‘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.’
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
