Blackpeak Vines

  IN THIS SIZZLING ROMANCE, A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER ARRIVE AT BLACKPEAK VINEYARD IN SEARCH OF A NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE.

  Longing for a new life in the country, former television executive Lizzie Harrington settles on the vineyard south of Blackpeak Station, bringing with her some glamorous guests — none more so than the dazzling actor Richard Bourne, with whom Lizzie has had a secret love affair for years. But in the hills beyond Lizzie’s boundary fence lives a very different sort of man. Could one unforgettable encounter be about to change the course of Lizzie’s life in more ways than she had expected?

  Meanwhile, a visit from Lizzie’s beautiful daughter, Ella, puts other hearts in danger. At Blackpeak Station, Charlotte Black and her partner Rob are busy not only with sheep but also a fashion shoot featuring Italian male models. Of all the men at Blackpeak, will Ella fall for the one she can’t have? And what of the striking man whom Lizzie unwittingly ushers back into Charlotte’s life?

  Grab a checked shirt and hold on — in Holly Ford’s new high-country adventure, the course of true love is about to get bumpy.

  Blackpeak Vines

  HOLLY FORD

  Contents

  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

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  Chapter ONE

  Charlotte Black’s ute ground to a halt on the gravel drive, the peak that bore her family name looming above her. Lizzie Harrington, watching through the kitchen window as her new neighbour swung out of the cab and began to close the distance to her front door, thought the name suited them both — though she very much hoped that Ms Black was in a sunnier mood than her mountain, which, wrapped in cloud tonight, was looking distinctly intimidating.

  She’d been warned about Black’s temper, her deep dislike of newcomers, of city people and change. Lizzie was all three rolled up together. Don’t go looking for friends next door, she’d been told. Fifteen years ago, Black’s father had been so opposed to his eastern neighbours’ subdivision of this valley that he’d never spoken to them again. He’d fought development here every step of the way, and the establishment of Blackpeak Vines on the westernmost block had been no exception. John Black had been outraged by everything, from the vineyard’s first plantings of pinot noir to the plans for the very house whose threshold his successor’s long skinny legs were just about to step over, and Charlotte Black, so they said, was every inch her father’s daughter.

  Still, Lizzie smiled, the girl did have a bottle of wine in her hand, so she couldn’t be wholly against the vine. She took a deep breath and, arming herself with a plate of crab tartlets, went to greet her guest. No need to expect the worst. All that had just been business, surely? This valley was no different to a great script — production companies might scratch each other’s eyes out to acquire it, but, when the deal was done, they’d share a bottle or two of Margaux and a good laugh at the club. At the end of the day, the television industry was like a family. Wasn’t the high country like one, too?

  ‘Hi.’ Charlotte Black thrust what looked like a rather good bottle of red through the open doorway, but Lizzie barely took note of the label. Caught in the girl’s glacier-blue gaze, Lizzie Harrington, veteran of innumerable multi-million-pound stoushes, felt a shiver run down her spine.

  ‘Hope you like it,’ came a voice over Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘We thought pinot noir should be a safe bet.’

  Lizzie looked up into another pair of blue eyes, these ones crinkling into a smile worth at least ten ratings points with women sixteen-and-over. Some way over, in Lizzie’s case. Still, she couldn’t help a flash of nostalgia for the not-so-distant days when she could have handed this man her business card and offered to make him a star.

  ‘Rob Caterham.’ He held out his hand. ‘And this’ — his other hand gave Charlotte’s shoulder a nudge — ‘is Charlotte Black.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you both.’ Lizzie, her mind whirring down the paths of old habit, released his hand. God knew the industry could do with some fresh blood. Richard, bless him, and his generation had really had their day. The last female lead he’d been cast against had been young enough to be his daughter — younger, in fact. Lizzie’s own daughter, Ella, would be turning twenty-three this year. It wasn’t fair. Men just went on and on, getting ‘craggy’ and ‘interesting’, while women … well, women called it a day. And bought vineyards in New Zealand.

  ‘So how are you settling into being back home?’ the beautiful Rob was asking, smiling again and recalling Lizzie’s thoughts to the more pleasant question of whether he’d look better in Paul Smith or Nicole Farhi on the cover of GQ. ‘Are you missing London yet?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ replied Lizzie stoutly. ‘I’m loving it here. Who wouldn’t? Please, come in, let me get you a drink. And do try a tartlet — they’re crab.’

  ‘They’re what?’ Charlotte Black looked startled.

  ‘Crab,’ she smiled, emphasising the ‘b’ this time. She felt a giggle rise, and was pleased to see it reflected in Charlotte’s face. ‘Just tinned, I’m afraid. Not fresh.’

  ‘Yum,’ said Charlotte. There was a second’s pause. Then, raising her eyebrows at Lizzie, she took a tartlet from the proffered tray and downed it with all the delicacy of a pelican scoffing mullet. ‘Lovely.’

  Lizzie, locating a bottle of pinot gris amongst the collection on the kitchen island, watched the new arrivals as she poured. Ah, her little fantasy would never have come to anything, she could see, even if she were still CEO of Red Lion Productions. Rob Caterham had already been discovered. And, from the look he was giving Charlotte Black, it would take more than six figures and top billing to drag him away. She sighed. Had anyone ever looked at her like that? If they had, she honestly couldn’t remember.

  Oh, give it a rest, she told herself. You’re living the dream. Don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself. She glanced around the room. It was refreshing. She’d thrown this little housewarming party at such short notice — just two weeks — but almost everyone had made the effort to come. Everyone, in fact, apart from Carrick Fergusson. Fergusson was her immediate neighbour to the south, and, more importantly for Lizzie’s water-use consent, downstream. Part of his station, Glencairn, lay between her land and the distant Black Peak, and it was his name that peppered the inch-think resource consent decision which had arrived with the vineyard’s title. Water under the bridge — or rather, through the irrigation pipe? She hoped so. The river was still running, and Fergusson’s sheep had survived, after all.

  ‘Lizzie! There you are!’

  Oh, thank God — Richard had arrived. As ever, his honeyed, Burton-esque tones turned every head in the room, and even Lizzie, who knew how hard he worked at perfecting them, felt her insides melt a little. A few seconds more and he had crossed the room, swept her into his two-hour-a-day workout arms and treble-kissed her with European aplomb, all without creasing his shirt.

  ‘Hello, Richard.’

  He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially at her, and she smiled her approval into his dancing grey eyes — Yes, darling, you nailed your entrance first time. No need for a retake.

  Lizzie turned to her waiting guests. ‘Everyone, this
is Richard Bourne.’ Which, of course, everybody not from the moon already knew. A few jaws, she was pleased to see, had dropped. Even Charlotte Black looked excited. Perhaps her neighbours hadn’t exactly expected Lizzie to provide a celebrity, but it was nice to be able to give them one all the same. ‘Richard — everyone.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you all.’ Richard’s smile swept the room. ‘Lizzie, you look gorgeous,’ he added, as he always did, his eyes raking over her body theatrically, taking in the little black dress. It meant nothing, she knew. The compliment was a reflex of Richard’s, his way of greeting every woman he met, and he would have said the same thing if she were in sweatpants with a bag on her head. But still — Lizzie drew herself up a little more as she poured him a glass of wine — it did feel good.

  ‘And this place!’ he continued, taking the glass from her and raising it at the rows of vines sweeping up the terrace to meet the hills, and the snowy mountains behind them. ‘It’s paradise. No wonder we couldn’t keep you in London.’

  Smiling, Lizzie followed his gaze. It was paradise. Her very own slice of it, and a thick one at that. All that blood she’d sweated had been worth it for this — her green and gold prize at the end of decades of Tube strikes, congestion and gloom.

  ‘To success,’ said Richard, with his usual knack for reading her thoughts.

  ‘To hard work,’ countered Lizzie, raising her glass.

  ‘Come on,’ he grinned. ‘You loved every minute of it.’

  She couldn’t argue. It was true, she had. Television had been her life. But now she had a new life, and, frightening as it sometimes seemed, she was quite determined to love it, too. ‘To old friends,’ she clinked her glass against Richard’s, ‘who know me too well.’ She slipped her free arm through his. ‘Now — shall we mingle?’

  As she had at countless events, Lizzie guided him through the crowd.

  ‘So what brings you to New Zealand, Mr Bourne?’ asked the nice lady from the garage, rather breathlessly.

  ‘I always said I’d go to the ends of the earth for Lizzie.’ Richard’s voice boomed in the rafters. ‘And now, it seems, I must.’ He treated his audience to his most devastating smile. ‘Although there turns out to be somewhat less hardship in it than I’d thought.’

  ‘Thank you,’ sighed Lizzie, four hours later, leaning her head on Richard’s shoulder as the last guests’ tail-lights disappeared into the dusk.

  ‘Anything for you.’ He tucked her hair back behind her ear. ‘I like this. Very Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair.’

  God, he was uncanny. That’s exactly what she’d asked the hairdresser for. She wondered, occasionally, if Richard had her bugged — some kind of long-distance radio mic that picked up her every word. She smiled to herself. Or did he just fancy playing Pierce Brosnan?

  Lizzie looked up into his eyes. He was giving her his most smouldering look, his gaze travelling slowly down to her lips and back, the muscle beside his own mouth moving in that so-sexy leading-man I-must-kiss-you-before-I-explode sort of way, and she felt her lips part. He was probably putting the whole thing on, but oh, what the hell — he was just as handsome as Pierce, and, God help her, she loved it when he kissed her this way, his hand caressing her jawline, raising her chin, like it was the final close-up.

  ‘Lizzie,’ that knee-trembling voice murmured into her ear. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I should really clear up some of this mess,’ she said, looking over his shoulder at the mountain of glassware littering the kitchen bench. ‘Seb and Jules get here tomorrow.’ Not to mention Ella — although a few dirty dishes would hardly shock her daughter. Richard was just the vanguard. Lizzie’s other two best friends in the world, Jules and her husband, Seb, were also on their way from London to see her new life for themselves.

  ‘All the more reason for us to make the most of tonight.’ Lazily, his index finger traced the neckline of her dress. ‘Come on, Lizzie — you, me, this beautiful house. You didn’t have me fly all this way to load the dishwasher, did you?’

  ‘Dickie, darling, you’re here for the same reason as everyone else,’ she told him firmly. ‘A house party. That’s all.’

  ‘You know I can’t resist you when you’re stern with me.’

  ‘Try, Dickie.’

  ‘You know’ — he held her a little more firmly — ‘I don’t think I will.’ His mouth came down on hers, and, feeling his hand slide up her thigh, Lizzie, as she always did, surrendered. She’d be mad not to — he was Richard Bourne, after all. The ninth-sexiest man in Britain. The only problem was — well, why on earth did he want her?

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, she told herself. Especially one turning in such a thoroughbred performance.

  ‘I really have missed you,’ he said, much later, settling himself more comfortably against her back. ‘London isn’t the same without you.’ He yawned. ‘You know, I do have to say, though — this bedroom, Lizzie. It isn’t really you.’

  ‘No, darling.’ Lizzie sat up. ‘It’s you.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Back in her own room, she took off her makeup and gave the question of Richard’s friendship-with-benefits some more thought. To be honest, he’d surprised her tonight. The two of them sleeping together had been natural enough in the beginning, of course, when she was a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old production assistant and he was a rising star. What else were trailers for? And later, when she had one marriage behind her and Richard had two, and it was Lizzie’s star on the rise, she’d presumed he had his reasons. She’d looked after him, it was true. But now she was no longer head of the company, could no longer bolster anyone’s career, she’d fully expected that side of their relationship to be at an end.

  So what had this been? One final hurrah? His way of letting her down gently?

  Raising her chin, Lizzie rubbed moisturiser into her neck and gave herself a stern stare. It was no use worrying about Richard. It never had been. She’d known that the moment she’d seen him walk onto set that first day, the moment those celebrated grey eyes, so sure of their irresistibility, had beamed into hers as she’d handed him his tea. Men like that didn’t go out with mortals like her — not for long, not unless they were bored. Richard was a star, and he belonged with his own kind.

  Even way back then, she’d barely been jealous of the gleaming parade of actresses, models, pop stars and society girls whose paths occasionally crossed hers as they came and went through his penthouse doors. They were as necessary to his career as they were interchangeable. And even when he’d finally married one, it was still Lizzie he’d come to when he wanted to talk, her shoulder he’d cry on when the tabloids ran long-lens shots of his Christmas flab, her doorstep he’d turn up on when he’d been shooting late and needed to debrief before he went home to Becky or Tamara.

  How Tom had hated that! He’d even tried to cite Richard in their divorce, but of course he couldn’t prove anything — there was nothing to prove. She’d never cheated on Tom with Richard or anyone else, not physically anyway, much as he’d never believed her. In hindsight, though, she couldn’t really blame him for being jealous. She wouldn’t have liked to have had to compete with Richard either.

  In the years she was married to Tom, Richard was a perfect gentleman, never even trying to tempt her. And she really had loved Tom, with almost all her heart. Just not quite enough — as he liked to point out — to give up Dickie.

  All those early hours of the morning the two of them used to spend in front of the fire in the sitting room of the Fulham house, Tom asleep upstairs, Richard sprawled on the rug at her feet, swirling a glass of cognac in his hand, telling some outrageous story. They were just working, she used to tell Tom — stroking egos was part of her job. And it was true. But the whole truth … the whole truth was that Richard was never, could never be, ‘just’ anything. Lizzie closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  She fought against the image of his perfectly stubbled jaw resting on the
pillow in her spare room, those beautifully muscled arms wrapped up in her sheets. Don’t you dare, she ordered herself. Don’t you dare go back to him now. I don’t care how much you want him … She opened her eyes. Yes, she told herself, considering the reflection of her now-naked face, and that’s what he’d see tomorrow morning. Is that really the last impression you want to leave? For God’s sake, go to bed, get some sleep, or you’ll look even worse. And you’ve got to pick up Ella in the morning.

  The sun coming in through the bare bedroom windows woke Lizzie early. Over the past couple of weeks, she’d developed the habit of making a coffee and, still in her pyjamas, walking the vines for half an hour or so each morning. Today, however, mindful of Richard’s presence, she showered, pulled on her new Joseph sweater and her best jeans, dabbed some concealer under her eyes, did the rest of her face and dried her hair before heading into the kitchen.

  The house was silent. Having frothed her flat white as quietly as she could, Lizzie put an ear to the door of the guest wing — there was, perhaps, the hint of a snore. She smiled. Richard had never been renowned as an early riser. Even taking jetlag into account, she probably still had an hour or two before he surfaced.

  Pulling on her gumboots, she headed out across the lawn and up into the leafy green rows of pinot noir, pausing to inspect the unripe grapes sheltered shyly below the spread leaves like pale beachgoers under umbrellas. Lizzie was amazed at how protective she felt about them already.

  The vineyard was the one New Zealand investment she’d made with her heart instead of her head. Growing pinot noir, she’d been firmly advised, was a way to lose money, not make it. Especially on a block this small, and especially here, in such an extreme climate. But even the best investment brokers sometimes forgot there were things more worth making than money. She wanted to grow something. Try a tomato plant, her broker had suggested. But what was life without risk? Lizzie had never believed in doing things by halves. And she’d fallen in love with Blackpeak Vines the moment she saw it.

 
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