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      PROLOGUE

      THE thin blue line rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.

      How long does love last?

      The young woman by the bed should surely know. She sat and watched now as she’d sat and watched for years.

      ‘I love you, Craig,’ she whispered, but there was no answer. There was never an answer.

      Dappled sunlight fell over lifeless fingers. Beloved eyes, once so full of life and laughter, stayed closed.

      The blue line rose and fell. Rose and fell.

      ‘I love you, Craig,’ she whispered again, and blessed his face with her fingers. ‘My love …’

      How long does love last?

      For ever?

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘SHE may be beautiful but I bet she’s stupid.’

      Dr Rachel Harper’s hamburger paused midway to her mouth. Tomato sauce oozed onto her T-shirt, but her T-shirt was disgusting already. The sauce was the same colour as her pants. Hey—she was colour co-ordinated!

      She was also distracted.

      ‘Look at her hair,’ the voice was saying. ‘It’d cost a fortune to keep it like that, and what for? She’s a blonde bimbo, Toby, mark my words. A gorgeous piece of fluff.’

      ‘But she’s got lovely legs.’ The child’s words were a thoughtful response to the man’s deep rumble. ‘And she’s got really nice eyes.’

      ‘Never be taken in by appearances, Toby,’ the deep voice decreed. ‘Under that gorgeous exterior, she’s nothing but a twit.’

      Enough! Rachel might be a reluctant protector, but she was here to defend and defend she would. She hitched back the curtain and faced the world.

      Or, to be precise, she faced the Cowral dog show.

      The pavilion was packed and she’d retreated with her hamburger for a little privacy. The cubicles behind each dog weren’t big enough to swing a cat—or a dog—but at least they were private.

      Who was criticising Penelope?

      ‘Hey!’ she said, and a man and a child turned to stare. She wiped a smudge of tomato sauce from her chin and stared right back.

      Penelope’s detractor was in his mid-thirties, she guessed. Maybe he was a farmer? That’s what he looked like. He was wearing moleskins and a khaki shirt of the type that all the farmers around here seemed to wear. His curly black hair just reached his collar. He had deep brown, crinkly eyes and, with his deeply tanned skin, he looked …

      Nice, Rachel decided. In fact, if she was being critical—and she was definitely in the mood for being critical—he looked more than nice. He looked gorgeous! The small boy beside him was aged about six, and he was a miniature replica. They had to be father and son.

      Father and son. Family. The man was therefore married.

      Married? Why was she wondering about married?

      She gave herself a swift mental swipe for thinking of any such thing. Dottie had been doing her work too well. Why would Rachel possibly be interested in whether a complete stranger had a partner?

      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