Luc's Revenge

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.’