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
