Luc's Revenge

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.’

Portia’s flare of triumph dimmed a little. ‘What conditions do you have in mind?’

‘First the price.’ He named a figure lower than she’d hoped, but higher than the reduction Whitefriars had been about to recommend to the vendors.

‘I must consult my partners, of course, but I’m sure we can come to an agreement on that,’ said Portia, secretly elated.

‘Also,’ he went on, ‘I wish you, personally, to conduct the entire transaction.’

She frowned. ‘But it’s actually Mr Parrish’s—’

‘I want you, Portia,’ he said with emphasis.

Or he wouldn’t buy it. The words remained unspoken, but Portia, visualising his usual shrug, was left in no doubt.

‘As you wish.’

‘Next weekend I fly back to London. In the meantime I shall arrange for information about my lawyers to be faxed to you, also contact numbers where I can be reached until we meet again.’

‘Thank you,’ she said briskly, secretly thrilled at her success in getting rid of the property Ben Parrish had failed to move.

‘Please arrange to leave next weekend free,’ went on Luc Brissac.

She stiffened. ‘Oh, but—’

‘I wish to inspect the property again. I cannot take possession of the keys until the house is legally mine, Portia. You must come with me. I shall drive you down to Turret House early on Saturday morning.’

For a split-second Portia was tempted to tell him exactly what he could do with his conditions, and his purchase of Turret House. But common sense prevailed. ‘Monsieur Brissac, I shall do as you ask, but with a condition of my own. I’ll drive down to the house separately and meet you there.’

There was silence for a moment, then he sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, if you insist. But please be there by mid-morning.’

‘Of course.’

‘Until Saturday, then, Portia.’

The following morning her news of the sale of Turret House was greeted with teasing surprise by her partners at Whitefriars, and deep respect by Biddy, who was still heavy-eyed and red-nosed, but slowly recovering from her cold.

‘I thought we’d never get rid of the place!’ Biddy had been with the firm for years and looked on every property sale as a personal triumph. She handed Portia a cup of coffee and lingered expectantly, obviously wanting details before she went off to start on the letters and valuations Portia had gone through with her on the Friday afternoon before sending her home to bed.

Before she’d ever heard of Luc Brissac, thought Portia. ‘The client wants me to go down to Turret House again this weekend.’

‘Was his wife with him?’ asked Biddy.

‘No, he’s not married.’

‘Then I’d better come with you.’

‘No need,’ said Portia quickly. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘I thought Mr Parrish always took people round it anyway.’

‘Monsieur Brissac insists on my personal attention for the transaction,’ said Portia. And, for reasons she preferred to keep to herself, she wanted to deal with this particular client on her own. She shot to her feet. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’m due in Belgravia in ten minutes to sell a pricey mews cottage to your favourite soap queen.’

When Ben Parrish got back from his skiing trip next day he was amazed to find Portia had managed to sell Turret House while he was away.

‘Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Luc Brissac probably took one look at you and said yes to anything you wanted.’

Ben Parrish was only a few years older than Portia, stocky, sandy-haired, and possessed of a solid brand of charm that stood him in good stead in the property business. Without ever resorting to the hard sell, he nevertheless managed to move properties at a rate envied by his colleagues at Whitefriars. But success with Turret House had eluded him.

‘You know him, then?’ asked Portia.

He nodded. ‘I sold a place in Hampstead to him quite recently. He knows one of the partners is always on call on winter weekends.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me he was coming?’

‘I thought he was due next weekend.’ He consulted his diary. ‘I’m right. He was supposed to come next Saturday, in which case I’d have taken him round the place. As I always do,’ he added significantly.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Portia, softening. ‘Anyway, he turned up last weekend, and also commands my presence down there next weekend as well. You owe me, Mr Parrish.”

Whitefriars Estates was a thriving business, which dealt with desirable properties at the top end of the market, all of them in fashionable, expensive locations. The clients were often celebrities of one kind or another, and Portia’s day was rarely boring. The week progressed in its usual way, other than a hiccup with her car. When she took it in for a service she was told it needed parts which wouldn’t be available for a day or two, which meant the car wouldn’t be ready until late on Monday.

Portia travelled by Underground the rest of the week, except for the evening she went straight from the office to dine with Joe Marcus. Joe was a property developer she’d met on her MBA course, a high-flyer, clever, with a wicked sense of humour, and determined to avoid marriage until he was at least forty. He took Portia out regularly, secure in the fact that she shared his point of view. And with Marianne in the throes of a new love affair, Portia kept the other evenings free, to get as much sleep as possible to prepare for another visit to Turret House. And a meeting with Luc Brissac again. A prospect she found herself looking forward to more than she wanted to admit.

On the Friday Portia snatched a half-hour at lunchtime for a sandwich in her office. She was immersed in the designs Biddy had prepared for a brochure, when her cellphone rang. She eyed it for a moment. Marianne’s new idol probably had clay feet. Again. With a sigh, she pressed the button.

‘Portia?’ said a voice with an unmistakable French cadence. ‘Luc Brissac.’

To her annoyance her heart missed a beat, then she tensed, suddenly afraid he was going to pull out of the deal. ‘Hello. How are you?’

‘Very well. I wish to confirm our appointment tomorrow.’

Portia let out a silent breath of relief. ‘Good. Actually, I’m glad you rang. I can’t make it to the house until noon. Does that suit you?’

‘It would suit me better to drive you there myself, Mademoiselle Portia.’

A little thrill of excitement ran through Portia. It was only practical to accept, she told herself firmly, now her car was out of action. The alternative was a train at the crack of dawn, and a taxi to take her to Turret House. Which would be sheer stupidity when she could enjoy the journey in the company of Luc Brissac.

‘You are still there?’ he asked. ‘If you have an appointment tomorrow night do not worry. I will drive you back in time. Or are you only content when driving yourself, Portia?’

‘No, of course not. Thank you. What time do you want to leave?’

‘I shall pick you up at nine. Where do you live?’

‘No need for that. I’ll meet you somewhere.’

‘I insist on coming to you, Portia. Your address, please.’

She hesitated, then told him where to collect her. ‘I’ll be ready at nine, then.’

‘I look forward to seeing you again. A demain, Portia.’

Assuming Luc Brissac would want another climb down to the cove, Portia was ready well before nine next morning in sensible shoes, black sweater, black needlecord trousers and her amber fleece jacket, shivering a little with combined cold and anticipation as she waited on the pavement.

When a Renault came to a halt at the kerb Luc Brissac jumped out, smiling. ‘Portia—you should not be standing outside in such weather.’

‘Good morning.’ She smiled. ‘I thought I’d save some time.’

Luc was dressed casually again, in suede windbreaker, cashmere sweater and elegantly battered cords, none of it any different from some of the men she knew. The difference, she decided, lay in nationality, and his air of supreme self-confidence.

‘You look delightful this morning, Portia,’ he remarked as he drove off. ‘Did your week go well?’

‘Socially and professionally very well indeed.’ Portia smiled wryly. ‘The only blot on my week was my car. It needed a bigger repair than expected.’

‘Ah.’ Luc sent a gleaming look in her direction before negotiating a busy roundabout. ‘So this is why you so meekly allow me to drive you to Turret House?’

‘Yes,’ she said demurely, and he laughed.

‘You are so bad for my self-esteem, Portia Grant. Could you not pretend you joined me for the sake of my company on the journey?’

‘I don’t do pretence,’ she informed him. ‘But I’ll admit I’m very grateful for a lift. I didn’t enjoy the drive home last Sunday.’

‘I was most concerned. It was a long evening before I could ring to assure myself that you were safe,’ he informed her.

Portia gave him a surprised look. ‘How very nice of you.’

‘Nice? Such British understatement!’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Now. Tell me. What expensive properties did you sell this week, Portia? Is business good?’

Portia told him business was surprisingly good for the time of year. The rest of the journey was spent in easy conversation more concerned with the property market and current affairs than any personal details on either side, which Portia found rather intriguing. Usually her male companions were only too ready to talk about themselves. The journey seemed much shorter than usual, and all too soon, it seemed to Portia, they came to the familiar crossroads and took the fork to Turret House.

The day was grey and cold, and without the sunshine of the week before the house looked even less inviting as Luc parked the car outside the Gothic arch of the front door.

‘It needs trees in pots and tubs filled with flowers to soften the effect of the brick,’ said Portia, getting out.

This time, with Luc for company, it was easier to unlock the door and go inside. Portia snapped on the lights quickly, but before following her Luc turned back to the car and took two folded director’s chairs from the boot, then reached in again for a picnic basket. ‘This time we drink our coffee here,’ he announced.

Portia eyed the basket in surprise. ‘That’s very big for just coffee.’

He smiled. ‘There is also a picnic for later, should you disapprove of lunch at Ravenswood. Since the kitchen is the only complete room, let us establish ourselves there.’ He paused, chairs in one hand, the basket in the other. ‘Unless you cannot bear to remain that long?’

‘But I thought the whole idea of getting me down here today was to give you access to the place,’ she said, frowning.

The green eyes met hers very directly. ‘Part of the idea only, Portia.’

Portia turned away, surprised to find she no longer felt in the least uneasy with Luc Brissac. And in his company she was not as opposed to time spent in Turret House as he obviously assumed. ‘Let’s have that coffee, then.’

Luc placed the chairs near the window looking out over the back garden, then opened one flap of the basket and filled china beakers with coffee from a vacuum flask. He added milk from another flask to Portia’s, and handed it to her with a bow.

‘Voilà. That is the way you like it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ she said impressed. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down in one of the chairs, looking at him questioningly. ‘Do you need any help with measurements, or anything like that?’

Luc smiled at her indulgently and shook his head. ‘No. But it is most kind of you to offer.’

‘Then why, exactly, am I here?’ she asked.

‘If you were not with me, legally I could not enter Turret House.’

Portia drank some of her coffee. ‘Monsieur Brissac—’

‘Luc,’ he contradicted.

‘Luc, then,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve given up a Saturday to come down here, so surely I’m entitled to know what you want me to do.’

‘But I told you that last time we met.’

She looked at him narrowly. ‘You’ve brought me all this way just to find out why I dislike Turret House?’

He shrugged. ‘Partly. But surely it is obvious to you by this time that I also desire your company?’

She stiffened. ‘You could have had that in London.’

‘Could I, Portia?’ he said swiftly. ‘If I asked you out to a purely social dinner would you accept? Non, I think not. So this way you are obliged to suffer my company, also to keep your promise.’

Portia stared down into her coffee for a moment, then looked up to meet the intent green eyes. ‘As I said, I don’t do pretence, so it’s not a case of suffering your company.’

His eyes gleamed with open triumph. ‘I am honoured, Portia. That was not easy for you to say, I think.’

‘No,’ she agreed, and smiled a little. ‘It won’t be easy to tell you what you want to know either, so I require something in return.’

‘Anything you desire,’ he said swiftly.

‘I’m curious to know why you’re buying Turret House.’

‘D’accord,’ he said promptly, then grinned. ‘Better still, you can make guesses.’

‘Right,’ she said, feeling suddenly light-hearted. ‘Let’s see, you’re getting married and intend to have a large family?’

He shook his head. ‘Wrong, mademoiselle. Try again.’

Startled by how much his answer pleased her, Portia thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve got it. You were interested in the elevator. You want the house for a retirement home!’

Luc chuckled. ‘Wrong again.’

Portia threw up a hand. ‘I give in.’

‘The house is needed as an annexe for Ravenswood. Business there is brisk, and often the hotel is obliged to turn customers away. Turret House is only a mile or two away, and there could be transport from one place to the other. Also,’ he added, ‘the private cove is a great advantage for families with children.’

Portia smiled at him in delight. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea, Luc. It’s exactly what the place needs, lots of life, with people coming and going.’

‘I’m glad you agree.’ He stood up. ‘Come, let us make another inspection. You shall look at everything with the eye of a guest, and tell me if you approve my ideas. But afterwards,’ he added with emphasis, ‘I shall keep you to your promise.’

As though bent on banishing any lingering ghosts for Portia, the sun broke through the clouds as she went through the house with Luc again. This time, looking at it with an eye to its possibilities as a hotel annexe, the house took on a new personality to Portia as they discussed possible use for each of the rooms, and which alterations would be necessary before it could function as a hotel. She grew enthusiastic and animated, stray curls escaping round her face, but tailed into silence at last as she realised Luc was looking at her without listening to a word she was saying.

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