Chris. Sally Wentworth
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for more? And he was in his thirties—high time he went looking for a wife. But that wife would have to be fair, to carry on the Brodey tradition. Everyone knew that, so all the dark-haired girls, the brunettes and the redheads, sighed and left him alone, certain they would be wasting their time if they made a play for him. And there weren’t too many blondes in Portugal, which was why Tiffany had thought him inexperienced. But that, of course, was stupid: even if the girl he eventually married had to be a blonde, that didn’t stop him gaining experience with all the others.
He started to describe the first grape-treading he had been taken to, as a baby, still in his mother’s arms. ‘It’s a tradition, you see. It’s supposed to get wine-making into our blood.’
Behind them, Chris came out on to the terrace and overheard. Pulling out a chair, he turned it round to sit astride it, his arms along the back. ‘But all it did was to give us a taste for wine from an early age. At least, it did in my case.’
Annoyed that he’d interrupted her tête-à-tête with Calum, Tiffany hid it behind a smile. ‘I’m not surprised. But obviously it didn’t work with your father.’
Chris raised an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Someone at your party said he was an artist, that he wasn’t part of the family firm,’ she said quickly, inwardly cursing herself for making such a stupid slip.
Calum nodded. ‘That’s so, but he still appreciates a good wine.’
Chris gave her an amused look. ‘Who was it told you he was an artist?’ he asked, guessing her thoughts, wanting to needle her.
But Tiffany was a match for him. ‘Wasn’t it you?’ she said sweetly. A glint came into his eyes, but she turned quickly back to Calum. ‘Are you interested in art, Calum? I’m afraid I know very little about Portuguese painters but I went to an exhibition recently at the museum. Did you go to it?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact our company was one of the organisers. A group has been formed to try to sponsor and encourage contemporary painters. Not that I agree with everything they do.’
‘You don’t like modern art?’
They got into a discussion on the subject, and she was on safe ground here because she really had been to the exhibition—when she’d read that Calum was one of the sponsors—and had also done a lot of reading since. She didn’t overstate it, but could see that Calum was impressed by her knowledge. It was hard, though, to keep up her end of the conversation when out of the corner of her eye she could see Chris watching her, a sardonic curl 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,