An Exception to His Rule

Harriet stared at the cameo for a long moment then looked at him squarely. ‘Maybe. But it’s best forgotten.’

‘Why?’

Harriet pushed her glass away and stood up. ‘Because I have no intention of getting involved with you, Mr Wyatt. Please don’t take that personally. I’m...I’m...happy to be fancy-free, that’s all.’

He stared at her and she was suddenly conscious that not only was she completely unable to read his thoughts but, more than that, it troubled her.

Why? Why should she care one way or another about what he thought of her? The sensual response he’d managed to draw from her had come about because he was experienced and worldly—she had little doubt of that—so why should she invest it with any special meaning or depth?

Well, she amended her thoughts, she had to take some responsibility for her reaction, surely? Starved? Perhaps—but she didn’t even want to think about that...

‘Would you mind if I went now? I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time but I honestly don’t think it could work.’

Damien stayed absolutely still for a moment longer then he straightened and stood up, leaning his fists on the table. ‘Yes, I would mind,’ he said dryly, ‘and I’ll tell you why. I don’t propose to have you on my conscience for a moment longer, whether I realise it or not, Harriet Livingstone.’

‘You don’t have to have me on your conscience!’ she objected.

‘Believe me, I’d rather not but—’

‘What do you mean—whether you realise it or not?’ Harriet broke in to ask with a frown.

He shrugged. ‘I can’t work out why else I agreed to see you again.’

Harriet linked her fingers together and told herself not to pursue this but some demon prompted her, rather than simply getting up and walking out, to say, ‘If you think I could ever work for you, you must be mad, Mr Wyatt.’

Their gazes clashed.

‘The job is yours, Miss Livingstone,’ he replied deliberately. ‘You can move in the day after tomorrow—I’ll be gone then. I’m going overseas for some weeks, at least a month. Of course Isabel, who runs the house and the rest of it when I’m not here, will be in residence. So will Charlie, for a while anyway. Did Arthur get around to mentioning the remuneration package we thought was suitable?’

Harriet blinked. ‘...Yes.’

‘You can add a twenty per cent commission on any items I decide to sell. Will that do?’

‘I...I...’ She hesitated.

‘Don’t go all dithery on me again, Harriet,’ he warned. ‘Finish your brandy,’ he ordered.

She stared at him, deep hostility written into her expression. ‘No. I’ve got to drive.’

‘All right, but I need to know if you’re going to take it or not.’

Harriet would have given the world to answer in the negative but if he was going to be away...and surely she could finish the job in a month if she worked day and night...?

‘I’ll take it,’ she said barely audibly.

‘Do you want to see the studio and the flat?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

He studied her narrowly with a glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. ‘I can’t work out if you’re a superior, head-in-the-clouds although accident-prone academic type or a rather exotic bundle of nerves.’

Harriet took a breath and actually managed to smile. ‘If it’s any help, neither can I. Goodbye, Tottie,’ she added and patted the dog’s head.

Damien Wyatt looked heavenwards as Tottie came as close as such a regal-looking dog could to actually simpering.

At the same time, Harriet said, ‘Oh! I wonder where I put my glasses?’

‘Here,’ he remarked flatly, picking them up from the dining table and handing them to her. ‘I’ll see you out.’

Harriet hesitated. ‘I’m sure I could see myself out.’

‘Not at all. After you.’

So it was that Harriet preceded him out of the dining room and out of the house to the driveway. There was only one vehicle parked there: hers.

Damien Wyatt took one look at it and swore. ‘You’re not still driving that damn tank, are you?’ he asked with furious incredulity.

Harriet coloured slightly. ‘It just refuses to lie down. Anyway, it’s not mine, it’s Brett’s, my brother’s. It’s very good over rough and sandy terrain.’

‘I believe you.’ Damien favoured the vehicle with a lingering look of malice then transferred his gaze to Harriet.

‘Well, enjoy your stay at Heathcote, Miss Livingstone.’ A tinge of irony entered his dark eyes. ‘Don’t go about kissing too many men at the same time as you’re happy to remain fancy-free. Oh, and watch out for Charlie. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, a womaniser.’

Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘Perhaps he takes after you?’ she said quietly, and climbed into her battered old vehicle.

He waited until she’d driven off before saying to Tottie, ‘What the devil do you make of all that? OK, I know you’re on her side, but I don’t ever recall kissing a girl I’ve—virtually—just met like that.’

Predictably, Tottie didn’t answer; she only yawned.

Damien Wyatt shrugged. In fact I haven’t kissed anyone quite like that for a while, he added to himself. Been too busy, been somewhat cynical about the whole tribe of women, to be honest. What I need, if that’s the case, is someone nice and uncomplicated who knows the rules of the game—doesn’t expect wedding bells in other words—rather than importuning an accident-prone, scholarly type who drives a horrible vehicle and has the nerve to suborn my dog!

‘That’s you, Tottie,’ he said severely but Tottie remained serenely unaffected.

‘Of course you could always kind of...keep an eye on her while I’m away,’ Damien added. ‘Heaven knows what “a left-handed syndrome” could lead her into.’

‘Permission to speak,’ a voice said and Charlie strolled onto the drive.

‘Don’t start, Charlie,’ Damien advised.

‘She’s gone, I see.’ Charlie came to a stop beside Tottie and his brother. He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Unusual vehicle. For a girl, I mean. Not to mention some kind of an antique dealer, according to Isabel.’

‘It’s her brother’s, apparently. Listen, Charlie—’ he explained Harriet’s background and the agreement they’d reached ‘—so leave her alone, will you?’

Charlie looked offended. ‘Acquit me! Would I try to steal your girl?’

‘Yes,’ Damien said flatly. ‘Not that she’s my girl—not that she’s my girl—’ He broke off and swore. ‘But she’s got a job to do here and the sooner it’s done, the better.’

Charlie frowned. ‘Why do I sense a mystery attached to Miss Harriet Livingstone? Smashing pair of legs, by the way.’

‘I don’t know,’ Damien said shortly. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘Relax, Bro,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘I’m due back at the base in a week. By the way, you are now talking to Flight Lieutenant Charles Walker Wyatt. Which is what I dashed into the dining room to tell you, incidentally.’

‘Charlie!’ Damien turned to his brother. ‘Congratulations!’ And he shook his brother’s hand then enveloped him in a bear hug.

‘I suspect I got it by the skin of my teeth but, yeah!’

‘Come in and I’ll shout you a drink.’

* * *

It was just before they were called into dinner that Charlie said thoughtfully, ‘There’s something about that girl, Damien. Easy to run onto the rocks there—take care.’

Damien Wyatt opened his mouth to deny that there was any possibility of his running onto any rocks with Harriet Livingstone but he closed it.

And he said musingly, ‘I’m glad to hear you say so because for the last few hours I’ve been wondering what on earth got into me. So what do you think it is?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But some women just have an aura of...reserve, maybe, with a dash of vulnerability, a tinge of heartbreak perhaps, and that—’ he waved his tankard ‘—certain something you just can’t put into words.’

‘That je ne sais quoi,’ Damien murmured. He frowned. ‘And you sensed all this about Harriet Livingstone in—roughly two minutes?’

Charlie looked wise. ‘I once decided to date a girl I saw riding past me on a bicycle. All I saw was the curve of her cheek and all this shiny brown hair floating out behind her but it was enough. I chased her in my car, persuaded her to pop the bike in the boot and have lunch with me. We dated for quite a few months.’

‘What broke it up?’ Damien enquired curiously.

‘The Air Force. I didn’t get to spend enough time with her. Anyway, getting back to you. After Veronica, well...’ Charlie shrugged as if he didn’t quite know how to go on.

‘Veronica,’ Damien repeated expressionlessly.

‘Your ex-wife,’ Charlie explained generously. ‘Gorgeous girl, of course, but—tricky.’

Damien raised his eyebrows. ‘Good at hiding it, though.’

‘Met her match when she ran into you, however,’ Charlie declaimed. ‘I—’

‘Charlie,’ Damien said gently, ‘the only reason I’ve let the discussion get this far is because I’m feeling rather mellow on account of your promotion but that’s enough.’

‘Right-ho! Just don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

* * *

‘Isn’t that the guy you ran into?’

Brett Livingstone sat in a wheelchair in his pleasant room in the 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, 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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