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.
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
