dog duty. That was another joke. Michael had said he’d sleep in the car because he was too tall to fit in the dog box, but she was starting to have serious doubts about what car he’d slept in. When he’d appeared this morning, ten minutes before Penelope had been due to appear in the judging ring, he’d looked far too clean to have slept in any car. Then he’d said he’d had to make an urgent telephone call. She hadn’t seen him again.
So what had he been doing all this time? She looked at him suspiciously, checking for damp hair. If she could prove he’d been swimming while she’d dog-sat, she was going to have to kill him.
‘Our dog’s more intelligent than yours,’ the little boy piped up, and Michael stared down at the child in distaste.
‘What are you talking about?’
Rachel flinched. This weekend was definitely not going to plan. Sexy? Eligible? Ha! This man was a king-sized toad.
‘I’m Toby McInnes and this is my dad,’ the little boy told him, oblivious to the anger in Michael’s voice. ‘My dad’s Dr Hugo McInnes. Who are you?’
Michael opened his mouth but Rachel forestalled him. She knew what would come out and it wouldn’t be pleasant. ‘This is Michael and I’m Rachel,’ she told the little boy. She watched Hugo’s grip tighten on his son’s hand and she didn’t blame him; she was moving into protection mode herself. ‘Penelope is Michael’s dog.’
But Michael had moved on. He was talking only to Rachel. ‘Did you know there are bushfires out of town?’
‘Bushfires?’ Rachel knew nothing of any bushfires. She hadn’t been out of the pavilion all day.
‘They’re a long way from here.’ The man—the doctor?—called Hugo was gazing from Rachel to Michael and back again. His initial anger at Michael seemed to have faded and he now looked as if the whole scene held great interest for him.
‘The fires are threatening to block the road,’ Michael snapped. He shoved Penelope away from him and the big dog practically fell over. Fast thinking was not Penelope’s strong point. She whined a little and nuzzled Rachel, and Rachel gave her a hug. Stupid or not, she was still a very nice dog.
As company went, if Rachel had a choice between Penelope or Michael, Penelope was definitely preferable.
‘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.’
‘They rang me later and said it was too late to cancel—they were keeping my deposit,’ Michael muttered. He had the grace to look a bit shamefaced, but only for a moment. He regrouped fast. With an ego the size of Michael’s it was easy. ‘And by then you’d agreed to sleep here. For heaven’s sake, Rachel, you know how small the car is. Do you want me to hurt my back?’
‘Yes!’
‘Look, it’s immaterial anyway,’ he told her, moving right on. ‘It’s just as well I had a decent night’s sleep as it happens. Hubert Witherspoon’s had a heart attack.’
Hubert Witherspoon? The name had its desired effect. Rachel’s fury was deflected—for the moment.
Hubert Witherspoon was probably the richest man in Australia. He owned half the iron ore deposits in the country. What the man wanted, the man got.
‘He wants me,’ Michael told her.
‘What—?’
‘The Witherspoon family aren’t risking road blocks due to bushfire. They’ve sent a helicopter to take me back to Sydney.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It should be landing right now and they want me to leave immediately. Can you show Penelope for her final judging and bring her home afterwards?’
Hubert Witherspoon …
Hubert’s death would be a national catastrophe—at least for the financial markets. It should have made Rachel’s eyes widen in awe.
It should have made her do whatever Michael wanted. But—Michael had been swimming. He’d slept in a motel. In a bed.
While she’d been sitting with Penelope, feeling just dreadful about leaving Sydney. For such a reason …
‘You want me to show Penelope?’ she managed, and he smiled, the smooth, specialist-to-junior-doctor smile that had persuaded her to come on this weekend in the first place. Why did it make her think suddenly of snake oil?
‘You’ve been watching the other dogs being shown,’ he told her. ‘You saw how I handled Penelope this morning.’ He checked Rachel from head to toe with a judge’s critical eye. ‘Penelope will be fine. You might want to get yourself cleaned up a bit first, though.’
If she didn’t slug him it was only because they were surrounded by a score of onlookers, but it was a really close thing. Somehow she managed to keep hold of a shred of dignity. A scrap. ‘Right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You want me to drive all the way back to Sydney by myself?’
‘Of course. Unless the bushfires block the road. I’ll understand if you’re delayed.’ He tossed her the car keys and she was so astounded she caught them. But that was all she was doing.
‘No.’
‘Rachel …’ His tone became patient-consultant talking to slightly stupid junior. ‘You know I can’t be replaced. Hubert needs a cardiologist and he needs the best.’
‘I have hay in my hair,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t show a potential Australian champion.’
‘Yes, you can. You just need a—’
He got no further. She lifted the car keys and threw them right at his freshly shined shoes. ‘Your dog, your problem. I’m going home,’ she told him, one syllable at a time. ‘I’ll hitchhike if I must, but I’m not touching your car.’
‘Rachel—’