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-’
‘Stuff it. Stuff you.’
‘But Hubert-’
‘Hubert can die for all I care, but he won’t die because you’re not there. He’s over eighty, he’s grossly overweight and there are at least five cardiologists in Sydney who are as qualified as you are to care for him.’
‘You know that’s ridiculous.’
‘I know nothing of the kind.’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ It was Brown Eyes. Hugo. But Rachel wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. She wheeled and gave him a look to kill.
‘Butt out. This is my business.’
He held up his hand, placating. ‘Whoa…’
‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned back into the cubicle, grabbed her overnight bag and hauled it out. It was a fine gesture which didn’t come off quite as planned. She hadn’t snibbed her bag shut, and it flew open. Out tumbled her spare jeans, her toilet bag-and a bra and a couple of pairs of very lacy, very scant panties.
They were Dottie’s offerings. Her mother-in-law. ‘You never know what’s going to happen, dear,’ she’d told her. ‘And I do so want you to be prepared.’
Dottie was right. You never did know what was going to happen, but one thing Rachel did know. She’d been a fool to ever agree to come here. She closed her eyes as her belongings tumbled everywhere. A bra flew past Digger’s nose. He snagged it and held on, seemingly bemused.
Everyone was bemused.
Dear heaven, let the ground open under her. She had to get out of here.
‘The dog can keep it,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, stuffing the rest of her gear into her bag and fighting a wave of burning mortification. ‘He’s so smart he can probably work out how to wear it.’ She pulled the remains of her bag shut, tugged the shreds of her dignity around her and stalked toward the door.
They watched her go, Hugo with laughter in his eyes and Michael with his jaw somewhere around his ankles.
She didn’t care. If she didn’t see any one of them again she’d be delighted. She was getting out of here.
She didn’t make it.
She stalked out of the pavilion, took a couple of deep breaths and regrouped for a moment to try and figure out the location of the main entrance to the showgrounds-and a dogfight broke out just behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE stopped.
Of course she stopped. The sound of the dogfight was unmistakable, the vicious, ear-splitting snarls breaking through everything else.
And then a high-pitched scream of human terror.
She’d have to have been less than human to ignore it. She turned and stared, as did everyone else close enough to hear.
The dogfight was at the entrance of the pavilion she’d just left and it wasn’t a fight-it was a massacre. A faded old cocker spaniel, black and white turned to grey, had been held on its lead by his teenage owner but the pit bull terrier had no restraint and it was intent on killing. The dogs were locked in mortal combat, though the cocker clearly had no idea about fighting-no idea about how to defend himself.
The spaniel’s owner-a girl of maybe fifteen or so-was the one who’d screamed in terror. She was no longer screaming. She was trying desperately to separate them. As Rachel started forward-no!-the girl grabbed the pit bull’s collar and hauled. The dog snarled and twisted away from the spaniel-and bit.