him as if they could be friends who cared for each other.
Or was that being extremely fanciful? she asked herself as she swung into the driveway of the estate called Saldanha, the place she had always called home.
Set against the background of the Darling Range foothills, Saldanha was special. The Harvey and Margaret River districts south of Perth in Western Australia were beautiful and diverse, with their white beaches, jarrah forests, sleek cattle and the sheer fertility that produced glorious gardens. And adjacent to Saldanha was the Balthazar Winery, also owned by her parents—the other, and probably most famous, export of the area that grew premium grapes was wine.
Both Saldanha and Balthazar—a Balthazar was a twelve-litre wine bottle—were the names brought by the Theron family, of Huguenot descent, from South Africa to the similar conditions and climate around Perth. The Theron family had also brought their viticulture skills and the Balthazar Winery had flourished. At the same time Saldanha, named after a sheltered bay north of Cape Town, had flourished and the Cape Dutch–style architecture of the house, white gables and a thatched roof, had become distinctive in the district.
So had the classic dry white that Balthazar was famous for as well as its Cellar Door, run on the estate and visited by wine-lovers from all over the world.
It was none of this Kim Theron was thinking of as she parked her car, greeted her dog, a devoted blue heeler that went by the name of Sunny Bob, and let herself into the darkened house.
Her parents were out and her brother no longer lived at home, although he kept his horses there, and the housekeeper had taken the opportunity to visit family.
But, as she switched on some lamps and kicked off her shoes, Kim’s thoughts were still firmly centred on Reith Richardson.
Was it unusual to suggest they go surfing? she wondered. Perhaps, but a great idea nonetheless.
She paused at the foot of the stairs as she tried to analyse her emotions. She was intrigued, without a doubt. But, of course, as the saying went: look before you leap …
She had no idea, as she stood with her hand on the banister, how that phrase was going to come back to haunt her.
Margaret River was beautiful.
The peaceful river gave its name to a district that stretched between two capes—Cape Naturaliste and Cape Leeuwin—and ran inland as well. The town of Margaret River was not the only one in the area; there were quite a few, from Busselton to Yallingup and Cowaramup and more. There were some magnificent kauri forests as well as some fascinating limestone caves. The whole district was renowned not only for its wine but also its cuisine.
It was straight to the beach that Reith Richardson steered his four-wheel vehicle, though, after he’d collected Kim from their appointed meeting place in Busselton, along with her surfboard—and her dog.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Kim said as she introduced them. ‘Reith, this is Sunny Bob, and this, Sunny Bob,’ she said to the blue heeler sitting politely at her feet, ‘is Reith. He’s a friend.’
‘How do you do,’ Reith said gravely but with his lips twitching as he patted the dog. ‘Is he for protection—or what?’
‘Oh, no!’ Kim denied. ‘Well, if the need ever arose—’ She gestured and shrugged. ‘But no, he loves the sea and he loves going out with me.’
Reith studied her for a moment. She wore colourful knee-length board shorts and a shocking pink bikini top under a string vest. Her hair was tied back and her beautiful designer sunglasses alone would have cost a small fortune.
‘You look the part,’ he commented as he transferred her board across, then looked at what was left in her boot. ‘What’s all this?’
‘I thought as much,’ Kim replied with a mischievous grin. ‘You’re a typical iron-man surfer with no thought of creature comforts. You can put it all in your car,’ she directed.
‘But—’
‘There’s only a sun umbrella, a couple of folding chairs and a cooler with food and beverages. What’s wrong with that?’ she asked, with her hands planted on her hips.
He grimaced, then grinned. ‘Nothing, I guess. I was going to drive us somewhere for lunch.’
‘Perish the thought,’ she said and looked around. ‘On a perfect day like this, who wants to leave the beach?’
Several hours later, Reith, with a beer in one hand and a chicken drumstick in the other, said, ‘You’re a genius. How did you know cold roast chicken, beer—or, in your case, wine—go down perfectly after a surf?’
Kim giggled. ‘Anyone knows that.’ She lay back in her folding chair and sipped her wine. Sunny Bob lay contentedly beside her, having had an energetic few hours chasing waves whilst Kim and Reith had had a magnificent surf. He had his own bowl of cool fresh water.
She’d wrapped a pink sarong around her before she’d set out lunch. The sun was just starting to slide down from its zenith and there were a few wispy clouds trailing across the sky. The tide was out now so the roar of the surf was muted but you could still taste the salt in the air and feel the prickle of it on your skin. And it was hot and still, apart from some cicadas in the bush behind the beach.
‘Why did you suggest this?’ Kim’s question seemed to pop out of nowhere.
‘Why not?’
She hesitated. ‘It just seems unusual for a businessman—look, I’m not complaining,’ she said with a grin, ‘but think barristers, stockbrokers, CEOs, medical men and you tend to spend a lot of time going out to dinner or cocktail parties or nightclubs or the theatre. Occasionally you may get a day out on a yacht or a day at the races but they’re often too busy making money even to do that.’
‘I spend a lot of time working behind a desk these days. Whereas I used to—’ He paused.
‘Go on. Used to—?’ she prompted.
‘Work on cattle stations, then I was a miner.’
‘I wondered about that.’
He looked at her. ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It was your hands.’
He looked at his hands and grimaced. ‘Anyway, I love the sea—most people who don’t get to see it until their teens do—and it’s good exercise.’
‘So you grew up inland?’
‘Yep.’ He stared out over the ocean and for a moment there was an intensity to his dark gaze that made her frown and believe that he did love it. ‘And beyond the black stump, speaking metaphorically,’ he added.
Kim smiled. ‘Are you married?’
He stirred. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘All the best ones are, according to Penny.’ She pushed herself up against the back of her chair, bent her knees and smoothed her sarong over them. ‘What kind of answer is that—are you or aren’t you?’
‘I’m not. I once was but she passed
