Читать книгу Luc's Revenge - CATHERINE GEORGE, Catherine George - Страница 7

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.