Black Diamonds (2 page)

In reply the sound of her choking tears mixed with gasping breaths. There was nothing he could do but hold her close, her slim body fitted into his.

After a few minutes she raised her head, her eyelashes starred together with tears. “I don’t know what’s come over me,” she whispered, as they streamed down her cheeks.

“Grief has its own timetable, Miss Riley.” He glanced downwards, noted that her legs still seemed unsteady. “Is there somewhere you can sit down?”

Putting an equally shaky finger to lips he couldn’t help noticing were pink and full, she nodded. “In there.” Twisting free, she stumbled towards the building behind them.

As she turned, Xavier’s hand glided around her slim waist. Momentarily his fingers found warm skin where her thin t-shirt had come loose, before he followed her, the dog close at their heels. Reaching past, he pushed open the door and ushered her in front of him.

Inside, he took the large bright room in at a glance. To his surprise, it had a more Mediterranean feel than the country style he’d expected. The colour scheme was cobalt, yellow and terracotta, with cool tiled floors and plenty of glass. A long tasting counter and stools were straight in front of him, with a window hatch and door behind it that appeared to lead to a kitchen. To his left was a small shop area, with truffle products on shelves and a wall refrigerator. To his right was a cafe zone with a dozen dark wooden tables and chairs, made bright by cushions and colourful checked tablecloths.

Miss Riley made for a table with an open bottle of wine on it and collapsed onto one of the chairs.

He stayed standing. “Tissues?” he queried, keeping words to a minimum.

“There are some paper napkins,” she gulped, “beside the serving hatch.”

In long strides he crossed the floor to where the serving hatch joined a kitchen and found a handful of blue napkins.

Back at the table he handed them to her.

“Thank you.” She scrubbed her eyes like a child. He wondered how old she was. In her late twenties, he guessed.

On the chair opposite her he sat down, the fan circling lazily above them a cool relief. The blazing temperature outside, even at sunset, hadn’t been helped by the way this woman had made him so—what was that English expression? Hot under the collar.

The dog settled between their feet, his front paws on his mistress’s toes. Slowly, her sobs began to ease.

“Better?” he asked, as she took a long shuddering breath.

“Yes.” She hiccoughed. “I—I’m sorry I was rude to you when you arrived. I’m not usually like that with customers.”

Waving away her apology, he said with certainty, “You haven’t cried many tears.”

“How do you know?”

“When tears overflow like that, it’s because they have not been allowed to come. You have been trying to carry on, I think?”

“There’s been so much to do here I haven’t given myself time to cry.” Rolling the napkin into a tight ball in her hand, she sent him a rueful half smile that he found oddly touching. “I can’t help feeling embarrassed. I usually pride myself on my customer service. I’m sorry. Why did you want to see my father? Is it something I can help with?”

He gave a dismissive gesture. He couldn’t bring up the business matter he’d come for now. “It can wait. And please don’t apologise. I should apologise to you. I hadn’t heard about your father’s death. Believe me when I say how sorry I am for your loss. What happened, if it’s not too painful to talk about? Had he been unwell for a while?”

She sighed. “It happened almost a month ago. It was heart trouble. He didn’t let on, though I can’t help suspecting he must have known something was wrong. I think he might have ignored a lot of the symptoms until close to the end.”

“Was it hard? At the end?”

“It all happened so fast. I hope he didn’t suffer too much. It was such a shock, losing him. That’s what made it worse, you see. The shock.”

“Of course.”

“He’d had a good life, so he didn’t complain. He always said he’d spent most of his life in paradise.” Her watery grin appeared like a faint rainbow. “My father was Irish. He told me that when he arrived here in Western Australia he knew he’d never leave. The air, the sunshine, the forests, the beaches—he loved it all, and of course, the jacarandas. Pa-pa always said he knew he was in paradise when he saw the purple trees.”

Xavier glanced mystified outside the window. For the first time that day, jetlag hit him. More than ever he felt as if he’d landed on another planet. “Purple … trees?”

“There aren’t many as far south as this. The jacaranda trees are mainly further north,” she explained. “I’m sure you’ve seen them. They’re magnificent trees, they look grey and bare, and then in the summer they flower and have the most extraordinary purple blossom you’ve ever seen. They’re not actually Australian natives, they’re South African, I think. My father loved them. They represented all Australia meant to him. When I was born in November, they were blooming around the hospital. Most people call me Jackie, but I’m really Jacaranda.”

“So, your father named you for the purple trees of paradise,” Xavier mused, sorry he’d missed meeting Tom Riley; he sounded a character. “Your mother, was she Irish too?”

“No. She’s Australian, she lives in Sydney now. She and my pa split up when I was very young. He moved down here to the south west and bought this land when it was still cheap. He was determined to make a go of it. He built it up as a winery first, then tried truffles and planted acres of hazel trees to graft them on. People called him a mad scientist—he was an agricultural scientist, you see. They didn’t understand what he was doing. When he talked about truffles they thought he meant the chocolate kind, not the mushroom kind that you can grow or find in the wild. He was proved right in the end. This is the perfect place for truffles.”

Xavier nodded. “In France we’ve heard of the truffles being cultivated here in Western Australia. You father was a wise man.”

“It was hard at first though, but he always made it fun. He said it was his Irish responsibility. We’d hold a huge St Patrick’s Day party every year, and he’d play folk music and get everyone dancing and singing. For lots of people around here, he’s left a big gap. He raised me on his own too.”

“So your loss is even greater.” Covertly, he studied her with care. Even with reddened eyes she was beautiful, in a wild, natural way he didn’t see often in France, where the women were usually polished to a high lustre. She appeared almost schoolgirlish with her long plait of copper coloured hair and slim coltish legs; she even had freckles smattered across her nose. She also seemed strangely, disturbingly, alone. “You said there was no one else here.”

She blinked. “No one else?”

“No one else living here with you. No other family, or …?”

His query hung in the air as she looked down at the rolled up napkin in her hand, not meeting his eyes. “No one lives with me. I’m lucky, though. There are two houses on this property. Pa built the one I live in. His friend Dean and his wife Mia built the other, over on the east side, beyond the hazel trees. Dean trains our dogs. The kennels are over there too. We had to put them a long way away. They’d put off the customers.”

Beside them the Labrador gave an injured-sounding woof. With an attractive laugh she reached to pat him. “Except Rudy here, of course. He’s our best truffle dog, and I’m afraid he knows it. You get special treatment, don’t you, Rudy?” The dog barked as she gave him another affectionate pat.

Xavier smiled. “I know all about truffle dogs and the noise they make, Miss Riley.”

“Of course you do. Well, Dean looks after our dogs and does a lot on the property, and Mia helps me run the Truffle Tucker Cafe. She’s just gone home.”

Had he heard right? “Truffle—Tucker?”

What must have been his perplexed expression brought another attractive gurgle to her lips. “Tucker is an Australian word for food.”

“I see.”

She cleared her throat. “I seem to be talking a lot about myself.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “You don’t do that often?”

Her braid went flying again as she shook her head.

“Then you’re unusual,” he drawled. “Most people like nothing better than to talk about themselves.”

“I don’t understand why I’m talking to you,” she burst out. “I don’t know you!”

“Call it the strangers on a train phenomenon. When two people meet, on a train, or on a plane, they often tell things they wouldn’t normally tell their friends. There’s some comfort in knowing you’re unlikely to see the person again, that at the journey’s end, you will part.”

“Like a shipboard romance.”

Her tinted cheeks, clashing with her hair, told him she regretted her instinctive words. He smiled, enjoying the effect. “Indeed.”

She flushed even deeper.

“I’m glad if you have been able to talk to me about things you don’t often discuss,” Xavier said after a moment. “What do you usually talk about, Miss Riley? What do you usually think about?”

“Please don’t call me Miss Riley. It makes me think I’m a school teacher.”

“Then you must call me Xavier. So, you were telling me what you think about, Jacaranda.” He rolled the ‘r’ on his tongue.

“I think about truffles,” she said quickly, but not too quickly for him to feel the frisson between them when he said her name. “Paradise Truffles, to be exact.”

She stood up. “You’ve been very kind. Can I offer you a glass of wine as thanks? I was having some myself. There’s some bread here too and of course,” she smiled, “some truffle oil.”

He was thirsty, he realised belatedly, and hungry too, after his long drive. He inclined his head. “
Merci …
Jacaranda.”

Jackie knew Xavier Antoine’s attention remained fixed on her as she went to the kitchen. Away from him for a moment, she took a deep breath, leaning against the counter, amazed at her mix of feelings. How could she have collapsed like that? Yet in his arms, those strong arms that seemed so familiar even though he was a stranger, the painful knot inside her had finally released. She hadn’t been able to deny the flare of attraction between them either. A shipboard romance? Jackie’s cheeks burned again. She still wanted to kick herself.

Her hand hesitated over the jars of truffle oil. Impulsively, she reached for one of the unlabelled bottles at the back before grabbing some fresh bread.

Back at the table, she went into automatic hostess mode, pouring chardonnay into Xavier’s glass, offering him the plate of small baguettes, and ignoring Rudy’s hopeful, quivering nose pressed against her leg.

“Merci.”

Holding her breath, she watched as he tore off a piece and dipped the bread liberally in the truffle oil. She always had a moment of trepidation when Paradise truffles were tasted. It was a bit like being a chef, having people try your latest dish. Like the expert he was, he inhaled the unmistakable earthy mushroom odour of the truffles before he lifted the bread to his lips. His strong throat constricted as he swallowed.

“Who cultivated these truffles?” he demanded at last.

“They’re ours.”

Disbelief etched his face. “This can’t be a local truffle. Even from the oil I can taste the quality.”

“Why shouldn’t it be a local truffle? I’ve been experimenting with inoculating our hazel trees.” The irritation he’d first brought out in her rose up again. Surely there was no need for him to be quite so incredulous. The sympathetic man who had held her so safely in his arms had gone. The arrogant king of French truffles was back.

“You? You’re the cultivator?”

“Why is that so impossible?”

“Let’s be honest,” Xavier said with an authority that set her teeth on edge. “Australian truffles are not known for being top of the range. You’ve got good trees and good soil, and of course the climate here is perfect. But you don’t have the expertise for top class truffles.”

Jackie lifted her chin. He was insufferable! “You really think you know everything about truffles, don’t you? You’re wrong. This truffle variety hasn’t been part of our range before, it’s still new. But I promise you, I cultivated it.”

“
Impossible
. You’re too young. You’re not experienced enough.”

“I’m twenty-seven. I’ve been cultivating spores, inoculating trees with
tuber melanosporum
and experimenting with grafts with my father almost all my life. I’ve also got a degree in agricultural science.”

He dipped his finger and took another taste of the oil. “I’m thirty-seven, and I’d be lucky to cultivate something like this even with my family’s years of expertise behind me. Your business must be doing well.”

“It’s small. But I like it that way.”

Xavier waved a hand towards the window, where the sun had begun to shadow the karri trees. “This magnificent region, with its wine, and now its truffles—you’re happy for it to remain a secret?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jackie hated it when people criticised her home region. “The Margaret River region has always been quiet and sleepy. Now we’re inundated with international visitors. I don’t mind that, it’s good for trade. What I do mind is our local businesses being bought up by big international companies.”

“You disapprove of that?”

“I think local businesses should be kept under local ownership.”

His lip curled. “You don’t want expansion and growth? You want it to stay as untouched as it is now?”

“Yes I do.”

“Expansion is essential. There’s a problem down here in the south west, from what I can gather. It all started too small, with untrained people buying parcels of land and turning them into boutique vineyards and
truffieres
of varying quality. There’s no
appellation controllee
, as we have in France, no standard for the region.”

“So you think it’s a good idea for international companies to come and buy them all up and make them into one big monopoly? To have it all end up tasting the same?”

“
Non
, I didn’t say that,” Xavier retorted with a scowl. “But some of your smaller businesses can’t compete internationally, and increasingly, they’re not going to, not in the long term.”

“Smaller businesses like Paradise Truffle Farm, is that what you mean?”