of amusement to his lip, knowing exactly what the score was.
It was almost a relief when Francesca came back to join them and the conversation became general. She sat in between Calum and Chris, and they began to swap family stories and information, talking about people Tiffany had never heard of. Tiffany got to her feet. ‘What time is dinner?’
‘Oh, dear, don’t let us drive you away, Tiffany. I’m sorry; it’s just that we haven’t seen each other for so long,’ Francesca said, putting up a hand to stop her. ‘We didn’t mean to bore you. Chris, why don’t you take Tiffany for a walk round the garden while I catch up on Calum’s news? I’ll get round to you later.’
‘Oh, no, please. I’d just as soon——’
‘But I insist,’ Chris broke in. ‘Francesca can tell me all her secrets later.’
‘What makes you think I have any secrets?’
Chris bent to kiss her cheek. ‘You always have—and until some man comes along who can tame you you always will.’
‘Hark at the man! A psychologist now,’ Francesca scoffed. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve decided to marry Michel.’
‘Congratulations. I’ll give it six months.’
‘Six months!’ Francesca exclaimed indignantly.
Chris gave her a contemplative look. ‘No, perhaps you’re right. Three months should have you bored to tears and walking out on him.’
Picking up a cushion, his cousin threw it at him, then pointedly turned her back. Chris chuckled and walked away, but Tiffany noticed that Francesca turned her head to look after him, a strange, desolate kind of look in her eyes.
Tiffany didn’t want to be alone with Chris, was afraid that he would taunt her again, and had already decided that as soon as they were out of sight of the others she would make an excuse and leave him. But when they reached the far end of the lawn he said, ‘I don’t think you’ve seen the rest of the garden, have you? Let’s go this way.’
‘Thanks, but I’d really like to have a bath and change before dinner.’
Tiffany went to turn away but he reached out and put a firm hand under her elbow. ‘There’s plenty of time yet. Come and see the fruit garden.’
His grip was firm and Tiffany knew he wasn’t about to let her go. She gave him an angry glare but had to go with him.
At the end of the ornamental garden there was what looked to be a very high, dense hedge sloping down the hill on which the house stood, but she was amazed to find that it was actually two hedges with a path that descended by flights of stairs between them. The hedges met overhead, giving a cool, shady walk, with occasional shafts of sunlight where there were openings into the garden. Stone seats were set into arbours and there were marble statues of wood-nymphs on plinths, the white stone standing out against the deep green of the hedges.
Tiffany gave an involuntary exclamation of surprise and delight. ‘These gardens are magnificent! It must have taken years for these hedges to grow.’
‘About a generation, I think,’ Chris answered. ‘My great-grandfather planted them for his wife. She was a Scot and found the climate of Portugal far too hot in the summer. Our ancestor, the original Calum Lennox Brodey who founded the House of Brodey, came from Scotland; that’s why the names Calum and Lennox are always passed down the generations.’
Tiffany was silent for a moment, then said on a wry, wistful note, ‘You and your cousins; you’re really into ancestors and family traditions, aren’t you?’
‘You have something against that?’ Chris turned his head to look at her, his eyes fixed on her face.
She gave a small shrug. ‘Not really. It’s just hard to understand when—when you’ve never experienced it before.’
‘You have no family of your own?’
They reached the end of the green tunnel and emerged on to another terrace that looked out over the rest of the hill. In every direction the slopes were covered in fruit trees and bushes in neat rows, facing south, facing the sun, which was turning red now, beginning to set.
‘Is all this your ground?’ Tiffany asked, ignoring his question.
‘It belongs to the house, yes. We’ve started diversifying by growing fruit for jam-making and preserves, that kind of thing.’ Walking over to a nearby tree, Chris reached up to pick a bunch of cherries and brought them over to her. ‘Here, try some.’
The cherries were deep red and fat. Tiffany put one into her mouth and bit through the skin. Juice, hot and sweet, spurted into her mouth, tasting like nectar. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the sensual pleasure of the taste on her tongue. She couldn’t remember ever having had fruit straight from a tree before; it had always come cold and tasteless from a supermarket, when it could be afforded at all.
‘Mmm, delicious.’ She opened her eyes, took the stone from her mouth, and found Chris watching her with a look of sexual awareness in his eyes. It was a look that she had seen many times before and knew how to use, or not use, as she chose. And she certainly didn’t have any use for it now, she thought with annoyance.
Flicking the stone away, she turned to go back, but Chris said, ‘Wait,’ and caught her wrist. ‘You have juice on your mouth.’ Tiffany lifted a finger to wipe it off, but he said softly, ‘No, let me.’ His eyes darkened and he bent to lick the juice away with his tongue.
Immediately Tiffany shoved him away. ‘Keep away from me. And don’t get any ideas,’ she warned, blue eyes sparking angrily.
‘But you looked so sexy.’
‘How I look is no concern of yours.’
‘Ah, saving yourself for Calum, are you?’ Chris stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re aiming high, Tiffany.’
She tossed her head. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing, I suppose. But you’re not the kind of girl that Calum goes for—even if you are a blonde. Is that what gave you the idea of making a play for him; did you hear about the family tradition?’
Tiffany didn’t answer, knowing there was no point in telling him she’d never heard of the tradition until she’d started reading up on the family. But she felt a surge of guilt because, once having read about it, she had thought that being blonde herself might help her to get to know Calum.
She flashed him a furious look that Chris immediately took as an answer in itself. He laughed shortly. ‘I thought so. Do you know how many blonde girls—natural and dyed—have thrown themselves at Calum’s head? A dozen of them. You can bet your life after an article mentioning the tradition has appeared in the Press some blonde will—accidentally—bump into one or other of us. It’s become a family joke.’
Tiffany bit her lip. So much for a brilliantly original idea, she thought wryly. But then she remembered that she and Calum had seemed to get on well when they were alone together. When they were allowed to be alone together. Her chin coming up, she said, ‘What makes you so sure of the type of girl he likes? You may be surprised.’
‘I
