Luc's Revenge. CATHERINE GEORGE
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up the last flight to the top of the tower. She switched on the light, waved her client ahead of her into the room, then stood just inside the door, her back against the wall, feeling giddy with relief.
‘The view here is quite marvellous in the daytime,’ she said breathlessly.
The Frenchman eyed her with concern. ‘You are very pale. Are you unwell, mademoiselle?’
‘No. I’m fine.’ She managed a smile. ‘Out of condition. I need more exercise.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘But not at this moment, I think. Is this the button for the ascenseur? Let us test its efficiency.’
In the claustrophobic, strangely threatening confines of the small elevator Portia felt hemmed in by her companion’s physical proximity, very conscious of dark, narrowed eyes fixed on her face as they glided silently to the ground floor.
‘Most impressive,’ he remarked as they went out into the hall.
‘Installed in the early part of the century, when the house was fitted with electricity,’ said Portia unevenly, the blood beginning to flow normally in her veins once they were out of the tower. ‘Have you seen everything you want, Monsieur Brissac?’
‘For the moment, yes. Tomorrow, in daylight, I shall make a more detailed inspection. I believe there is a path down to a private cove?’
Portia nodded. ‘But there’s been no maintenance work done on it for a long time. I’m not sure how safe it is.’
‘If the weather permits we shall explore and find out.’ He frowned slightly. ‘You have not shown other prospective purchasers round Turret House?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite a number,’ she contradicted him quickly. ‘The property’s attracted a lot of interest.’
‘I meant you, personally, Miss Grant.’
‘Myself, no, I haven’t,’ she admitted. ‘My colleague, Mr Parrish, owns a weekend cottage in the area, so he usually does the viewing.’ She smiled politely. ‘Have you any more questions?’
‘Of course, many more. But I shall ask them tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Soon it will be time for our dinner. Let us drive to the hotel.’
Our dinner?
Again he read her mind with ease. He smiled. ‘I am entertaining some clients to dinner at the Ravenswood. Will you join us?’
Portia shook her head. ‘You’re very kind, but I won’t, thanks. It’s an early start tomorrow, so I’ll have supper in my room, then get some sleep.’
‘A boring programme,’ he observed as Portia switched off the last of the lights.
‘But very attractive to me after a busy working week,’ she assured him pleasantly.
‘Then I trust you will enjoy it. Alors, you will go first so I can make sure you arrive at Ravenswood safely.’
With no intention of telling him she knew the area like the back of her hand, Portia said goodbye, got in her car, and drove swiftly down the winding drive, then accelerated into the narrow road, intent on getting to the hotel before him. But by the time she’d parked under the trees in the courtyard and taken her overnight bag from her boot her client was at her elbow, to take the bag and escort her into the foyer.
‘This is Miss Grant of Whitefriars Estates,’ he informed the pretty receptionist. The girl greeted him warmly, consulted a computer screen and handed Portia a key.
‘Twenty-four?’ he said, frowning. ‘Is that the best you can do, Frances? What other rooms are free tonight?’
‘None, I’m afraid, Monsieur Brissac.’ She eyed him uncertainly. ‘Some of the guests haven’t arrived yet. Shall I juggle a bit?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I shall take twenty-four. Give Miss Grant my room. She appreciates a view.’
The obliging Frances dimpled. ‘All the rooms have views, Monsieur Brissac.’
‘But some are more beautiful than others,’ he countered, smiling. Frances flushed and handed over a new key to her guest, something in her eyes which rather puzzled Portia. It was only later, in the large, inviting room with a tester bed and a view over floodlit parkland, that she realised the receptionist had felt envious. And, much against her will, she could understand why. Monsieur Brissac was a formidably attractive man, with a charm she was by no means wholly immune to herself. But the charm was oddly familiar. Yet she was quite certain she’d never met him before. Her client wasn’t the type of man women forgot.
Portia unpacked her overnight bag deep in thought. The dimpled Frances obviously knew this Brissac man very well. Was he the hotel manager? That didn’t fit, somehow, if he was inspecting a nearby property. Maybe he was just a customer, regular and valued enough to ask a favour. In which case, what, exactly, was the favour? Maybe his room was next door, and this was the reason for the envy. Portia made a swift inspection, but there was no connecting door to another room. She frowned, annoyed with herself. Going back to Turret House again had addled her brain. Monsieur Brissac’s impatience had quickly changed to something different—and familiar—the moment he’d taken a good look at her, it was true. But otherwise he’d been faultlessly circumspect. He’d tuned in sharply enough to her uneasiness in Turret House, though. Which was unsurprising. Her reluctance had been hard to hide as they entered the tower, and her relief equally obvious when they left it. Tomorrow she would be more in control, now the initial ordeal was over.
Portia had packed very little. With no intention of eating in the dining room, a suitable dress had been unnecessary. A couple of novels and some room service completed her plan for an evening spent in remarkably pleasant surroundings. The room was quite wonderful, with luxuriously comfortable chairs and sofa, and gleaming bronze lamps. On a low table magazines flanked a silver tray laden with glasses, a decanter of sherry, dishes of nuts and tiny savoury biscuits. And a refrigerator masquerading as an antique chest held soft drinks and various spirits and wines, even champagne.
Portia took a quick look at the menus on the dressing table, then rang for tea to tide her over until the lobster salad she’d chosen for dinner later on. Once the tea tray arrived Portia tipped the polite young waiter and locked the door behind him. She pulled off her hat, unpinned her hair and ran her fingers through crackling bronze curls which sprang free as though glad to escape. Then she removed her tailored brown suit and silk shirt and hung them up, pulled off her long suede boots and removed her stockings, then wrapped herself in the white towelling dressing gown provided by the hotel. With a sigh of pleasure she sank down on the sofa with a cup of tea, nibbled on one of the accompanying petits fours, and gazed out over parkland lit so cleverly it looked bathed with moonlight.
When she was young it had always been her ambition to stay in the Ravenswood, which featured in smart magazines, offering weekend breaks of unbridled luxury. The room was exquisitely furnished, and the bathroom was vast, with a tub big enough to swim in and everything else a guest could need, right down to a separate telephone. A bit different from her usual company-funded overnight stops when inspections or viewings took her too far to return to base overnight.
So now, surprisingly, she could resume her plans for the weekend right here. She could read, watch a television programme, even request a video from the list provided.
Portia got up to draw the curtains, then picked up her book and prepared to enjoy the evening just as she’d planned to at home. Only tonight, after a long, leisurely bath, she would read herself to sleep in the picturesque tester bed, and someone would bring her breakfast on a tray in the morning. Wonderful. When a knock heralded the arrival of her dinner, punctual to the minute, Portia tightened the sash on the dressing gown and went on bare feet to open the door to the waiter. And confronted the elegant figure of Monsieur Brissac instead.
They stared at each other for a moment in mutual surprise, then his eyes moved from her bare feet to the tumbled hair. She thrust it back quickly, heat rising in her face as her pulse astonished her by racing at the sight of him. The Frenchman was obviously fresh from