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Luc's Revenge
CATHERINE GEORGE
What has driven wealthy Frenchman Luc Brissac to seduce and then propose marriage? Could his motives be fueled by an event that occurred one shocking September in Portia' s past– an event so traumatic that she' s blotted it out of her memory?Find out why Luc wants revenge, and if Portia will still agree to be his bride, in Catherine George' s latest thrilling story…



“Stay the night, Portia, and drive back in the morning.”
So Jean-Christophe Lucien Brissac was no different from the rest after all. Portia removed her hand, utterly astounded by the discovery that she was deeply tempted to say yes.
“No, I can’t do that,” she said quietly. “I’m accustomed to long journeys in any weather.”
“I was not asking to share your room, Miss Grant,” Luc said icily. “My concern was for your safety only. You mistake me. Also you insult me.”
She frowned. “Insult you?”
“Yes. It is not my habit to force my way into a woman’s bed. Even a woman as alluring and challenging as you,” he informed her.
CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antiques shops.

Luc’s Revenge
Catherine George



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
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 ONE
THE call came late on a Friday evening, when everyone else had left for the weekend. On the way out herself when the phone rang, Portia was tempted to leave the call to the answering service. But with an impatient sigh she turned back at last and picked up the receiver.
‘Whitefriars Estates. Good evening.’
‘Good evening. I am flying in from Paris tomorrow to see one of your properties. Your name, please?’
The voice was male, French and imperious.
‘Miss Grant,’ said Portia crisply. ‘If you’ll just give me the details.’
‘First please understand that the appointment must be tomorrow evening. At five. I arranged this with your Mr Parrish.’
Portia stiffened. ‘That’s very short notice, Monsieur—’
‘Brissac. But it is not short notice. Mr Parrish informed me last week that one of the partners at your agency was always on hand at weekends for viewings. He said it was merely a matter of confirmation. You are a partner?’ he added, with a pejorative note of doubt.
‘Yes, Monsieur Brissac, I am.’ Portia’s eyes narrowed ominously. Ben Parrish, one of the senior partners, had just left for a skiing weekend in Gstaad without a word about this peremptory Frenchman. ‘Perhaps you would tell me which property you have in mind and I’ll do my best to make the arrangements.’
‘I wish to inspect Turret House,’ he informed her, and Portia stood rooted to the spot.
The property was not in London, as expected, but a three-hour drive away on the coast. But, more ominous than that, it was a house she’d hoped never to set foot in again as long as she lived. During the lengthy time it had been on their books Ben Parrish had always taken prospective buyers over Turret House. Not that there had ever been many. And none at all lately. The property was sticking. But personal feelings couldn’t be allowed to lose a sale.
‘Are you still there, mademoiselle?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Brissac. This is very short notice, but I’ll arrange my diary to fit the visit in.’
‘You will come yourself, of course.’
Portia’s eyes glittered coldly. ‘Of course. My assistant will accompany me.’ She saw no reason to tell him that Biddy was at home, nursing a cold.
‘As you wish. I shall not, you understand, expect you to drive back to London afterwards,’ he informed her. ‘The Ravenswood Hotel is nearby. There is a double room reserved for you in the name of Whitefriars Estates. Please make use of it.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said at once.
‘Au contraire. I shall require a return visit to Turret House very early the following morning.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘But this was the arrangement made with Mr Parrish, mademoiselle. It was made clear that someone would be available to escort me round the property.’
Ben Parrish might be one of her senior partners, but she would have a bone to pick with him when he came back from the piste. ‘As I said, I’ll cancel my private arrangements and meet you at Turret House, Monsieur Brissac,’ Portia assured him. ‘But a hotel room is unnecessary. I’m used to driving long distances.’
‘In this case it would be unwise. You must be available very early on Sunday. I return to Paris later in the morning.’
Heaping vengeance on the absent Ben’s head, Portia had no option but to agree. ‘As you wish, Monsieur Brissac.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Your name again, please?’
‘Grant.’
‘A demain, Miss Grant.’
Until tomorrow. Which threatened to be very different from her original plans for Saturday. Her eyes stormy, Portia put the phone down, checked that Whitefriars Estates was secure for the night, and went home.

Home was a flat in a building in Chiswick, with a fantastic view of the Thames and an equally fantastic mortgage. The apartment was a recent acquisition, with big rooms only sparsely furnished as yet. But the view was panoramic and the building secure, and Portia loved it. All her life she’d lived with other people in one way or another. But the moment she’d moved into the empty flat Portia had experienced such an exhilarating sense of liberation she never begrudged a minute of the years of hard work, both past and future, which made her pricey retreat possible.
Despite her protests to the peremptory Monsieur Brissac, Portia had no private appointments to cancel. Her plan had been to rent some videos, send out for her favourite food, and do absolutely nothing the entire weekend. And do it alone. Something her male colleagues at the firm viewed as eccentric in the extreme.
‘A woman like you,’ Ben Parrish had informed her once, ‘should be lighting up some lucky bloke’s life.’
An opinion Portia viewed as typically male. She liked her life the way it was, and the social side of it was busy enough, normally. But, as Ben Parrish had known very well, it was her turn to keep the weekend free, in case some well-heeled client should suddenly demand a viewing of one of the expensive properties handled by Whitefriars Estates. Her only cause for complaint was the fact that Turret House was the property in question this weekend.
‘You’re unnatural,’ her friend Marianne had complained once. She was on the editorial staff of a glossy magazine, rushed from one hectic love affair to another, and came flying to Portia for consolation between bouts. ‘All you care about is that job, and this place. You might as well buy a cat and settle into total spinsterhood.’
Portia had been unmoved. ‘I don’t like cats. And the term “spinster”, Ms Taylor, is no longer politically correct.’
‘Nor does it apply to you, darling, yet. But it might if you don’t watch out!’
Portia drove home, had a bath, put some supper together, then opened her briefcase and with reluctance settled down to study the brochure of Turret House. The recent owners had renovated it throughout, but she was surprised the Frenchman was interested in it. Turret House was in immaculate condition now, according to Ben Parrish, but it was big, expensive, in a remote location, and not even pleasing to the eye unless one had a taste for the Gothic. Built as a dower house for the owner of Ravenswood, the architecture was typical of the latter part of Victoria’s reign. These days Ravenswood was an expensive country house hotel, and Turret House a separate property far too big to attract the average family. Portia eyed the brochure with foreboding. Tomorrow would be a deeply personal ordeal, but otherwise a complete waste of time. The man would take one look at the house, give a Gallic shudder of distaste, and race back to Paris on the next plane. She brightened. In which case she could shake off the dust of Turret House for ever, drive back to London and take up her weekend where she’d left off.
The February afternoon was bright with cold sunshine as Portia drove west next day along the crowded motorway. She made good time, eventually turned off into the West Country, and arrived well on schedule at the crossroads between Ravenswood and Turret House. Her reluctance deepened as she took the familiar right-hand fork to head for the house she’d hoped never to set eyes on again. But as she slowed to turn into the drive Portia sternly controlled her misgivings. She took professional note of the refurbished splendour of the gates and the well-tended air of the tiered garden as she negotiated the hairpin bends of the steep drive. At last, no matter how slowly she drove, she reached the gravelled terrace and came face to face with Turret House again.
Portia switched off the ignition, but remained in the car for a while. With time to spare before her client arrived, she put her feelings aside and tried to view the house with a purchaser’s eye as the last rays of sunset light glittered on arched windows and flamed on red brick walls. It was a typical, rambling villa of its era, with a turreted square tower stuck on the end like an afterthought—the taste of the self-made industrialist who’d bought elegant, Palladian Ravenswood for his aristocratic bride. And promptly built Turret House three miles away for his mother-in-law.
Unable to put off the moment any longer, Portia got out of the car, shivering more with apprehension than cold. She belted her long winter white coat tightly, pulled her velvet Cossack hat low over her eyes, collected her briefcase and crossed the terrace to the arched front door. She breathed in deeply, then unlocked the door, switched on the lights, and stood still in surprise on the threshold. She had noted the renovations in the brochure, but it was still strange to find the old red Turkey carpet gone and the austere beauty of the black and white tiles left bare. And the heavy dark wood of the staircase had been stripped and sealed, the artistry of the carving revealed now by the light from the stained-glass window on the landing. Portia let out the breath she’d been holding. The hall was so much smaller than her memory of it. But, most important of all, it was empty. No ghosts at all.
Almost light-headed with relief, Portia went through the rest of the rooms, switching on lights, noting the quality of the pale carpets and the padded silk curtains. No furniture, which was a drawback. It was much easier to sell an inhabited, furnished house. Which was probably why the place was sticking. And upstairs everything was so unfamiliar it could have been a different house. Smaller rooms had been converted into bathrooms to connect with the larger bedrooms, and the pastel paint everywhere was a far cry from the dark gloom of the past. Portia glanced at her watch, frowning, then went back downstairs. The client was an hour late. And Turret House was not a place she cared to linger in after dark.
Nor, Portia found, could she bring herself to look over the tower rooms alone first. A cold shiver ran through her at the mere thought. She turned on her heel and went back to the bright, welcoming kitchen instead, hoping Monsieur Brissac was bringing the woman in his life. Kitchens were a very important selling point. These days very few clients wanted a formal dining room as the only place to eat. Fortunately the vendors had joined the old larder to the kitchen to form one vast room, with space for an eating area. In contrast to the old-fashioned, comfortless place of the past, the result was a glossy magazine vision of a country kitchen, complete with fashionable dark blue Aga stove.
Portia stood very still, staring at it. There had been an Aga stove in the past, coal-fired and ancient, its beige enamel discoloured with age and constant use. It had been a devil to load and rake out…
A voice outside in the hall plucked Portia back into the present. She went through the leather-backed door to find a tall man craning his neck to look up the staircase, impatience radiating from him like nuclear fallout.
Portia coughed. ‘Monsieur Brissac?’
He swung round sharply, the impatience falling from him like a cloak as she moved forward under the bare central light of the hall. He bowed slightly, his eyes narrowing as he saw her face. ‘Pardon. The door was open so I came in. My plane was delayed. If I kept you waiting I am sorry.’
Even at first glance Portia doubted that penitence was part of this man’s make-up. ‘How do you do?’ she said politely.
He was silent for a moment, taking in every detail of her appearance. ‘You are Miss Grant from Whitefriars Estates?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately my assistant’s ill and couldn’t come,’ she admitted reluctantly, and returned his scrutiny with interest. He wore a formal dark overcoat, worn open over a city suit, and he was younger than she’d expected, with thick, longish black hair and smooth olive skin, a straight noise. But his mouth curved in strikingly sensuous contrast to the firm, dark-shadowed jaw. And something about him revived the feeling of unease she’d experienced at the first sound of his voice on the phone.
‘I had expected someone older, mademoiselle,’ he said at last.
So had Portia. But you’re stuck with me, she thought silently, then stiffened as a sudden gleam in his eyes told her he’d read her mind. Reminding herself that her mission was to sell the house, not alienate the client, she exerted herself to please as she took him on a tour of the ground-floor rooms, extolling virtues of space and the wonderful views by daylight over the bay.
‘A pity you arrived so late,’ she said pleasantly. ‘The view is a major attraction of Turret House.’
‘So I was told.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Is it good enough to compensate for the architecture? You must admit that the exterior lacks charm.’
‘True. But the house was built to last.’ Portia led the way upstairs, pointing out the various selling points as her elegant client explored the bedrooms. On the way downstairs again she stressed the advantages of the immaculate interior decoration, the new central heating system, the recent rewiring, the curtains and carpets included in the price. In the kitchen, she pointed out its practical and aesthetic virtues, but at last there was only the tower left to explore. Portia preceded her client into the hall, her pulse racing and her hands clammy as she pressed a button in the wall beneath the stairwell. A door slid aside in the panelling to reveal a lift. ‘This is set in the turret itself,’ she said colourlessly. ‘It takes you to the bedroom floor, of course, then on to the top room in the tower, Monsieur Brissac.’
He smiled. ‘Ah! You saved the pièce de résistance for last, Miss Grant. Is it in good working order?’
‘Yes,’ she said, devoutly hoping she was right. ‘To demonstrate this we can inspect the three floors of the tower on foot, then call the lift up to the top floor to bring us down again.’
Wishing now she’d forced herself to inspect the tower alone first, Portia preceded her client into the ground-floor room, a light, airy apartment, with windows on the three outer walls. And empty, just like the hall. She relaxed slightly. ‘I believe this was used as the morning room by the lady of the house when it was first built. This door opens into the lift, and the one beside it conceals a spiral stair to the next floor.’ Straight-backed, Portia led the way up the winding stair to a room similar to the one below, then, at last, her heart beating like a war drum, she ran quickly up the last flight to the top of the tower. She switched on the light, waved her client ahead of her into the room, then stood just inside the door, her back against the wall, feeling giddy with relief.
‘The view here is quite marvellous in the daytime,’ she said breathlessly.
The Frenchman eyed her with concern. ‘You are very pale. Are you unwell, mademoiselle?’
‘No. I’m fine.’ She managed a smile. ‘Out of condition. I need more exercise.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘But not at this moment, I think. Is this the button for the ascenseur? Let us test its efficiency.’
In the claustrophobic, strangely threatening confines of the small elevator Portia felt hemmed in by her companion’s physical proximity, very conscious of dark, narrowed eyes fixed on her face as they glided silently to the ground floor.
‘Most impressive,’ he remarked as they went out into the hall.
‘Installed in the early part of the century, when the house was fitted with electricity,’ said Portia unevenly, the blood beginning to flow normally in her veins once they were out of the tower. ‘Have you seen everything you want, Monsieur Brissac?’
‘For the moment, yes. Tomorrow, in daylight, I shall make a more detailed inspection. I believe there is a path down to a private cove?’
Portia nodded. ‘But there’s been no maintenance work done on it for a long time. I’m not sure how safe it is.’
‘If the weather permits we shall explore and find out.’ He frowned slightly. ‘You have not shown other prospective purchasers round Turret House?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite a number,’ she contradicted him quickly. ‘The property’s attracted a lot of interest.’
‘I meant you, personally, Miss Grant.’
‘Myself, no, I haven’t,’ she admitted. ‘My colleague, Mr Parrish, owns a weekend cottage in the area, so he usually does the viewing.’ She smiled politely. ‘Have you any more questions?’
‘Of course, many more. But I shall ask them tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Soon it will be time for our dinner. Let us drive to the hotel.’
Our dinner?
Again he read her mind with ease. He smiled. ‘I am entertaining some clients to dinner at the Ravenswood. Will you join us?’
Portia shook her head. ‘You’re very kind, but I won’t, thanks. It’s an early start tomorrow, so I’ll have supper in my room, then get some sleep.’
‘A boring programme,’ he observed as Portia switched off the last of the lights.
‘But very attractive to me after a busy working week,’ she assured him pleasantly.
‘Then I trust you will enjoy it. Alors, you will go first so I can make sure you arrive at Ravenswood safely.’
With no intention of telling him she knew the area like the back of her hand, Portia said goodbye, got in her car, and drove swiftly down the winding drive, then accelerated into the narrow road, intent on getting to the hotel before him. But by the time she’d parked under the trees in the courtyard and taken her overnight bag from her boot her client was at her elbow, to take the bag and escort her into the foyer.
‘This is Miss Grant of Whitefriars Estates,’ he informed the pretty receptionist. The girl greeted him warmly, consulted a computer screen and handed Portia a key.
‘Twenty-four?’ he said, frowning. ‘Is that the best you can do, Frances? What other rooms are free tonight?’
‘None, I’m afraid, Monsieur Brissac.’ She eyed him uncertainly. ‘Some of the guests haven’t arrived yet. Shall I juggle a bit?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I shall take twenty-four. Give Miss Grant my room. She appreciates a view.’
The obliging Frances dimpled. ‘All the rooms have views, Monsieur Brissac.’
‘But some are more beautiful than others,’ he countered, smiling. Frances flushed and handed over a new key to her guest, something in her eyes which rather puzzled Portia. It was only later, in the large, inviting room with a tester bed and a view over floodlit parkland, that she realised the receptionist had felt envious. And, much against her will, she could understand why. Monsieur Brissac was a formidably attractive man, with a charm she was by no means wholly immune to herself. But the charm was oddly familiar. Yet she was quite certain she’d never met him before. Her client wasn’t the type of man women forgot.
Portia unpacked her overnight bag deep in thought. The dimpled Frances obviously knew this Brissac man very well. Was he the hotel manager? That didn’t fit, somehow, if he was inspecting a nearby property. Maybe he was just a customer, regular and valued enough to ask a favour. In which case, what, exactly, was the favour? Maybe his room was next door, and this was the reason for the envy. Portia made a swift inspection, but there was no connecting door to another room. She frowned, annoyed with herself. Going back to Turret House again had addled her brain. Monsieur Brissac’s impatience had quickly changed to something different—and familiar—the moment he’d taken a good look at her, it was true. But otherwise he’d been faultlessly circumspect. He’d tuned in sharply enough to her uneasiness in Turret House, though. Which was unsurprising. Her reluctance had been hard to hide as they entered the tower, and her relief equally obvious when they left it. Tomorrow she would be more in control, now the initial ordeal was over.
Portia had packed very little. With no intention of eating in the dining room, a suitable dress had been unnecessary. A couple of novels and some room service completed her plan for an evening spent in remarkably pleasant surroundings. The room was quite wonderful, with luxuriously comfortable chairs and sofa, and gleaming bronze lamps. On a low table magazines flanked a silver tray laden with glasses, a decanter of sherry, dishes of nuts and tiny savoury biscuits. And a refrigerator masquerading as an antique chest held soft drinks and various spirits and wines, even champagne.
Portia took a quick look at the menus on the dressing table, then rang for tea to tide her over until the lobster salad she’d chosen for dinner later on. Once the tea tray arrived Portia tipped the polite young waiter and locked the door behind him. She pulled off her hat, unpinned her hair and ran her fingers through crackling bronze curls which sprang free as though glad to escape. Then she removed her tailored brown suit and silk shirt and hung them up, pulled off her long suede boots and removed her stockings, then wrapped herself in the white towelling dressing gown provided by the hotel. With a sigh of pleasure she sank down on the sofa with a cup of tea, nibbled on one of the accompanying petits fours, and gazed out over parkland lit so cleverly it looked bathed with moonlight.
When she was young it had always been her ambition to stay in the Ravenswood, which featured in smart magazines, offering weekend breaks of unbridled luxury. The room was exquisitely furnished, and the bathroom was vast, with a tub big enough to swim in and everything else a guest could need, right down to a separate telephone. A bit different from her usual company-funded overnight stops when inspections or viewings took her too far to return to base overnight.
So now, surprisingly, she could resume her plans for the weekend right here. She could read, watch a television programme, even request a video from the list provided.
Portia got up to draw the curtains, then picked up her book and prepared to enjoy the evening just as she’d planned to at home. Only tonight, after a long, leisurely bath, she would read herself to sleep in the picturesque tester bed, and someone would bring her breakfast on a tray in the morning. Wonderful. When a knock heralded the arrival of her dinner, punctual to the minute, Portia tightened the sash on the dressing gown and went on bare feet to open the door to the waiter. And confronted the elegant figure of Monsieur Brissac instead.
They stared at each other for a moment in mutual surprise, then his eyes moved from her bare feet to the tumbled hair. She thrust it back quickly, heat rising in her face as her pulse astonished her by racing at the sight of him. The Frenchman was obviously fresh from a shower, the dark shadow along his jaw less evident, and he was wearing a different, equally elegant suit. ‘Is your room to your taste, Miss Grant?’ he enquired, moving closer.
Portia backed away instinctively. ‘Yes, indeed. Very comfortable. But I’m expecting my dinner to arrive any moment, so if you’ll excuse me—’
‘My guests tell me they are suffering from jet lag and wish to retire early,’ he interrupted smoothly. ‘Since you will not dine with us, perhaps you would join me in the bar later this evening, Miss Grant. I wish to discuss certain aspects of the sale of Turret House before we return to it in the morning.’
Refusing to let the intent dark eyes fluster her, Portia thought swiftly. Her partners were about to suggest a price reduction to the owners. If she could make the sale at the present price it would be a feather in her cap. As junior partner, and a female, she was secretly driven by the need to compete on equal terms with the men at Whitefriars.
‘After dinner, in the bar?’ he prompted, obviously amused by her hesitation.
Portia nodded briskly. ‘Of course, if you feel further discussion will be useful before seeing the house again. Perhaps you’ll ring me when you’re free.’ No way was she hanging about in the bar until he was ready to join her.
‘Of course, Miss Grant.’ He smiled. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’
Portia returned the smile and closed the door, then stood against it for a moment, giving herself a stringent little lecture as she waited for her pulse-rate to return to normal. Charm personified he might be, but Monsieur Brissac was just a client. And she was here solely to sell him a house.
When her lobster salad arrived Portia eyed it in surprise. Not only was it a work of art on a plate, but it was accompanied by a half-bottle of Premier Cru burgundy, a small mound of gleaming black caviare as appetiser, and an iced parfait of some kind to round off the feast.
‘No mistake, Miss Grant,’ said the receptionist when Portia rang to enquire. ‘Compliments of Monsieur Brissac.’
Portia thanked the girl, shrugged, then began to spread caviare on crisp squares of toast, wondering why she was being entertained so lavishly. It was she who wanted Monsieur Brissac’s business, not the other way round. What was his motive? On the phone he’d been demanding almost to the point of rudeness, but in person, once he’d actually met her, deliberate charm had quickly replaced his initial impatience. Yet something about him made her uneasy. Unable to pinpoint the reason for it, Portia despatched the last of the caviare, then helped herself to some mayonnaise from a small porcelain pot and began on the lobster she could rarely afford. Tonight it had been a reward to herself for her disturbing day. She had assumed she would pay for it herself, but Monsieur Brissac had taken pains to show he was footing the bill. Yet if Ben Parrish had been in charge of the viewing he would have expected to pay for both his own dinner and the client’s to oil the wheels of the transaction.
But she was an attractive woman, so the situation was different. Portia had no illusions about her looks. An accident of nature had given her a face, hair and a shape most of her women friends envied. Because she’d been wearing a hat, and a long coat which covered her from throat to ankle, Mr Brissac would have had to guess about shape and hair. But his impatience had evaporated the moment he’d taken a good look at her face at Turret House. And a few minutes ago his eyes had gleamed with something else entirely at the sight of her in a robe, with her hair all over the place.
Portia frowned thoughtfully. Monsieur Brissac, she was sure, was too sophisticated and subtle a man to try to mix business with pleasure. Tonight he had taken her by surprise. But from now on she would be in control, totally poised and professional. And in the meantime nothing was going to spoil her pleasure in her dinner.

CHAPTER TWO
WHEN the telephone rang just after ten Portia decided on a little dressage. Monsieur Brissac might whistle, but she wasn’t coming running just yet.
‘Would you give me another fifteen minutes or so?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘But of course. As long as you wish,’ he assured her.
Portia had taken time over a bath and washing her hair. Sorry now she’d been so frugal with her packing, her sole concession to the occasion was a fresh silk T-shirt with the suit worn earlier—her usual office clothes. She brushed her newly washed hair up into as tight a knot as possible and pinned it securely, replaced the amber studs in her earlobes, then collected handbag and key and went off to charm Monsieur Brissac into buying Turret House.
The bar was crowded with well-dressed people in convivial mood after the pleasures of the impressive Ravenswood dinner menu. When Portia paused in the doorway the elegant figure of her client rose to his feet at a small table in a far corner.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said politely, as he held a chair for her.
‘You did not,’ he assured her, smiling. ‘You are punctual to the second. May I offer you a cognac with your coffee?’
No way, thought Portia. She needed to keep her faculties needle-sharp since her companion was making it clear that though they were here to discuss business he was taking unconcealed male pleasure in her company.
‘I won’t, thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Just coffee.’
Even before she’d finished speaking a waitress had materialised with a tray and put it on the low table in front of her.
Monsieur Brissac smiled his thanks at the girl, then filled their cups and handed one to Portia. She added a dash of cream, refused one of the handmade chocolates he offered, then sat back, waiting for questions.
Instead he looked at her in silence, examining her face feature by feature in a way Portia found unsettling. ‘So, Monsieur Brissac,’ she began briskly. ‘What can I tell you about Turret House?’
He leaned forward and added sugar to his cup, and almost absently Portia noted his slim, strong hands, the small gold signet ring on his little finger, the fine dark hair visible on the wrist below a gleaming white shirt-cuff fastened with a gold cufflink of the same design as the ring.
‘First of all, tell me why the owners wish to sell,’ he said. ‘Is there some drawback to the house not immediately apparent?’
‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Make any survey you want, but I guarantee you’ll find the house is sound, and the wiring and plumbing in perfect order. The roof has been renewed, and unless it’s a matter of conflicting taste, neither exterior nor interior need repair or redecoration.’
‘Then why should the owners want to sell a house they took so much care to renovate and modernise?’
Portia smiled ruefully. ‘Unfortunately a very common reason. Divorce.’
‘Ah. I see.’ He nodded. ‘A pity. Turret House is meant for a large family.’
‘Is that why you’re interested in it?’
‘No. I am not married.’ He gave a characteristically Gallic shrug. ‘At least not yet. And, since you are Miss Grant, I assume you are not married either.’
‘No, I’m not.’ She changed the subject. ‘So, what else would you like to know?’
‘Your first name,’ he said, surprising her.
‘Portia,’ she said, after a pause.
He glanced down into his cup quickly, giving Portia a view of enviable dark lashes. ‘So. Your parents were fond of your William Shakespeare.’ He looked up again, his eyes holding hers. ‘And do you possess the quality of mercy, Mademoiselle Portia?’
Portia willed her pulse to behave itself. ‘My name is nothing to do with Shakespeare, Monsieur Brissac. My father was a car enthusiast.’
He frowned. ‘Comment?’
‘He loved fast cars, the Porsche most of all. So I’m named after it. But my mother held out for Shakespeare’s spelling.’
He gave a husky, delighted laugh. ‘Your father had vision,’ he told her.
‘In what way?’
‘The Porsche is small, elegant and very efficient. The description fits you perfectly. I like your name very much,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to use it?’
If he bought Turret House he could call her what he liked. ‘Of course, if you wish.’
‘Then you must respond.’ He half rose with a little bow, then reseated himself. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Jean-Christophe Lucien Brissac.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘A lot of names.”
“I am known as Luc,’ he informed her.
She shook her head. ‘It’s not my practice to be on first-name terms with clients.’
‘But in this case, if I purchase Turret House, you will have a great deal to do with me in future, Portia,’ he pointed out.
She pounced. ‘And are you going to buy it, then?’
‘I might. Tomorrow, if my second impression is as good as the first, and if we can negotiate the price a little, there is a strong possibility that you and I may do business, Portia.’
She kept iron control on every nerve to hide her excitement. ‘That sounds very encouraging.’
‘But there is another condition to the sale,’ he informed her.
Portia stiffened. ‘Condition?’
‘You must tell me the truth. Does Turret House possess a revenant? Is there a ghost, Portia?’ His eyes held hers so steadily she discovered they were of a shade of green so dark that to the casual eye it was hard to distinguish iris from pupil.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ she said without inflection. ‘The house isn’t nearly as old as this one, remember. Ghosts are more likely at Ravenswood than Turret House.’
‘Yet for a moment, at the top of that extraordinary tower, I thought you were going to faint,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘And do not tell me you were breathless or unfit. Your tension was tangible.’
Portia looked away, fighting down the formless, unidentifiable fear she experienced at the mere mention of the tower. Poised and professional, she reminded herself, and turned to look at him very directly. ‘Monsieur Brissac—’
‘Luc.’
‘Very well, Luc. If you buy the property I guarantee that neither you, nor anyone who lives there, will be troubled by ghosts. Turret House is not haunted.’
Straight dark brows drew together as Luc Brissac tapped a slim finger against the bottom lip which struck Portia anew as arrestingly sensuous above the firmly clenched jaw.
‘Alors,’ he said slowly, his eyes intent on hers. ‘If I decide to buy, will you tell me what troubled you there today?’
‘Is that a condition of sale?’
‘No. But I am—interested. I could sense your distress. It disturbed me very much.’
Portia gazed at him, rather shaken. ‘All right. If you decide to buy, I’ll tell you.’
Luc Brissac reached out a hand to shake hers gravely. ‘A deal, Miss Portia.’
‘A deal,’ she agreed, and looked down at their clasped hands, not liking to pull hers away, but very much aware that his fingers were on the pulse reacting so traitorously to his touch.
‘Goodnight, Portia,’ he said, very quietly, and raised her hand to his lips before releasing it.
She rose rather precipitately. ‘If that’s everything for the moment, it’s time for that early night I promised myself.’
He walked with her through the now almost empty bar. ‘Sleep well.’
‘I’m sure I shall. It’s a beautiful room.’ She hesitated, then looked up at him very squarely. ‘Thank you for turning it over to me. And for the dinner. It wasn’t necessary for you to provide it, but I enjoyed it very much.’
Luc Brissac frowned. ‘But I told you I had reserved a room, Portia. Naturally I would provide dinner and breakfast also.”
‘If I was anxious for you to clinch the deal shouldn’t I have been buying you dinner?’ She paused at the foot of the wide, shallow staircase.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps when I return to London to finalise matters you might still do that?’
Portia’s heart leapt beneath the silk shirt. ‘Of course,’ she said quickly. ‘The firm will be happy to entertain you.’
‘I meant you, Portia.’ His smile faded. ‘Or is the deal the price I must pay for more of your company?’
‘In the circumstances I can’t think of a reply which wouldn’t offend you.’ She smiled to soften the words. ‘And I try to avoid offending clients, so I’ll say good-night.’
He returned the smile and bowed slightly. ‘Be ready at eight in the morning, Portia. Your breakfast will arrive at seven-thirty.’
Portia woke early next day, with more than enough time to shower and dress and pack her belongings before breakfast. According to Ben Parrish, other clients had declined a scramble down to the cove. But something about Luc Brissac’s voice had warned her that this particular client would be different, so she’d come prepared, with a heavy cream wool sweater, brown wool trousers and flat leather shoes in her luggage. And an amber fleece jacket instead of her pale winter coat. When she was ready she enjoyed the freshly squeezed orange juice and feathery, insubstantial croissants, and went downstairs at the appointed hour, her overnight bag in one hand, her coat slung over the other arm. And experienced the now familiar leap in her blood at the sight of Luc Brissac.
‘Such British punctuality,’ he said, coming to meet her. ‘Bonjour, Portia. You slept well?’
‘Good morning. I slept very well indeed,’ she returned, with absolute truth. Which was a surprise, one way and another.
Conscious of discreet interest from the reception desk, Portia surrendered her bag to Luc, who was informal this morning in a rollneck sweater and serviceable cords.
When they went out into a cold, bright morning, Portia was thankful to see the day was fine. Turret House would make a better second impression in sunlight.
Luc stowed the bag in her car, then informed her he would drive her in his hired Renault. ‘Last night you drove too fast along such a narrow road, Portia. Perhaps,’ he added, looking her in the eye, ‘because you know it well?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she agreed, and got into the car.
When they reached Turret House Luc Brissac parked the car on the gravel terrace, reached into the back for a suede jacket and came round to let Portia out.
‘It looks more welcoming today than last night,’ he commented, eyeing the brick façade. ‘Sunlight is kinder to it than—what is crépuscule?’
‘Twilight,’ said Portia, and unlocked the front door, ushering him ahead of her into the hall, where the sunlight cast coloured lozenges of light on the tiled floor, an effect which found favour with her client.
‘Most picturesque,’ he said, then smiled wryly. ‘But I should not make favourable comments. I must frown and look disapproving so that you will drop the price.’
Portia smiled neutrally, and accompanied him through the ground-floor rooms again, glad to see that daylight failed to show up any flaws her tension might have blinded her to the previous evening. Luc paused in each room to make notes, keeping Portia on her toes with pertinent, informed questions right up to the moment they reached the tower and she could no longer ignore the faint, familiar dread as he opened the door to the ground-floor sitting room.
‘If you do not wish to go as far as the top floor again you need not, Portia,’ he said quickly. His eyes, a very definite green this morning in the light streaming through three sets of windows, held hers questioningly.
She shook her head, exerting iron control on her reactions. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ She ran swiftly up the spiral stairs to prove it, and went straight across the top room to the windows. ‘As I told you, the view from up here is breathtaking.’
Luc Brissac studied her profile for a moment, then looked down at the tiered lawns and shrubberies of the garden, with its belt of woodland, and beyond that the cliff-edge and a glimpse of sandy cove below, and the sea glittering under the blue winter sky. He nodded slowly. ‘You were right, Portia. For this, on such a day, one can almost forgive the excesses of the Turret House architect.’
Almost, noted Portia. ‘You mentioned going down to the cove,’ she reminded him. ‘Do you have time for that?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Did I not say? I was able to postpone my departure until tomorrow. We can explore this cove at our leisure, then later we shall lunch together to discuss the transaction.’
Portia, not altogether pleased by his high-handed rearrangement of her day, opened the door into the lift and went in. Luc followed her, frowning as he pressed the button to go down.
‘You feel I am monopolising too much of your time?’ he asked.
‘No.’ He’s the client, she reminded herself. ‘If you want a discussion over lunch then of course I’ll delay my return to London. But I shall pay for the meal.’ She stepped out of the lift into the hall, and made for the door.
‘Since lunch was my suggestion I shall pay,’ he said loftily, following her.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll charge it to my expense account. And,’ she added with emphasis, ‘I suggest we lunch in a pub somewhere, not at the hotel.’
He stood outside on the terrace, arms folded, watching as she locked the door. ‘You do not like the food at the hotel?’
‘Of course. It’s superb.’ She led the way down a series of stone steps towards the bottom of the garden. ‘But Ben Parrish says the meals are good at the Wheatsheaf, a couple of miles away, so I thought you might like some plain British fare for a change.’
Portia laughed at his undisguised look of dismay, and Luc smiled in swift response as they reached the path that led through the copse of trees to the cliff-edge. ‘You should laugh more often, Portia.’
‘Take care down here,’ she said, turning away. ‘It’s pretty steep.’ She went ahead of him down the overgrown path which cut down the cliffside in sharp bends to the cove below, with loose shale adding to the hazards in places.
Portia made the descent with the sure-footed speed of long practice. When Luc Brissac joined her a few minutes later he was breathing heavily, a look of accusation on his face.
‘Such a pace was madness, Portia!’
She shook her head, and turned to look out to sea, shivering a little as she hugged her jacket closer. ‘The path was quite safe.’
‘For mountain goats at such speed, possibly. Or,’ he added deliberately, ‘for someone very familiar with it.’ He waited a little, but when she said nothing he looked away, gazing about him in approval at the rocks edging the sand in the secluded, V-shaped inlet. ‘But this is charming. Is there any other access?’
‘No. The path is Turret House property.’
Luc turned up the collar of his suede jacket. ‘In summer this must be delightful. A great asset to the house.’
‘The path could do with some work,’ admitted Portia. ‘But if it’s reinforced in places, with a few steps cut in the cliff here and there, and maybe a handrail on the steepest bit, it could be a very attractive feature. Not many houses boast a private cove.’
‘True.’ Luc cast an eye at clouds gathering on the horizon. ‘Come, Portia, we must go back before it rains.’
Portia found the climb up the cliff far harder going than her reckless, headlong descent. By the time she reached the top she was out of breath. ‘As I said yesterday,’ she panted, as Luc joined her, ‘I’m out of condition.’
His all-encompassing look rendered her even more breathless. ‘Your condition looks flawless to me. Come. It is early yet for lunch, but perhaps your English pub will give us coffee.’
‘If I’d known you weren’t going back today I would have asked for a later start this morning,’ said Portia as they went back up through the garden.
He shrugged. ‘My change of plan took much effort to rearrange. I was not sure until this morning that it could be done.’
‘Why did you change your mind?’ she asked curiously, as they got in the car.
‘There would not have been time before my flight to go down to the cove after inspecting the house again. And this was necessary before I made a decision.’ He concentrated on the steep bends of the drive. ‘Also,’ he added casually, ‘I desired to spend more time with you. Now, give me directions, please. Where is this inn of yours?’
The Wheatsheaf served excellent coffee, and later provided them with a simple, but well-cooked lunch very different from the cuisine at the Ravenswood, but in its own way of a very high standard.
‘But this is very good!’ pronounced Luc, as he ate roast lamb cooked with anchovies and garlic.
Portia laughed. ‘The compliment would sound better without the astonishment.’
Luc grinned. ‘We take our food more seriously than you British.’
‘And suffer far less from heart problems, I read somewhere. Though you drink a bit more than we do,’ she added, then regretted it at the look on Luc’s face.
‘True,’ he said quietly.
‘I didn’t mean you personally, of course,’ said Portia hurriedly.
‘I know.’ His smile stopped short of his eyes. ‘You would like dessert?’
She shook her head.
‘Then perhaps we can return to the bar to talk business. Please excuse me for a moment. I shall order coffee.’ Luc seated her at a small table, then went off for a word with the barman.
Conscious of unintended transgression of some kind, Portia resolved to put a guard on her tongue for the rest of their time together. Luc had flatly refused to discuss Turret House before lunch, so her only opportunity for clinching a sale was during the short time left before her drive back to London. And outside, she noted glumly, the rain was coming down in torrents.
‘You look pensive,’ said Luc, as he rejoined her.
‘I was eyeing the weather. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut things short. It’s a fair drive back to London.’
‘I know.’ He put a hand on hers. ‘Stay the night at the Ravenswood again, Portia, and drive back in the morning.’
So, Jean-Christophe Lucien Brissac was no different from the rest after all. Portia removed her hand abruptly, utterly astounded by the discovery that she was deeply tempted to say yes.
‘No, I can’t do that,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m quite accustomed to long journeys in any weather. So, shall we discuss Turret House, or have you made your decision already?’
‘I was not asking to share your room, Miss Grant,’ he said icily. ‘My concern was for your safety, only.’
‘Of course.’ Utterly mortified, Portia began packing her briefcase. ‘I shan’t rush you. I didn’t expect a firm answer today, anyway. Perhaps you’ll get in touch as soon as possible and let me know what you decide. In the meantime—’
‘In the meantime, sit down and drink your coffee,’ said Luc, with a note of command. ‘You mistake me,’ he added as she resumed her seat. ‘Also you insult me.’
She frowned. ‘Insult you?’
‘Yes. It is not my habit to force my way into a woman’s bed. Even a woman as alluring and challenging as you,’ he informed her.
Portia calmed down a little. ‘My apologies,’ she said stiffly.
There was silence between them for a moment.
‘You have been troubled by clients before?’ Luc asked.
‘No. My clients usually come in pairs.’
‘By men in general, then?’
‘One or two,’ she said without inflection.
His eyes lit with wry sympathy. ‘A woman with looks like yours—’ He shrugged. ‘It is easy to understand why.’
‘If that’s a compliment, thank you.’
He gave her a sidelong, considering look. ‘It was meant to be. Though now, knowing that you suspect me of dark and devious motives, I shall strive to be careful.’
‘Careful?’ she said, frowning.
‘That I do not offend.’
‘I can’t afford to be offended,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You’re the client.’
His smile was tigerish. ‘And you want me to buy a property that remains on your books rather a long time.’
So much for hoping to sell Turret House without a reduction. If she sold it at all. ‘Of course I do,’ she said, resigned.
Luc spent some time looking through the details of the house again, checking off various points against the notes he’d made. At last he turned to her with a businesslike air, raising his voice slightly above the crowded, post-prandial noise of the Wheatsheaf bar.
‘I will consider my options most carefully, Portia, and then this evening, after your return to London, I shall ring you and let you know my decision,’ he said with finality.
‘If you’re staying over tonight you can have longer than that,’ she said quickly, suppressing a leap of excitement. He was going to buy; she was sure of it. ‘You can ring me at the office in the morning.’
He shook his head. ‘Give me your phone number. I shall ring you tonight.’
Portia hesitated for a moment, then scribbled a number on a sheet from her diary and handed it to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and tucked it in his wallet. ‘And now I will drive you back to Ravenswood.’
Outside, they raced through the rain to Luc’s car. ‘Mon Dieu, what weather!’ he gasped, as they fastened their seatbelts.
‘It’s not always like this,’ she assured him breathlessly. ‘The climate here is the best in the UK.’
‘Not so very good a recommendation!’
Portia smiled, badly wanting a hint from him as to his decision about Turret House. But prudence curbed her tongue. If he sensed she was desperate to sell he would expect a substantial drop in the price. Assuming he did want the house. She eyed his profile searchingly, but it gave her no clue to his intentions.
When they reached the car park of the Ravenswood, Portia refused his invitation to go inside for a while before she started back to London.
‘I’d rather go now and get it over with.’
‘How long will the journey take?’ he asked, frowning at the rain.
‘I don’t know. In this weather longer than usual, I’m afraid.’
‘I shall ring you at ten. This will give you time?’
‘I hope so.’ Portia held out her hand. ‘Thank you for the room, and my dinner—and for the lunch. When I tried to settle up just now they told me you’d already paid.’
He took the hand in his, shrugging. ‘I never allow a woman to pay.’
‘An attitude that gets you in trouble sometimes these days, I imagine?’
He looked surprised. ‘Never—until now.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Au ’voir, Portia Grant. I shall talk to you later. Drive very carefully.’
‘I always do. Goodbye.’ She got in the car, fastened her seatbelt and drove off quickly, dismayed to find she already needed her headlights in the streaming February dusk. As she turned out into the road she looked in her mirror, rather disappointed that Luc Brissac hadn’t waited to watch her out of sight. Not, she told herself severely, that there was any reason why he should. Only an impractical fool would have hung about in the drenching rain. And her acquaintance with Jean-Christophe Lucien Brissac might be slight, but one thing was very clear. He was no fool.

CHAPTER THREE
PORTIA’S return journey to London was nerve-racking. After a slow journey to the motorway, the rest of it was a nightmare of pouring rain and heavy spray from other vehicles, all three lanes clogged by traffic, all the way to London. When she reached Chiswick at last Portia felt exhausted. She parked her car in the basement garage, went up in the lift to her flat, locked her door behind her, then took her cellphone from her bag and blew out her cheeks in relief.
Now she was home and dry, she had an hour to spare before the call from the charming, disturbing Monsieur Brissac. If he confirmed he was going to buy Turret House it might be best to ask Ben Parrish to deal with him from now on.
A minute or so before ten the cellphone rang, right on cue, and she hit the button in sudden excitement.
‘Portia Grant,’ she said crisply.
‘Ah, bon, you are returned safely,’ said Luc Brissac with gratifying relief. ‘I was worried, Portia.’
‘How nice of you. But quite unnecessary. I’ve been home some time.’
‘Then you did drive too fast!’
‘I couldn’t. Once I joined the motorway I was stuck in the middle lane all the way to London.’
‘Bien, it is established that you arrived safely. So now, Portia, we get to business.’
‘You’ve made a decision?’ she asked, trying not to sound too eager.
‘Yes. I confirm that I will buy Turret House. But,’ he added emphatically, ‘only on certain conditions.’
Portia’s flare of triumph dimmed a little. ‘What conditions do you have in mind?’
‘First the price.’ He named a figure lower than she’d hoped, but higher than the reduction Whitefriars had been about to recommend to the vendors.
‘I must consult my partners, of course, but I’m sure we can come to an agreement on that,’ said Portia, secretly elated.
‘Also,’ he went on, ‘I wish you, personally, to conduct the entire transaction.’
She frowned. ‘But it’s actually Mr Parrish’s—’
‘I want you, Portia,’ he said with emphasis.
Or he wouldn’t buy it. The words remained unspoken, but Portia, visualising his usual shrug, was left in no doubt.
‘As you wish.’
‘Next weekend I fly back to London. In the meantime I shall arrange for information about my lawyers to be faxed to you, also contact numbers where I can be reached until we meet again.’
‘Thank you,’ she said briskly, secretly thrilled at her success in getting rid of the property Ben Parrish had failed to move.
‘Please arrange to leave next weekend free,’ went on Luc Brissac.
She stiffened. ‘Oh, but—’
‘I wish to inspect the property again. I cannot take possession of the keys until the house is legally mine, Portia. You must come with me. I shall drive you down to Turret House early on Saturday morning.’
For a split-second Portia was tempted to tell him exactly what he could do with his conditions, and his purchase of Turret House. But common sense prevailed. ‘Monsieur Brissac, I shall do as you ask, but with a condition of my own. I’ll drive down to the house separately and meet you there.’
There was silence for a moment, then he sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, if you insist. But please be there by mid-morning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Until Saturday, then, Portia.’

The following morning her news of the sale of Turret House was greeted with teasing surprise by her partners at Whitefriars, and deep respect by Biddy, who was still heavy-eyed and red-nosed, but slowly recovering from her cold.
‘I thought we’d never get rid of the place!’ Biddy had been with the firm for years and looked on every property sale as a personal triumph. She handed Portia a cup of coffee and lingered expectantly, obviously wanting details before she went off to start on the letters and valuations Portia had gone through with her on the Friday afternoon before sending her home to bed.
Before she’d ever heard of Luc Brissac, thought Portia. ‘The client wants me to go down to Turret House again this weekend.’
‘Was his wife with him?’ asked Biddy.
‘No, he’s not married.’
‘Then I’d better come with you.’
‘No need,’ said Portia quickly. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
‘I thought Mr Parrish always took people round it anyway.’
‘Monsieur Brissac insists on my personal attention for the transaction,’ said Portia. And, for reasons she preferred to keep to herself, she wanted to deal with this particular client on her own. She shot to her feet. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’m due in Belgravia in ten minutes to sell a pricey mews cottage to your favourite soap queen.’
When Ben Parrish got back from his skiing trip next day he was amazed to find Portia had managed to sell Turret House while he was away.
‘Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Luc Brissac probably took one look at you and said yes to anything you wanted.’
Ben Parrish was only a few years older than Portia, stocky, sandy-haired, and possessed of a solid brand of charm that stood him in good stead in the property business. Without ever resorting to the hard sell, he nevertheless managed to move properties at a rate envied by his colleagues at Whitefriars. But success with Turret House had eluded him.
‘You know him, then?’ asked Portia.
He nodded. ‘I sold a place in Hampstead to him quite recently. He knows one of the partners is always on call on winter weekends.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me he was coming?’
‘I thought he was due next weekend.’ He consulted his diary. ‘I’m right. He was supposed to come next Saturday, in which case I’d have taken him round the place. As I always do,’ he added significantly.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Portia, softening. ‘Anyway, he turned up last weekend, and also commands my presence down there next weekend as well. You owe me, Mr Parrish.”
Whitefriars Estates was a thriving business, which dealt with desirable properties at the top end of the market, all of them in fashionable, expensive locations. The clients were often celebrities of one kind or another, and Portia’s day was rarely boring. The week progressed in its usual way, other than a hiccup with her car. When she took it in for a service she was told it needed parts which wouldn’t be available for a day or two, which meant the car wouldn’t be ready until late on Monday.
Portia travelled by Underground the rest of the week, except for the evening she went straight from the office to dine with Joe Marcus. Joe was a property developer she’d met on her MBA course, a high-flyer, clever, with a wicked sense of humour, and determined to avoid marriage until he was at least forty. He took Portia out regularly, secure in the fact that she shared his point of view. And with Marianne in the throes of a new love affair, Portia kept the other evenings free, to get as much sleep as possible to prepare for another visit to Turret House. And a meeting with Luc Brissac again. A prospect she found herself looking forward to more than she wanted to admit.
On the Friday Portia snatched a half-hour at lunchtime for a sandwich in her office. She was immersed in the designs Biddy had prepared for a brochure, when her cellphone rang. She eyed it for a moment. Marianne’s new idol probably had clay feet. Again. With a sigh, she pressed the button.
‘Portia?’ said a voice with an unmistakable French cadence. ‘Luc Brissac.’
To her annoyance her heart missed a beat, then she tensed, suddenly afraid he was going to pull out of the deal. ‘Hello. How are you?’
‘Very well. I wish to confirm our appointment tomorrow.’
Portia let out a silent breath of relief. ‘Good. Actually, I’m glad you rang. I can’t make it to the house until noon. Does that suit you?’
‘It would suit me better to drive you there myself, Mademoiselle Portia.’
A little thrill of excitement ran through Portia. It was only practical to accept, she told herself firmly, now her car was out of action. The alternative was a train at the crack of dawn, and a taxi to take her to Turret House. Which would be sheer stupidity when she could enjoy the journey in the company of Luc Brissac.
‘You are still there?’ he asked. ‘If you have an appointment tomorrow night do not worry. I will drive you back in time. Or are you only content when driving yourself, Portia?’
‘No, of course not. Thank you. What time do you want to leave?’
‘I shall pick you up at nine. Where do you live?’
‘No need for that. I’ll meet you somewhere.’
‘I insist on coming to you, Portia. Your address, please.’
She hesitated, then told him where to collect her. ‘I’ll be ready at nine, then.’
‘I look forward to seeing you again. A demain, Portia.’

Assuming Luc Brissac would want another climb down to the cove, Portia was ready well before nine next morning in sensible shoes, black sweater, black needlecord trousers and her amber fleece jacket, shivering a little with combined cold and anticipation as she waited on the pavement.
When a Renault came to a halt at the kerb Luc Brissac jumped out, smiling. ‘Portia—you should not be standing outside in such weather.’
‘Good morning.’ She smiled. ‘I thought I’d save some time.’
Luc was dressed casually again, in suede windbreaker, cashmere sweater and elegantly battered cords, none of it any different from some of the men she knew. The difference, she decided, lay in nationality, and his air of supreme self-confidence.
‘You look delightful this morning, Portia,’ he remarked as he drove off. ‘Did your week go well?’
‘Socially and professionally very well indeed.’ Portia smiled wryly. ‘The only blot on my week was my car. It needed a bigger repair than expected.’
‘Ah.’ Luc sent a gleaming look in her direction before negotiating a busy roundabout. ‘So this is why you so meekly allow me to drive you to Turret House?’
‘Yes,’ she said demurely, and he laughed.
‘You are so bad for my self-esteem, Portia Grant. Could you not pretend you joined me for the sake of my company on the journey?’
‘I don’t do pretence,’ she informed him. ‘But I’ll admit I’m very grateful for a lift. I didn’t enjoy the drive home last Sunday.’
‘I was most concerned. It was a long evening before I could ring to assure myself that you were safe,’ he informed her.
Portia gave him a surprised look. ‘How very nice of you.’
‘Nice? Such British understatement!’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Now. Tell me. What expensive properties did you sell this week, Portia? Is business good?’
Portia told him business was surprisingly good for the time of year. The rest of the journey was spent in easy conversation more concerned with the property market and current affairs than any personal details on either side, which Portia found rather intriguing. Usually her male companions were only too ready to talk about themselves. The journey seemed much shorter than usual, and all too soon, it seemed to Portia, they came to the familiar crossroads and took the fork to Turret House.
The day was grey and cold, and without the sunshine of the week before the house looked even less inviting as Luc parked the car outside the Gothic arch of the front door.
‘It needs trees in pots and tubs filled with flowers to soften the effect of the brick,’ said Portia, getting out.
This time, with Luc for company, it was easier to unlock the door and go inside. Portia snapped on the lights quickly, but before following her Luc turned back to the car and took two folded director’s chairs from the boot, then reached in again for a picnic basket. ‘This time we drink our coffee here,’ he announced.
Portia eyed the basket in surprise. ‘That’s very big for just coffee.’
He smiled. ‘There is also a picnic for later, should you disapprove of lunch at Ravenswood. Since the kitchen is the only complete room, let us establish ourselves there.’ He paused, chairs in one hand, the basket in the other. ‘Unless you cannot bear to remain that long?’
‘But I thought the whole idea of getting me down here today was to give you access to the place,’ she said, frowning.
The green eyes met hers very directly. ‘Part of the idea only, Portia.’
Portia turned away, surprised to find she no longer felt in the least uneasy with Luc Brissac. And in his company she was not as opposed to time spent in Turret House as he obviously assumed. ‘Let’s have that coffee, then.’
Luc placed the chairs near the window looking out over the back garden, then opened one flap of the basket and filled china beakers with coffee from a vacuum flask. He added milk from another flask to Portia’s, and handed it to her with a bow.
‘Voilà. That is the way you like it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said impressed. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down in one of the chairs, looking at him questioningly. ‘Do you need any help with measurements, or anything like that?’
Luc smiled at her indulgently and shook his head. ‘No. But it is most kind of you to offer.’
‘Then why, exactly, am I here?’ she asked.
‘If you were not with me, legally I could not enter Turret House.’
Portia drank some of her coffee. ‘Monsieur Brissac—’
‘Luc,’ he contradicted.
‘Luc, then,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve given up a Saturday to come down here, so surely I’m entitled to know what you want me to do.’
‘But I told you that last time we met.’
She looked at him narrowly. ‘You’ve brought me all this way just to find out why I dislike Turret House?’
He shrugged. ‘Partly. But surely it is obvious to you by this time that I also desire your company?’
She stiffened. ‘You could have had that in London.’
‘Could I, Portia?’ he said swiftly. ‘If I asked you out to a purely social dinner would you accept? Non, I think not. So this way you are obliged to suffer my company, also to keep your promise.’
Portia stared down into her coffee for a moment, then looked up to meet the intent green eyes. ‘As I said, I don’t do pretence, so it’s not a case of suffering your company.’
His eyes gleamed with open triumph. ‘I am honoured, Portia. That was not easy for you to say, I think.’
‘No,’ she agreed, and smiled a little. ‘It won’t be easy to tell you what you want to know either, so I require something in return.’
‘Anything you desire,’ he said swiftly.
‘I’m curious to know why you’re buying Turret House.’
‘D’accord,’ he said promptly, then grinned. ‘Better still, you can make guesses.’
‘Right,’ she said, feeling suddenly light-hearted. ‘Let’s see, you’re getting married and intend to have a large family?’
He shook his head. ‘Wrong, mademoiselle. Try again.’
Startled by how much his answer pleased her, Portia thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve got it. You were interested in the elevator. You want the house for a retirement home!’
Luc chuckled. ‘Wrong again.’
Portia threw up a hand. ‘I give in.’
‘The house is needed as an annexe for Ravenswood. Business there is brisk, and often the hotel is obliged to turn customers away. Turret House is only a mile or two away, and there could be transport from one place to the other. Also,’ he added, ‘the private cove is a great advantage for families with children.’
Portia smiled at him in delight. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea, Luc. It’s exactly what the place needs, lots of life, with people coming and going.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ He stood up. ‘Come, let us make another inspection. You shall look at everything with the eye of a guest, and tell me if you approve my ideas. But afterwards,’ he added with emphasis, ‘I shall keep you to your promise.’
As though bent on banishing any lingering ghosts for Portia, the sun broke through the clouds as she went through the house with Luc again. This time, looking at it with an eye to its possibilities as a hotel annexe, the house took on a new personality to Portia as they discussed possible use for each of the rooms, and which alterations would be necessary before it could function as a hotel. She grew enthusiastic and animated, stray curls escaping round her face, but tailed into silence at last as she realised Luc was looking at her without listening to a word she was saying.

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