‘Rachel, there’s an emergency back in town,’ Michael was saying. ‘Bushfires or not, I need to leave. There’s a helicopter on the way to collect me.’

‘A helicopter?’

A helicopter. Coming to collect Michael. Rachel focused. She really focused.

Michael was clean-shaven. He was wearing immaculate slacks and a crisp white shirt-and a tie for heaven’s sake. And his hair… She couldn’t stop staring at his hair. He looked like he’d just emerged from the shower.

The dog pavilion didn’t run to showers. Rachel hadn’t seen running water for twenty-four hours. She stank of Michael’s dog.

What was the bet Michael had just come from the beach via a shower? Via a motel.

She’d reached her limit. His talk of helicopters wasn’t making sense but she didn’t care.

‘Did you sleep at the motel last night?’ she demanded, and Michael paused.

‘No, but-’

‘Do you own a red Aston Martin?’ Hugo asked, politely interested.

‘Yes.’ Michael suddenly looked flustered. Understandably. He was used to deference and subservience. He wasn’t finding it here.

‘That fits,’ Hugo was saying. ‘You look the sort of guy who owns an Aston Martin. I did a house call at the motel at two this morning. Arnold Roberts was suffering badly from gout. He had the adjoining suite to yours. We inspected your car from stem to stern while we waited for his analgesic to take effect.’ He smiled from Rachel to Michael and back again-as if he was being really, really helpful. ‘We were wondering who’d bring a car like that to a place like this and now we know. I’ll tell Arnold it belongs to an Afghan owner and all will be clear.’

He was laughing, but Rachel hardly noticed. Her fury was threatening to overwhelm her.

‘You slept at the motel?’

Michael heard her anger then. Everybody did.

‘I thought you cancelled,’ she said carefully. ‘When they wouldn’t let us bring the dog.’