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rehabilitation centre but his expression was troubled.
    Harriet sat in an armchair opposite. She’d come straight from Heathcote with the news of the job she’d got—she hadn’t told her brother anything about it before in case it hadn’t come off.
    ‘Yes. But that’s all in the past and it’s not only what I love doing, it comes with accommodation.’
    ‘Are you safe with him?’
    ‘Safe?’ Harriet stared at him. ‘Of course.’
    Brett looked angry. ‘He sounded like a thug and a bully.’
    Harriet bit her lip. ‘It was a very beautiful car. But look; his aunt lives there. So does his brother from time to time, and there’s staff. And he has this marvellous dog. Her name’s Tottie and she’s very highly bred.’
    Brett smiled reluctantly as he studied his sister’s bright expression. ‘Any kind of a dog could get you in, Harry.’
    She grimaced. ‘I suppose so. But really, Brett, it’s the kind of job most people who do what I do would dream about. And—’ she hesitated, wishing fervently she’d never told her brother about running into Damien Wyatt ‘—I’m not a very good waitress,’ she added humorously. ‘Can I stay and have dinner with you?’
    ‘Sure. Hey—’ Brett sat forward ‘—how can I ever thank you?’
    * * *
    Harriet had never lived in a caravan before but several weeks of it now had convinced her she 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,