Black Diamonds (6 page)

Her father’s mantra came back to her. “He’d always say: Where there’s a Riley will; there’s a way.”

Bill hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s the case here. The Truffle Farm’s slipped right into the red.”

Jackie lifted her chin. “But I can fix it, right? What do I need to do?” Whatever it took, she’d do it.

Bill avoided her eyes as he stacked the papers in front of him. “There’s not much you can do. I can’t see a way out for you.” When he looked up, sorrow was plain on his face. “I hate to tell you this. You’re going to have to close.”

The words burst out of her mouth with a breathtaking force. “Close Paradise?”

She leapt up from her chair. Suddenly she had trouble breathing as air jagged painfully through her lungs. “No!”

“Jackie, there’s no way out. I know you’re going to find this hard, but I’ve got to be honest with you. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”

“What do you mean? How long have I got?”

“At the pessimistic end, I’d say sell up now. But you might manage a year or two to try and turn things around.”

As his words sank in she gasped in horror. “A year or two? But that means, my new truffles, the new grafts …”

“How are they looking?”

“Fantastic. Pa and I were so hopeful …”

Crossing to the window, she stared out at the main street, trying to hold back the burning tears. With a deep breath she turned back to Bill, but the words wouldn’t come.

As he shut the folder on his desk he sent her a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry to say this, Jackie. I’m afraid this year might be Paradise Truffle Farm’s last.”

Jackie dived. Mia was right, she thought, as she came up in the cold water, gasping for air. She’d been neglecting herself recently. She hadn’t been swimming much at all, and she usually swam most days in the summer, often getting up early before the temperature soared.

If she ever needed a swim, she needed it now.

She struck out, freestyle. The sun glistened on the water, turning it turquoise in the shallow waters, shadowy indigo in the deep.

It was paradise.

Jackie swam faster, tasting salt water, not sure if it was waves or tears. The accountant’s words reverberated in her head.
I’m afraid that this year might be Paradise Truffle Farm’s last …
She pushed her arms through the waves, fiercely kicking her legs. She couldn’t believe what Bill told her. She couldn’t let the business go. How could she lose her house, the cafe, the land; the groves of hazel trees her father had planted with such care? They were part of her, those trees, dug deep in her soul. If she let them die, all her family’s dreams and hopes planted with them would wither too.

Her mind went back to the long years her father had spent building the business. He’d never given up, never despaired, even though each season seemed to bring a new challenge. “But that’s what makes it exciting, Jackie girl!” he’d say, his face alight. “Imagine doing the same thing year after year, in an office, or something like that. That’s not a life. No, we’ve got our own patch of paradise here, and it’s my job to tend it. No complaining about hard work in paradise.”

“Where there’s a Riley will; there’s a way,” Jackie said aloud as she turned back to shore. “I’ll find it, Pa, I’ll find it.”

Back in the shallows, she glanced towards the beach. The gleaming white stretch of sand had been empty when she had dropped her towel on it. Wiping the salty water from her eyes, she swam closer in.

The water came just below her chest as she stood up. Her heart seemed to somersault, plummet to her feet, and then rise to her throat.

It couldn’t be. Lying on the sand, wearing a pair of black board shorts, his dark glasses fixed on her, was her new neighbour: Xavier Antoine.

Jackie froze, her feet digging into the damp ocean sand. She wished she could disappear under the waves like a mermaid. What was he doing on this beach?

She glanced around helplessly, like a fish in a net trying to find a way out. There was nothing else for it. She couldn’t swim away from him. If she wanted to get out of the water, she’d have to head right towards him. Splashing, she took a few steps forward. Don’t be so feeble, she told herself and strode through the shallows, water frothing around her legs as she broke through the surf, onto the sand.

“You look like Aphrodite. All you need is a shell to carry you,” Xavier said idly when Jacaranda reached him. Her indigo bikini was tied at the sides with beads. For a split second he imagined untying them.

Hastily she picked up her towel and wrapped it around her body, but it was too late: he’d seen her curves. Instinctively his own body remembered how he’d filled his hands with her firm breasts.

“Aphrodite was blonde,” she said curtly.

“Then you must be some other goddess. A red-headed Celtic goddess, perhaps.”

Keeping her face averted from him, she took a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and rammed them onto her nose.

“You’re very complimentary this morning.”

“When I like what I see I say so.”

He’d been watching her swim, strong and determined, as though she was swimming for her life. It attracted him to her, that determination, but it wouldn’t have captivated him, the way he had to admit to becoming captivated, if he hadn’t also witnessed her hidden vulnerability the first day they’d met. And the promise of that kiss …
Mon Dieu
, there were undercurrents in Jacaranda Riley a man could explore forever.

“What made you pick this beach?”

“That sounds like a variation on a line from
Casablanca
,” he drawled. “Of all the beaches you had to walk into, you had to walk into mine …”

He sighed at her unsmiling face. “I spotted your jeep parked by the road. I’ve been to see you at your cafe, and a very nice woman—Mia? She told me where you would be, here at your secret beach.”

“Trust Mia to crumble at the sound of a French accent.” She pulled her damp hair over her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Water trickled down her neck, into the crevice between her breasts. On Xavier the effect was electric. He shifted on the sand.

“I thought you’d be working hard getting your new property in order, instead of lying here on the sand. Aren’t you the big boss there now? I’d have picked you for a control freak. Don’t you need to run everything?”

Smiling lazily up at her he replied, “I’ve no intention of working seven days a week. And I’m not planning to give up my French two hour lunch breaks either when I’m here in Australia. We’re not workaholics in France, and we still get good, if not the best results.”

She shook her head. “If everything is so much better in France, why don’t you …?”

He sent her a further grin as his gaze ran up and down her legs, lingering on the droplets of seawater that shimmered on her skin. “I didn’t say everything was better in France.”

Her teeth caught her lower lip. Hunger welled in him. He knew how those lips tasted. He wanted to pull her down onto the sand and taste them again, with the salt water on them.

Leaning down to pick up her bag, she said haughtily, “Well, you might have time to lounge on the beach all day. I don’t.”

“Going so soon? I thought you at least had the good sense to rest one day a week. It’s your day off, isn’t it? So Mia told me. Don’t leave on my account. She’s worried about you; she says you need to relax a little. I agree.”

As she gave him another of her furious glares, its heat undiminished by her shades, he leant back on his elbows. The movement caught her attention. To his amusement, from behind the supposed safety of her glasses, she ran her eyes over his broad chest, travelling downwards, over his black and white trunks, and along his legs.

With a mocking grin he recalled her enraged response when he’d looked her up and down when they first met.

He borrowed her word. “Finished?”

She turned as scarlet as sunburn as she realised he’d caught her out. “I’m sorry …”

He laughed. “Don’t apologise. I’m a Frenchman. I rather enjoyed it.” He indicated the sand beside him. “Come and sit down. There’s room on this beach for two. I’d like us to get along. We’re living too close to each other to have any enmity.”

“There’s no enmity,” she argued.

“Good.” Xavier kept his voice smooth. “Then that means you’ll stay here for a while.”

He’d caught her out again. He could almost hear her brain whir. If she left now, it would seem as if she harboured a grudge.

Without another word she dropped down beside him, her purple and white striped towel still wrapped tight. Reaching into her bag she pulled out a tube of sunscreen.

As she rubbed it in he glanced appreciatively at her tanned legs. “I thought it was more common to have skin that burns in the sun with red hair.”

“I escaped that, luckily. I still have to be careful; I’m a redhead, after all. Pa always said I was born with the temper too.”

He grinned. “I think I may have realised that already.”

He saw the colour steal into her cheeks, resisted the urge to touch as it turned from cream to rose. “Your skin …” he murmured.

“What about it?”

“I didn’t know women could still blush like that.”

She turned a deeper shade of pink. “Another peril of being a redhead.”

“One I like,” he said.

Predictably, she tried to hide her flaming cheeks. Amused, he watched her contortions as she attempted to apply some of the cream to her back. Her towel slipped away from the triangles of her bikini. In instant response he felt his body harden.

“Need some help?”

“No thanks.”

“I’m only offering to help you put some sunscreen on your back. No one would think twice about it in France.”

“You’re not …”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “I’m not in France. You’re beginning to be somewhat predictable with that line, may I say. But the sun here is hotter than St Tropez. Let me help you.”

To his surprise, she handed him the open tube. It smelled tantalisingly of coconut.

One to me
, he thought.

“Turn around.”

Massaging the cream into her damp skin, he noted the light smattering of freckles across her shoulder blades, the same light golden brown as the ones scattered over her nose.

He frowned. There were hard knots in the muscles of her neck. With his thumb he eased one, testing to see if she resisted.

For a fleeting moment she melted towards him.

The next she’d wrenched away.

“
Non
. I wasn’t done.”

“That was enough, thank you.”

She held out her hand for the sunscreen. As he passed it to her he trailed his fingers across her skin, noting her instinctive shiver in response.

He caught her hand. “Jacaranda. Come to France.”

Chewing her lip again, she remained silent for a moment, but she didn’t remove her fingers. “I can’t leave my business at such short notice.”

“That’s not what your friend Mia told me.”

Pulling her hand free, she dropped the sunscreen into her bag. “The airline tickets are expensive.”

“Is Paradise Truffle Farm doing as badly as that?”

She took the bait, as he’d anticipated she would. “Of course not! I can afford a plane ticket.”

“Good. And in the Dordogne you can stay with me, on the Antoine Estate, as my guest.”

“I can’t do that.”

He took off his sunglasses. “Why not?”

Ignoring her squawk of protest, he reached over and tore her shades away.

“Jacaranda.” In her ocean coloured eyes he saw the mix of anger and arousal. “I’m not going to apologise for that kiss. I know we both enjoyed it. And you needed it. You are—what do they say in English? You are too uptight.”

“I’m not uptight!”

He laughed. He’d never met anyone like her. She practically fizzed, like a bottle of good champagne about to pop. “You try to contain your emotions, don’t you? I wonder why. But I don’t want a kiss to stop you coming to France. If you wish our relationship to be purely professional, then it will be.”

Did he see a flash of regret, before she ducked her head? Scooping up a handful of sand she kept her attention averted from him. “That is what I want.”

“So be it,” he said neutrally. “Come to the Dordogne. Be my guest, as a fellow truffle farmer. What could be more natural? We’re neighbours, after all. And I think your father would want you to come, for the business he built to grow and thrive. He’d be proud of what you’re doing.” Though he’d never met Tom Riley, Xavier’s intuition told him it was true.

Running sand through her fingers, she admitted, “I’ve always wanted to see the French truffle farms, and I’ve heard about the festivals you hold in the winter. It was a dream of my pa’s to go, but he never did. He raved about them, though he never got there himself.”

“I’ll have to make sure it comes up to your expectations,” he murmured. “So you’ll come?”

“Yes.” She seemed stunned by her own reply. “Yes, I will. I’d like to. Thank you.”

He gave her back her sunglasses. “
Bien
.”

Replacing his own shades he stared out at the frothy waves fringing the white sands. He knew enough about closing a deal not to press it any further. “This beach is extraordinary. I can’t believe no one else is here. I’m beginning to understand your father’s point of view. It’s paradise.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught her wistful smile.

“Pa loved the beach, but he wasn’t a great swimmer. I can picture him here, in his bright green shorts. He was always getting dumped.”

“Getting dumped? That’s a phrase for when a woman breaks your heart, is it not?”

The lovely laugh he’d come to like more and more gurgled from between her lips. “Not around here. Getting dumped means being dumped by a wave. There are waves we call rollers, they’re great for surfing and bodysurfing, and ones we call dumpers. If you get caught up in them, they swirl you around under the water and then spit you out onto the sand.”

“But you swim well. Surely you haven’t been dumped often?”

“Not at the beach, no.”

He turned his voice silken. “And by men?”

She stiffened. “I don’t see that’s any of your business.”

“But someone has hurt you badly,
non
?”