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 than her reckless, headlong descent. By the time she reached the top she was out of breath. ‘As I said yesterday,’ she panted, as Luc joined her, ‘I’m out of condition.’
His all-encompassing look rendered her even more breathless. ‘Your condition looks flawless to me. Come. It is early yet for lunch, but perhaps your English pub will give us coffee.’
‘If I’d known you weren’t going back today I would have asked for a later start this morning,’ said Portia as they went back up through the garden.
He shrugged. ‘My change of plan took much effort to rearrange. I was not sure until this morning that it could be done.’
‘Why did you change your mind?’ she asked curiously, as they got in the car.
‘There would not have been time before my flight to go down to the cove after inspecting the house again. And this was necessary before I made a decision.’ He concentrated on the steep bends of the drive. ‘Also,’ he added casually, ‘I desired to spend more time with you. Now, give me directions, please. Where is this inn of yours?’
The Wheatsheaf served excellent coffee, and later provided them with a simple, but well-cooked lunch very different from the cuisine at the Ravenswood, but in its own way of a very high standard.
‘But this is very good!’ pronounced Luc, as he ate roast lamb cooked with anchovies and garlic.
Portia laughed. ‘The compliment would sound better without the astonishment.’
Luc grinned. ‘We take our food more seriously than you British.’
‘And suffer far less from heart problems, I read somewhere. Though you drink a bit more than we do,’ she added, then regretted it at the look on Luc’s face.
‘True,’ he said quietly.
‘I didn’t mean you personally, of course,’ said Portia hurriedly.
‘I know.’ His smile stopped short of his eyes. ‘You would like dessert?’
She shook her head.
‘Then perhaps we can return to the bar to talk business. Please excuse me for a moment. I shall order coffee.’ Luc seated her at a small table, then went off for a word with the barman.
Conscious of unintended transgression of some kind, Portia resolved to put a guard on her tongue for the rest of their time together. Luc had flatly refused to discuss Turret House before lunch, so her only opportunity for clinching a sale was during the short time left before her drive back to London. And outside, she noted glumly, the rain was coming down in torrents.
‘You look pensive,’ said Luc, as he rejoined her.
‘I was eyeing the weather. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut things short. It’s a fair drive back to London.’
‘I know.’ He put a hand on hers. ‘Stay the night at the Ravenswood again, Portia, and drive back in the morning.’
So, Jean-Christophe Lucien Brissac was no different from the rest after all. Portia removed her hand abruptly, utterly astounded by the discovery that she was deeply tempted to say yes.
‘No, I can’t do that,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m quite accustomed to long journeys in any weather. So, shall we discuss Turret House, or have you made your decision already?’
‘I was not asking to share your room, Miss Grant,’ he said icily. ‘My concern was for your safety, only.’
‘Of course.’ Utterly mortified, Portia began packing her briefcase. ‘I shan’t rush you. I didn’t expect a firm answer today, anyway. Perhaps you’ll get in touch as soon as possible and let me know what you decide. In the meantime—’
‘In the meantime, sit down and drink your coffee,’ said Luc, with a note of command. ‘You mistake me,’ he added as she resumed her seat. ‘Also you insult me.’
She frowned. ‘Insult you?’
‘Yes. It is not my habit to force my way into a woman’s bed. Even a woman as alluring and challenging as you,’ he informed her.
Portia calmed down a little. ‘My apologies,’ she said stiffly.
There was silence between them for a moment.
‘You have been troubled by clients before?’ Luc asked.
‘No. My clients usually come in