CHAPTER TWO

      FRANCESCA had told the boutique to send not only evening gowns but a choice of day clothes too. The assistant who had brought them was deferential to say the least. ‘The Princess told us your size, senhorita, and that you were fair. I am sure you will find something here that you like.’

      Tiffany was sure of it too; all of them looked good on her, and any one of the dresses, she was equally certain, would have put her in hock for the rest of her life. Not that any of the clothes had anything so vulgar as a price-tag attached. Wondering fleetingly if she was supposed to pay for the dresses, and deciding not to worry about it, Tiffany chose a chic blue shorts suit to wear for the rest of the day and a stunning black velvet cocktail dress to wear that evening. Luckily the boutique had also sent shoes and evening bags, so she was able to put a whole outfit together.

      Francesca came in just as the assistant was packing up all the clothes, and applauded Tiffany’s choice. ‘Mmm. Nice. I wish I could wear those shorts suits, but my legs are so long I look ridiculous in them.’ Patently untrue, of course, but it was a kind thing to say. ‘Put the things on my account,’ Francesca said offhandedly as the woman left.

      ‘Oh, but really…’ Tiffany made a half-hearted protest, comfortably sure that it would be overborne.

      It was. Francesca lifted a hand to silence her. ‘No, please. My pleasure. Let’s go down, shall we?’

      She was still wearing the flame outfit, and strode ahead down the corridor towards the stairs. After they’d gone about twenty yards, Tiffany called out, ‘Hey! Do you always walk this fast?’

      Pausing at the head of the staircase, Francesca laughed. ‘Sorry. All my family are so tall that I suppose I’m not used to slowing down.’

      ‘From what you said earlier, you don’t seem to see much of them,’ Tiffany remarked, coming up to her.

      ‘Not as much as I’d like to. Especially Chris; he always seems to be somewhere I’m not, if you see what I mean.’

      ‘Don’t you live in Portugal?’

      ‘No. I have an apartment in Rome, but at the moment I’m renting a house near Paris. And you?’ she asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards the sitting-room again. ‘Do you live in Oporto?’

      ‘Yes, I’m sharing a place with friends,’ Tiffany returned, wondering what Francesca would think if she knew that ‘sharing a place’ really meant that someone she used to work with smuggled her in and out of an attic room shared with three other girls, and that Tiffany had only a sleeping-bag on the floor to call her own.

      The room was empty, but the windows opened on to the garden and they could see Calum outside on the terrace, talking to the caterer again. The two girls went out to sit at an ornamental table and Calum brought the woman over to them.

      ‘Francesca, do you have any further instructions for Mrs Beresford on the party at the quinta?’

      ‘Yes. Would you excuse me a moment, Tiffany?’

      The other girl moved away and Calum sat down beside Tiffany. He smiled. ‘I see you found something to suit you.’

      ‘Yes—much better than the bathrobe.’

      ‘But you looked very pretty in it.’

      She smiled at him under her lashes, having got the answer she wanted from him. ‘Thank you.’ Resting her chin on her hand, she looked at him attentively and said, ‘Tell me; what is a quinta?’

      She already knew, of course, but it was a good enough opening gambit.

      ‘A quinta is the Portuguese word for farm or estate. It’s where we grow the grape-vines for the port wine. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it before.’

      ‘But you see, my phrase-book only gives English to Portuguese; when it’s the other way round I’m stuck.’

      Calum laughed. ‘I’ll have to find you a two-way dictionary. That’s if you’re going to be here for very long?’ He made it a question, which was a good sign.

      ‘I don’t have any immediate plans to leave. But you were telling me about your quinta; does it have a name?’

      ‘The company owns several in the Alto Douro—that’s the Upper Douro valley. Er—you do know that the river that runs through Oporto is the Rio Douro?’

      ‘Oh, yes, I do know that,’ she assured him with amusement in her eyes.

      He nodded and gave a small smile. ‘Our principal vinegrowing estate is called the Quinta dos Colinas—the farm of the hills. That’s where we’re holding another bicentennial party, for all our workers and their families.’

      ‘Do you actually make the wine at the quinta?’

      ‘Yes, but by very modern methods. We no longer have workers treading the grapes to extract the juice.’

      Tiffany’s nose wrinkled a little. ‘Why not?’

      Reaching out, Calum tapped the end of her nose. ‘For the very reason that you just did that! No one would buy the wine if they thought it had been trodden by the great feet of peasant workers. People are too particular today; everything must be done by hygienic methods.’

      There was a slightly disparaging note in his voice which Tiffany picked up and used as a cue to say, ‘I suppose so, but treading the grapes sounds much more romantic. Have you done it yourself?’

      ‘Yes, but many years ago now.’

      ‘Do you stand in a big tub to squash them? How high do they come up?’

      ‘Not a tub, a big stone trough or tank. And on most people the grapes would come up to their knees, but on you I think it would be a little higher,’ he remarked, looking at her legs.

      ‘How unkind of you to remind me.’

      ‘Do you dislike being short?’

      ‘It’s often a great disadvantage,’ she admitted.

      ‘I really can’t see why you should think so.’

      It was a nice reply, a compliment without going overboard. Tiffany began to realise that Calum must be more experienced with women than she’d thought. His reputation in Oporto wasn’t