Luc's Revenge

‘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.’