyone but Michael-married or not. The fact that she was married herself didn’t-couldn’t-matter. Dr Rachel Harper had reached her limit.

‘I need to show Penelope to gain championship points,’ Michael had told her one day at Sydney Central Hospital, where they both worked, and Dottie had pushed her to go. ‘Get a life,’ she’d said. ‘It’s time to move on.’

So she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. Rachel had imagined an hour or two displaying a beautiful dog, a comfortable motel in the beautiful seaside town of Cowral and the rest of the weekend lazing at the beach. Maybe Dottie was right. She’d had no holiday for eight years. She was exhausted past imagining. Maybe Dottie’s edict that it was time to move on was worth considering.

But Michael’s dream weekend had turned out to be just that-a dream. Reality was guilt. It was also a heat wave, a motel that refused to take dogs and an entire weekend guarding Michael’s stupid dog from supposedly jealous competitors.

Where was Michael? Who knew? She sighed and addressed Penelope’s critics.

‘Penelope’s been bred from two Australian champions,’ she told the stranger and his child, and she glared her very best putting-the-peasants-in-their-places glare.

‘She’s a very nice dog,’ the little boy said. He smiled a shy smile up at Rachel. ‘Can I pat her nose?’

She softened. ‘Of course you can.’

‘She might bite,’ the man warned, and Rachel stopped smiling and glared again.

‘Stupid dogs bite. Penelope’s a lady.’

‘Penelope’s an Afghan hound.’

‘So?’

The man’s lips twitched. There was laughter lurking behind those dark eyes and the beginning of a challenge. ‘So she’s dumb.’

Rachel brightened. A challenge? Great. She’d been here too long. She was bored to screaming point. Anything was better than retreating to her soggy hamburger and yesterday’s newspapers.