Black Diamonds
Authors: Eliza Redgold
Eliza Redgold
A small Australian farmer battles an enigmatic French magnate in a world of exotic locations, luxurious tastes, and the most expensive flavour in the world. For fans of Emma Darcy and Lynne Graham.
Earth’s black diamonds…
Truffles are known as one the most powerful aphrodisiacs on the planet, but when Australian truffle farmer Jacaranda Riley meets Xavier Antoine, owner of a French truffle empire, she gets more on her plate than desire.
But does the man who has taken her heart secretly plan to take her home and business too?
Eliza Redgold is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. By day a mild-mannered university lecturer with a PhD, by night she is a wild-mannered writer of a collection of contemporary romances with an Australian theme. You can find Eliza Redgold on Facebook.
Thanks to editor Kate Cuthbert at Escape Publishing who changed the ending of the story and gave me a happy one, and to all the team at Escape, to my agent Jacinta Di Mase for her support and sense of fun, to editor Brooke Moody of Brooke Review for her attention to detail, to the Wordwrights critique group, Janet Woods, Deb Bennetto, Karen Saayman, Anne Summers and Carol Hoggart for their advice and encouragement, to the amazing RWA who provide so many writing opportunities and information, to Pamela Weatherill who kept the faith and wore the purple, and to my wonderful family, for putting up with a truffle obsession.
For James, whose cooking first won my heart.
“Whosoever says truffle, utters a grand word, which awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas.”
Jean Brillat-Savarin:
The Gastronomy of Taste
, 1882.
Hidden deep beneath the ground, for centuries the truffle has been prized for its culinary and aphrodisiac qualities. A rare mushroom, known in France as
la truffe
, it grows at the roots of oak, beech and hazel trees. Ranging in colour from black to white, highly priced and increasingly rare, truffles continue to arouse deep desire…
Also Available From Escape Publishing…
Black gold, black diamond or pearl: nothing could be too beautiful to evoke, describe or encapsulate the myriad subtleties of the truffle.
http://www.maison-de-la-truffe.com
Jackie groaned as tyres crunched on the gravel outside. Couldn’t people read? The sign at the gates of Paradise Truffle Farm stated in big bold letters that they closed at five pm. It was now after six, and she’d only just sat down with a glass of well-earned chardonnay. Even Rudy, curled under the table, only gave a slight woof at the sound of the new arrival.
Gulping a cold mouthful, she hauled herself to her feet. Her legs were shaky, like Rudy’s had been when he was a puppy, and it wasn’t from the wine. She was tired, so tired, with bone-numbing weariness she’d never experienced before, as though a battery had been unplugged inside her. For a fleeting moment she wanted to tell whoever had arrived, politely but firmly, that there would be no more tastings of their delicious truffle products today, no more snacks served in the Truffle Tucker Cafe, no more sales of their butters, salts, mustards and oils. Whoever had pulled up could turn right around and go back down the long drive again. Not that she’d ever do that, of course. She could still hear her father’s voice in her head:
The customer always comes first in Paradise
.
Heaving a sigh, Jackie tucked her purple t-shirt into her white denim skirt and noticed a brown spot on it. Truffle flavoured salad dressing, she surmised, as she tried to rub it clean with her finger. She’d been waitress, kitchen hand and tour guide rolled into one today. So much for the glamorous life. The mirror by the door revealed the bruised shadows under her eyes. She hadn’t slept well for weeks.
“Come on, Rudy.”
The dog’s golden fur brushed against her legs as she wearily pulled open the glass and jarrah door. It seemed heavier than usual. She stepped out into the hazy evening heat, and stared.
Parked dead centre in the curving driveway was the most amazing sports car she’d ever seen. An Alfa Romeo, crouching long, low and black, with tinted windows so dark she couldn’t see through. She whistled. She’d seen some expensive cars in the Margaret River region in the past few years, but this was something else.
Rudy circled it, barking, as the driver’s door swung open.
A man stepped out onto the dusty red-brown gravel. At first glance, he appeared inappropriately dressed for the Australian bush, surrounded by huge karri and gum trees, the sunset tinging the sky violet behind him, yet he didn’t look out of place. He was a man who wouldn’t look out of place anywhere, Jackie guessed. Immaculate in a crisp white linen shirt and navy trousers, his eyes shaded by sunglasses with a subtle insignia on the side, he instantly dominated his surroundings. Every inch of him, from his dark hair to his highly polished black shoes, spelled power. No matter where he was, this man called the shots.
Rudy, who usually gave strangers a wide berth, jumped up at him. To Jackie’s astonishment, he started licking the man’s hand.
“Rudy! Here!”
The dog ignored her, flopping onto his back for a belly scratch. The stranger’s lip curved, as though he were used to dogs falling at his feet.
Her belly did a flip of its own. “Rudy!”
Rudy bounded reluctantly to her side, his tail wagging.
“We’re closed,” Jackie heard herself saying stiffly. It wasn’t what she planned to say. She usually started with ‘Welcome to Paradise’.
He shrugged. “I haven’t come to eat.”
He was French, his accent told her, along with the unmistakably Gallic movement of his shoulders. Her stomach flipped again.
“I’m sorry.” She managed to keep her voice polite, but all her good intentions to be her customer-oriented self seemed to have disappeared. She couldn’t fight her energy- sapping exhaustion any longer, and this man agitated her. “Please come back tomorrow. We open again at ten am.”
He lifted off his sunglasses. His eyes made her immediately think of truffles, the darkest, deepest, blackest ones, the ones that were hardest to find. His gaze swallowed her, travelling downwards, from her hair tied in a loose braid with a purple ribbon, to where her legs ended in a pair of scuffed brown leather slides.
Something fiery blazed deep inside, flaring up through her fatigue. How dared he look her over in such an appraising, arrogant manner, as if she were cattle on an outback station! He’d brand her with his mark next!
“Finished?” she burst out sarcastically.
He laughed, showing a flash of white teeth. “Forgive me. I’m a Frenchman, and in France, we know how to appreciate the finer things in life. Good wine, good food, a beautiful woman.”
“Well you’re in Western Australia now,” she snapped.
She
wasn’t going to fall at this man’s feet, even if Rudy had, even if her belly was still flip-flopping. “When in Rome, you know.”
“Ah,
oui
.” His face sobered, but creases stayed etched around his strong mouth. “I’m not used to your Australian customs, I only flew in today. Your truffle farm is further south than I expected. I wanted to get here earlier; I hoped to meet with Mr Tom Riley. Can I see him?”
The name hit her like a blow. She almost reeled as the pain blasted through her body. Instinctively, Rudy moved closer to her side.
“I’m sorry, no.” The words choked out. “You can’t see him.”
Irritation flashed across his face. “Why? Because you shut an hour ago?”
Was it some sort of cruel joke? “No,” she said hoarsely.
“Because I admired your legs?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?” His expression darkened, turning his eyes to black ore. “I assure you,
mademoiselle
, you should go and get Mr Riley. You’re clearly his employee. As the owner, he won’t be pleased if he hears you have sent me away.”
Fury flared up again and she clung to it, hauled herself out of the pool of pain. “And who are you?” she demanded, before she could stop herself.
“I’m Xavier Antoine.”
Her mouth fell open. It couldn’t be. Xavier Antoine? If he was, then the man standing in front of her was a legend. The Antoine family were the owners of one of the greatest
truffieres
in France, and that was saying something. Their pungent black Perigord truffles sold for more per gram than gold. Known in the trade as black diamonds, dug from beneath the ground at the roots of ancient oak trees, Perigord truffles had a unique, earthy flavour and rarity value—as well as being one of the most potent aphrodisiacs on the planet.
“Do you mean you’re from the French family? From the Dordogne?” No wonder Rudy, a trained truffle hound, liked the man so much. He must have truffle oil running through his veins.
Xavier Antoine gave a slight bow. “The same. My family have been producing the best truffles for over one hundred years. Now, I suggest you get Mr Riley.”
Her hands clenched. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” His jaw hardened as he moved closer to her, and she smelt the heady male heat of his body, cut through with cool cologne. “Your rudeness is
incroyable
, incredible. If you worked for me you’d be fired.”
“Then it’s lucky I don’t and won’t ever work for you.” Jackie pushed her hair away from her face, her shaking fingers brushing against her hot cheeks. “You’re wrong about a number of things, Mr Antoine. The first is I’m not an employee. The second is I’m certain the owner will not be at all sorry to send you away. And the third is I can’t get Tom Riley for you.”
“I ask you again, why?”
“Because he’s dead!” She’d been trying so hard to avoid saying those words. Saying it made it real. Tears she hadn’t dared shed gushed over her cheeks as she stumbled, her legs finally giving way beneath her. “Tom Riley was my father. I’m Jacaranda Riley and I’m the owner of Paradise Truffle Farm. Please. I don’t care who you are or how famous your truffles are. I want you to leave!”
Xavier leapt. He caught the young woman just in time as she almost fell to the ground at his feet. Beside them the Labrador gave a sharp bark of alarm.
“Mon Dieu
!”
He glanced around for help, but all he could see were trees, huge thirsty looking trees and a mud coloured building behind them. Above him a bird gave a raucous cry in the blazing sky, streaked fiery with red, purple and gold. Where on earth had he landed? It was like another planet. “Is anyone else here? Can I call for someone?”
Trying to pull free from his grip on her arms, she shook her head. Her long braid whipped through the air.
“No.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Everyone’s gone home.”
“Then you must let me help you, Miss Riley.” What had she said her first name was? Something strange. He’d never heard it before. And he’d never seen a woman collapse like that either, or fight him the way she was fighting him now.
He tightened his hold, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her upper arms. He wasn’t going to let her go.
Beneath his hands she continued to struggle. “I don’t want your help. I want you to go! I’m all right!”
“
Non
. You are not.” How could she say so when she could barely stand on those slender legs?
“Let me go!”
“Miss Riley!” The expression in her deep blue eyes, like a pained animal, unexpectedly tore into him. “Stop fighting me, just for a moment.”
Tears overflowed as fast as water from a burst dam, as with a cry she crumpled against his chest. He pulled her nearer, the warmth of her tears soaking his linen shirt. “It’s all right,” he whispered, experiencing a powerful urge to soothe her, to stroke her red- brown hair. She smelled of flowers he couldn’t identify, heat, and salt. “It’s all right.”
