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 brand of charm that stood him in good stead in the property business. Without ever resorting to the hard sell, he nevertheless managed to move properties at a rate envied by his colleagues at Whitefriars. But success with Turret House had eluded him.
‘You know him, then?’ asked Portia.
He nodded. ‘I sold a place in Hampstead to him quite recently. He knows one of the partners is always on call on winter weekends.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me he was coming?’
‘I thought he was due next weekend.’ He consulted his diary. ‘I’m right. He was supposed to come next Saturday, in which case I’d have taken him round the place. As I always do,’ he added significantly.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Portia, softening. ‘Anyway, he turned up last weekend, and also commands my presence down there next weekend as well. You owe me, Mr Parrish.”
Whitefriars Estates was a thriving business, which dealt with desirable properties at the top end of the market, all of them in fashionable, expensive locations. The clients were often celebrities of one kind or another, and Portia’s day was rarely boring. The week progressed in its usual way, other than a hiccup with her car. When she took it in for a service she was told it needed parts which wouldn’t be available for a day or two, which meant the car wouldn’t be ready until late on Monday.
Portia travelled by Underground the rest of the week, except for the evening she went straight from the office to dine with Joe Marcus. Joe was a property developer she’d met on her MBA course, a high-flyer, clever, with a wicked sense of humour, and determined to avoid marriage until he was at least forty. He took Portia out regularly, secure in the fact that she shared his point of view. And with Marianne in the throes of a new love affair, Portia kept the other evenings free, to get as much sleep as possible to prepare for another visit to Turret House. And a meeting with Luc Brissac again. A prospect she found herself looking forward to more than she wanted to admit.
On the Friday Portia snatched a half-hour at lunchtime for a sandwich in her office. She was immersed in the designs Biddy had prepared for a brochure, when her cellphone rang. She eyed it for a moment. Marianne’s new idol probably had clay feet. Again. With a sigh, she pressed the button.
‘Portia?’ said a voice with an unmistakable French cadence. ‘Luc Brissac.’
To her annoyance her heart missed a beat, then she tensed, suddenly afraid he was going to pull out of the deal. ‘Hello. How are you?’
‘Very well. I wish to confirm our appointment tomorrow.’
Portia let out a silent breath of relief. ‘Good. Actually, I’m glad you rang. I can’t make it to the house until noon. Does that suit you?’
‘It would suit me better to drive you there myself, Mademoiselle Portia.’
A little thrill of excitement ran through Portia. It was only practical to accept, she told herself firmly, now her car was out of action. The alternative was a train at the crack of dawn, and a taxi to take her to Turret House. Which would be sheer stupidity when she could enjoy the journey in the company of Luc Brissac.
‘You are still there?’ he asked. ‘If you have an appointment tomorrow night do not worry. I will drive you back in time. Or are you only content when driving yourself, Portia?’
‘No, of course not. Thank you. What time do you want to leave?’
‘I shall pick you up at nine. Where do you live?’
‘No need for that. I’ll meet you somewhere.’
‘I insist on coming to you, Portia. Your address, please.’
She hesitated, then told him where to collect her. ‘I’ll be ready at nine, then.’
‘I look forward to seeing you again. A demain, Portia.’
Assuming Luc Brissac would want another climb down to the cove, Portia was ready well before nine next morning in sensible shoes, black sweater, black needlecord trousers and her amber fleece jacket, shivering a little with combined cold and anticipation as she waited on the pavement.
When a Renault came to a halt at the kerb Luc Brissac jumped out, smiling. ‘Portia—you should not be standing outside in such weather.’
‘Good morning.’ She smiled. ‘I thought I’d save some time.’
Luc was dressed casually again, in suede windbreaker, cashmere sweater and elegantly battered cords, none of it any different from some of the men she knew. The difference, she decided, lay in nationality, and his air of supreme self-confidence.
‘You look delightful this morning, Portia,’ he remarked as he drove off. ‘Did your week go well?’
‘Socially and professionally very well indeed.’ Portia smiled wryly. ‘The only blot on my week was my car. It needed a bigger repair than expected.’
‘Ah.’ Luc sent a gleaming look in her direction before negotiating a busy roundabout. ‘So this is why you so meekly allow me to drive you to Turret House?’
‘Yes,’ she said demurely, and he laughed.
‘You are so bad for my self-esteem, Portia Grant. Could you not pretend you joined me for the sake of my company on the journey?’
‘I don’t do pretence,’ she informed him. ‘But I’ll admit I’m very grateful for a lift. I didn’t enjoy the drive home last Sunday.’
‘I was most concerned. It was a long evening before I could ring to assure myself that you were safe,’ he informed her.
Portia gave him a surprised look. ‘How very nice of you.’
‘Nice? Such British understatement!’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Now. Tell me. What expensive properties did you sell this week, Portia? Is business good?’
Portia told him business was surprisingly good for the time of year. The rest of the journey was spent in easy conversation more concerned with the property market and current affairs than any personal details on either side, which Portia found rather intriguing. Usually her male companions were only too ready to talk about themselves. The journey seemed much shorter than usual, and all too soon, it seemed to Portia, they came to the familiar crossroads and took the fork to Turret House.
The day was grey and cold, and without the sunshine of the