wasn’t cut out to be a gypsy.
Despite the fact that the van was clean and modern, she felt claustrophobic and found it hard to sleep. Of course her state of mind for the last few months hadn’t helped.
Lennox Head was situated in the Northern Rivers District of New South Wales. Not on a river itself, it lay between the Tweed and Richmond Rivers, and as well as a distinctive headland that attracted surfers from around the world and hang-gliders too, it had a marvellous seven-mile beach.
Inland, the country was green, fertile and undulating until it came up against the Border Ranges. Sugar was grown on the coastal flats; coffee and custard apples amongst others further inland but the biggest crop of the district was macadamia nuts. It was pleasant country, home to huge camphor laurel trees and many colourful shrubs.
When she got back to the van, Harriet changed and went for a brisk walk then came back and sat on a bench.
It was a quiet evening.
She could hear the surf, she could see stars, but she had no sense of freedom.
And she still had Brett on her mind...
At twenty, he was six years younger than she was and their mother had passed away when he was a baby. Looking after and worrying about her little brother had been a way of life for Harriet for as long as she could remember.
For that matter, looking after their father was something she’d done as she’d got older. Until his death a couple of years ago, he’d been a delightful person, humorous, always devising little surprises for his children, telling them marvellous stories but otherwise quite hopeless when it came to the mundane things of life like saving and planning for the future.
Therefore they’d lived from day to day to a certain extent—when work was plentiful it was a lobster month he’d used to say, when it wasn’t plentiful, mince on toast. And they’d moved a lot between capital cities and major and minor art galleries.
However, it was thanks to her father that Harriet had acquired much of her knowledge of antiques and art. She’d shared his fascination for them and some of her earliest memories were of visits with him to art galleries and art auctions, memories of reading art history books with him.
Brett couldn’t have been more different. Athletic and with a love of the sea, he’d decided on a career as a professional surfer. And he’d been slowly making a name for himself when he’d been struck down by a freak accident and for a while no one had expected him to walk again.
But he was—just, if you could even call the sweat-soaked, painful inch by inch progress that.
But at least, Harriet mused, he was getting the best treatment now, and she had enough resources to ensure this treatment was maintained.
Which led her thoughts onto the subject of Damien Wyatt and the incredible turn of events of the afternoon.
A tremor ran through her as she remembered being in his arms and the powerfully sensual effect he’d had on her.
How could she have been so affected? she wondered. Was it simply the human contact and warmth she’d responded to?
It had to be something like that because hadn’t she sworn never to fall in love again?
She grimaced at how melodramatic it sounded and wondered suddenly if she did project a neurotic image. And how about scholarly or academic as well as accident-prone? Superior?
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