Luc's Revenge

‘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.