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‘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.
