LITMIR.BIZ

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      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       Extract

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

       A MAN in a suit!

      No-one wore a suit in Broome, especially not on a Sunday afternoon.

      A surge of fear shot Christabel upright from the waist-deep water she’d been swimming in. She needed a better view of the man who was crossing the park above the beach, wearing a suit!

      Was it one of them?

      Had they tracked her down?

      Before she could get a good look at him, his path took him behind the amenities block. She waited, her heart thumping wildly from the shock of being faced with the possibility that she had been found, despite all her precautions.

      Six months she’d been here...perhaps, too long...long enough for her to start feeling safe...which was always a mistake. Stupid to ever feel safe from them, with so much at stake. Though there had seemed a very real chance of it, being so far away from everything that mattered to them, camped in this outpost of civilisation on the coastal edge of the great Australian outback.

      Broome—a raggle-taggle, multicultural township that had grown up around the pearling industry when people still dived for pearl shell and died of the bends—was at the other end of the earth from the money men in Europe. Its history and tropical location, high on the west coast of the Kimberly region, attracted tourists, but no-one wore a suit here, not locals nor visitors. The heat alone demanded a minimum of clothing.

      There he was again—just a glimpse of him crossing the open space between the amenities block and the cafe. His head was turned back towards the car park, making it impossible to identify him, but the suit said a lot to Christabel.

      This was someone unprepared for the tropical climate.

      Someone in too big a hurry to change his attire.

      Someone who was heading purposefully for the caravan park that adjoined the beach area.

      And Alicia had gone back to the caravan to fetch cans of cold drinks!

      Sheer panic drove Christabel’s legs to wade through the water in frantic haste. She ran through the shallows and along the damp sand, which gave her firmer footing until she could reach the rocky outcrop that led up to the camping reserve. If it was one of them, come to get Alicia, come to snatch her back to that other life...

      No-o-o-o!

      Christabel’s mind burnt with fierce resolution as she leapt from rock to rock, every muscle tensing as she raced to fight for her daughter, determined on keeping her free from the nightmare world the money men would insist on constructing and maintaining. She would not let them take Alicia back to Europe. Never! Her daughter was safe here. If they’d just leave them alone...let them lead a normal life...

      Onto the grassy bank of the reserve, her heart pumping, feet pounding, her long wet hair whipping around her. People she’d come to know from neighbouring caravans called out, startled by her hurtling haste, but she couldn’t pause, couldn’t reply. First and foremost she had to reach Alicia before the man in the suit found her. Did he know where to look, which caravan they lived in? She couldn’t see him but he had to be here somewhere.

      Close now...she put on a last spurt, jumping over tent ropes and pegs, finally rounding the back of her van and...stopping dead.

      He was there—the man in the suit—talking to her daughter, but he wasn’t one of them.

      It was Jared—her employer here in Broome, Jared King—nothing whatsoever to do with them!

      And if she acknowledged the deep down truth, he was the main reason she’d stayed in this place, longer than she should have.

      “Is something wrong?” he asked, frowning over her obvious state of agitation.

      She leant against the side of the van, shaky with relief, one hand pressed to her wildly thumping heart, the other raking back the wet tangle of hair from her face. The dark, waist-length tresses undoubtedly looked like straggling ropes, the usual flow of waves in horrible kinks. It was embarrassing, having him see her like this, ungroomed, hopelessly discomposed and too nakedly vulnerable to successfully hide what had to stay hidden.

      “Why were you running, Mummy?”

      Having

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