Buch lesen: «Chris»

CHAPTER ONE

THEY were all there—the Brodeys—gathered together in the beautiful gardens of their magnificent baroque palácio near Oporto. All of them had come to celebrate the two hundredth anniversary of the House of Brodey.

This lunch party was the first in a week of festivities that would culminate in a grand ball, but today there were only about a hundred and fifty invited guests—and one gatecrasher.

Those guests who had received official invitations were mostly in the wine trade: buyers from France, America, Britain, even as far away as Australia; local shippers; expert viniculturists from the Brodey bottling plant in Vila Nova de Gaia and from their many quintas in the Alto Douro. There was a preponderance of men in dark suits, the women mostly wives or daughters invited out of courtesy.

The members of the family moved easily among them, working their way through the guests, their presence marked by the eddying circles of people around them. Perhaps the largest group was gathered around the head of the house, Calum Lennox Brodey; Old Calum, they called him, in his eighties now and his tall back a little stooped, but his eyes still bright with intelligence and enjoyment of life as he talked and laughed with his guests. A group of almost equal size stood near his grandson and heir, also named Calum, who ran the family business—or perhaps empire would be a better name for it, so wide were its interests now.

A girl—a tall, slender blonde in a flamboyantly coloured outfit that stood out from the dark business suits like a flame tree—broke away from one of the groups and went to take a glass of iced white port from one of the waiters. She was followed by a man in his late thirties, equally tall, with lean features and figure, and an air of suave charm that could only denote a Frenchman. He said something to the girl and put a possessive hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off and went to talk to some guests who were looking a little lost, smiling with warmth and putting them immediately at ease. Her name was Princess Francesca de Vieira and she was Old Calum Brodey’s granddaughter, and the man with her was a French count, rumoured to be her next husband.

There were also other members of the family from the Madeiran branch of the company at the party, but it was these three—Old Calum and his two grandchildren—that held the fixed attention of Tiffany Dean as she stood just inside one of the stone archways that led on to the terrace above the rich green lawns on which the guests stood. She knew so much about the Brodeys, had been studying them for the past two weeks, ever since she’d determined to gatecrash this party. There had been plenty of information about them, in the local Portuguese papers, of course, and in international magazines; Francesca especially had figured in the latter, her spectacular marriage to an Italian prince and her even more spectacular divorce having been grist to the mill for the gossip columnists and the even busier paparazzi.

Tiffany watched her, envious of the bright trousersuit and even more so of the other girl’s obviously innate air of self-confidence that could only come from never having to worry about money, from always having the best of everything. The best education, the best clotheseven the best men.

The younger Calum Brodey carried himself the same way, with the same slightly arrogant tilt to the chin that would have singled him out from the crowd even if he hadn’t been so tall and fair-haired. All the Brodeys were fair because it was a tradition among them that they always married blonde women—their ‘English roses’, as some romantically minded journalist had called them in an article Tiffany had read as part of her research into the family. Although she’d had no training, she had herself written a couple of articles for a magazine—light, female-orientated pieces—and her contact there, realising that an Englishwoman might stand more chance than a local, had asked her to try and do an inside story on the Brodeys, especially young Calum.

Ordinarily Tiffany would have refused—such an invasion of privacy wasn’t her scene—but circumstances had forced her to accept. The first reason was of course her almost complete lack of money; she had been out of a job for so long that she was already on the breadline and fast becoming desperate. The second was more personal. She remembered her contact, a junior editor, coming to see her and offering what seemed like a huge sum if she could get close to Calum, dig up some new gossip. ‘With your looks and your blonde hair,’ the man had said persuasively, ‘it will be easy for you. Just try to find out what goes on behind the public face they all show to the world. There’s no harm in it; they’re used to publicity and love it even if they say they don’t.’

Tiffany was shrewd enough to know that that probably wasn’t true, and despite her poverty would have refused the assignment. But she had a grudge against the Brodeys. It was through them that she’d lost the job that had brought her to Portugal in the first place. Not that she’d ever come even close to meeting any of them, of course; she had been a very insignificant cog in the large business project of which the Brodey Corporation was the principal financial investor. And it had been the Brodeys who had been the first to back out when the recession hit, making the other investors follow suit so that the project collapsed, leaving herself and all the other workers out of a job. It was her seething resentment at this uncaring ruthlessness that had finally overcome her scruples and misgivings and made her accept the on-results-only assignment. So she had gatecrashed the party, knowing it was her last chance. Her last desperate throw of the dice.

It had been far easier to get into the palácio than she’d dared to hope; Tiffany had waited until there was a queue of cars at the gate and people had started to get out impatiently and walk down the driveway, then she had merely joined a small group and walked in with them, not even needing the sentence about joining her husband inside that she had carefully rehearsed in Portuguese in case she was asked to show her invitation. But now that she was here she had to think of a way of getting herself introduced to Calum Brodey, hopefully in a way that would attract his attention. Once he’d noticed her all she had to do was hold his attention long enough for him to get interested in her. If her luck changed. If he even bothered to look at her.

Biting her lip, Tiffany determined to be positive. Taking a deep breath, she walked down the terrace steps to join the party.

A waiter came around the side of the house carrying a tray of filled glasses. Seeing Tiffany without a drink, he paused so that she could take a glass. As she did so another hand, male, reached out from behind her to take one. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a tall, broad shouldered man in a light-coloured suit. She went to walk on, but he said, ‘Hi, there. You look as if you might speak English.’

His accent immediately identified him as North American, from the States probably.

Tiffany hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘Do you have some kind of problem?’

‘Only that I don’t speak Portuguese and I hardly know anyone here. I saw you standing over there, watching everyone, and figured you might be in the same boat.’ He held out his free hand and gave her an engaging grin. ‘The name’s Sam, Sam Gallagher.’

Again Tiffany hesitated; she didn’t want to get stuck with the American, but on the other hand it might be useful to have a man in tow for a while. So she smiled in return and shook his hand. ‘I’m Tiffany Dean.’

He gave her an appreciative glance, his eyes running over her slim, petite figure in the silk suit it had cost her last penny to hire, and coming back to her face. Amusement came into his eyes as he saw that she raised a cool eyebrow, but he merely looked at his glass suspiciously and said, ‘What is this stuff?’

‘Don’t you know? It’s white port. The “in” aperitif all over Europe. I wouldn’t know about the States. Is that where you’re from?’

‘How’d you guess? Yeah, I’m from Wyoming.’

‘Do they drink a lot of port there? Are you a vintner?’

‘A wine-seller? Hell, no.’

‘I thought everyone at this party was connected with the wine trade in some way,’ Tiffany remarked. But she was making small talk, her eyes going past Sam, searching the crowd for Calum Brodey. She saw him momentarily, crossing the lawn to speak to a red-haired woman who seemed to be connected with the caterers. After the woman had nodded and hurried away, he turned back to mingle again. Tiffany began to move in his direction.

Sam, following her, said, ‘No, I have a friend who works over here with a shipping company. He couldn’t make it today so he gave me the invite. It’s quite some party. Much bigger than I expected. Do you know these Brodeys?’

She gave a casual shrug. ‘Everyone does. They’re one of the leading families in Oporto. That’s the head of the family, over there.’ She gestured towards old Mr Brodey. ‘He’s talking to one of his grandsons, Lennox Brodey, and his wife—the blonde, pregnant woman,’ she pointed.

Looking at the couple, Tiffany felt a surge of wistful jealousy. They looked so happy together, were obviously deeply in love, the woman radiant in her pregnancy, the man openly solicitous for her welfare. Two of the lucky ones, not forever being knocked down by malignant fate until one was too punch-drunk to dare to hope any more.

She nodded to where Francesca de Vieira stood among a small crowd of attentive men. ‘That’s his granddaughter, in the flame-coloured outfit.’

Sam followed her glance and she heard his sharp intake of breath. But that, she thought with some chagrin, was the kind of effect the other girl would always have on men. Drawing herself up, Tiffany fervently wished she were a foot taller, but then laughed rather scornfully at herself; no way was she ever going to grow so she had just better make the most of what she’d got. And her best assets, she knew, were her thick bell of blonde hair and a pair of large, long-lashed blue eyes set above a cute turned-up nose and a wide mouth. Not a beautiful face, but one that made people look twice, especially when she smiled or laughed, her whole face lighting up. Her figure, though unfashionably short in her own eyes, was also good enough to merit a second glance.

‘Do you live here in Portugal?’ Sam asked her as they walked on again.

‘Temporarily,’ Tiffany replied, in a tone that didn’t encourage him to go on. ‘I know hardly anyone here so I’m afraid I can’t introduce you.’

It was meant to put him off, to stop him asking more questions, to encourage him to go and find someone else, but Sam said, ‘No more do I, so I guess we may as well stick with each other.’

They were in the centre of the throng of guests now, and Tiffany would rather have been on her own. If Sam had known people, could have introduced her around, it would have been different, but she certainly didn’t want him at her side the whole afternoon. Finishing her drink, she handed him the glass and said with a smile, ‘It’s so hot; do you think you could find me another one of these? But with plenty of ice, please,’ she added so that it would take him longer.

‘Sure thing. Don’t go away; I’ll be right back.’

He moved towards the edge of the crowd, looking for a waiter. As soon as he was hidden from sight, Tiffany walked quickly to the part of the garden where she’d seen Calum Brodey. As she did so another group, consisting wholly of men, broke up amid a burst of laughter. One man turned away, a grin still on his face, and bumped into Tiffany.

‘Perdao!’ the man exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady her.

‘Er…Nño tern de que.’

He laughed. ‘You’re obviously not Portuguese.’

‘Oh, dear. Was it that bad?’ Tiffany smiled, her eyes lighting up.

‘Ten out of ten for effort.’

‘But not for pronunciation, I take it?’ Tiffany said ruefully. She glanced at his good-looking features under longish brown hair, thinking that his face seemed vaguely familiar. ‘But you don’t sound Portuguese either.’

‘I’m bilingual,’ he admitted. ‘Comes of having a mother who’s half Portuguese herself.’ Holding out his hand, he said, ‘I’m Christopher Brodey.’

Of course! That was where she’d seen his face before: in the articles that she’d studied. But as he wasn’t in the direct family line Tiffany hadn’t taken much notice of him. She tried to recall what she’d read and remembered that he had a reputation for being pretty wild in his youth. And he was still young, in his late twenties, she guessed, so maybe he still went in for fast cars, fast boats and fast women. But he might be useful.

So Tiffany shook his hand and gave him one of her best smiles as she told him her name.

‘Tiffany. That’s pretty. And unusual.’ His eyes went over her and he gave her the kind of smile that let her know he found her pretty and unusual, too. ‘I’m sure we haven’t met before or I’d have remembered. But then, I’m not often in Portugal nowadays.’ She raised a questioning eyebrow and he explained, ‘It’s my job to open up new markets for our wine, so I travel a lot.’

‘Really? That sounds exciting. And from what I’ve heard you must be a great salesman,’ she said flatteringly. ‘You sell all over the world now, don’t you?’

‘Not quite.’ He shrugged that off with a grin. ‘But I get around.’

He had an attractive smile, all crinkly eyes and boyishness. It wasn’t difficult to see how he’d got his reputation, with women anyway.

‘Where are you actually based?’ she asked.

‘That’s a difficult question. My parents live in Lisbon and have a villa in Madeira, where I lived while I was learning the wine trade. But now I spend most of my time in New York because the American market is really taking off.’

‘Oporto must be quite a come-down, then,’ Tiffany remarked, her interest caught.

Chris shook his head. ‘No, I like New York, but Portugal is home.’ Turning, he nodded towards the house. ‘And this is where I live when I’m here—with my grandfather and my cousin.’

Turning with him, Tiffany lifted her head to look at the palácio. It was so ornate, so beautiful. Two deep wings stood on either side of a magnificent entrance topped by the Brodey coat of arms, reached by fairytale staircases that branched on both sides. The walls were stark white but were relieved by the many windows topped with ornate stone pediments. There were statues on the gable-ends and huge pepper-pot chimneys on the roof, and next to the left wing a chapel that looked too delicate to hold the mass of columns and baroque stonework that covered it. And everything was so beautifully maintained, the gravel free of weeds, the box hedges of the parterres clipped to uniformity, the cherubs on the fountain in the lake sparkling in the sunlight.

‘It’s quite a place,’ Tiffany said unsteadily, then added quickly, in case he guessed that she was overawed, ‘But a perfect setting to celebrate a bicentennial, of course. Is yours the oldest port company in the area?’ she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to keep him talking.

‘No, there are others that are much older. We’re comparative newcomers. But you haven’t got a drink.’ He looked round, saw a waiter, clicked his fingers, and the man immediately came over. Chris took one too, and sipped it as he said, ‘How come you got invited to the party?’

‘Ah, well…’ Tiffany gave him a mischievous smile and put a delicately fingered hand on his sleeve as she leaned nearer to him. ‘You promise you won’t give me away?’

An amused look came into Chris’s grey eyes. ‘I’m renowned for my discretion.’

Tiffany didn’t believe that for a minute, but she said confidingly, ‘I wasn’t really invited. A colleague couldn’t come and passed on the invitation,’ she told him, borrowing Sam Gallagher’s excuse. ‘And as I hardly know anyone in Oporto I thought it would be nice to come along and perhaps meet some people who speak English.’ She smiled up at him. ‘And you see, it worked; I’ve met you for a start.’

‘Well, I’m very glad you came. And where do you work in Oporto?’

‘Down in the commercial district,’ Tiffany said airily, adding quickly, ‘I suppose you know everyone here. Will you introduce me to a few people who speak English? Your family, perhaps?’

Chris’s mouth twisted a little wryly, as if he saw through her, but he said, ‘Of course. Now, let’s see who’s near.’ He looked round. Tall, but not exceptionally so, he was still able to see over the heads of the many Portuguese guests. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘This way.’ And, putting a hand under her elbow, he led her through the throng.

Tapping a shoulder, murmuring, ‘Com licença’ he came up to where his cousin stood. But it was the wrong cousin. He’d brought her to Francesca de Vieira, and Tiffany was angrily certain that he had done so deliberately. But even the wrong cousin was better than no cousin at all, Tiffany supposed, so she smiled as the two were introduced and looked at the other girl admiringly.

‘You’re so lucky to be tall, Princess.’

‘Please, call me Francesca. And I don’t consider it an advantage. Think what a choice of men you have compared to me.’

They both laughed and looked each other over. Tiffany guessed that they were about the same age—twenty-five—and they were both blonde, but there the similarity ended. Francesca was the willowy type, thin as a reed, and able to carry off expensive designer clothes with the elegance of a trained model. Her long hair was gathered on the top of her head in a style that looked casual with loose strands framing her face, but must have taken a hairdresser an hour to do. She wore chunky costume jewellery round her neck and wrists, along with some breathtaking rings that could only be real. She’d married one rich, aristocratic husband and had another lined up. She was sleek and pampered and, on top of everything else, beautiful.

With the great disadvantage of being short, Tiffany on the other hand had to be careful to wear clothes of soft shades, like the grey silk suit she’d hired for today; bright, jazzy colours made her look ridiculous. The same went for her hair; it had to be smooth and fairly short otherwise it looked plain untidy. And if she hadn’t already sold what jewellery she had, she could never have worn anything that wasn’t simple and small. And as for men—well, that was about par for the course where her life was concerned.

As Tiffany looked at Francesca she knew she ought to hate her, but she was disarmed by the rich girl’s warmth and friendliness.

‘Tiffany doesn’t speak Portuguese very well and doesn’t know anyone here,’ Chris explained. ‘So I’ve taken her under my wing.’

His cousin flicked him an amused, speculative look. ‘Didn’t you bring her?’

Chris returned the look, then glanced at the Count. ‘No, I hadn’t anyone I cared to invite. We met quite by chance.’

‘How fortunate for you.’ Francesca said with irony.

Tiffany realised they were sparring with one another, that they knew each other well enough to tease about their private lives. Francesca’s French Count realised it too, because he put a possessive hand on her arm.

‘The buffet is about to be served. Where do you wish to sit?’

He spoke in French and Francesca answered him in the same language. ‘If you’re hungry, then go and eat. I’ll come when I’m ready.’

And there, Tiffany thought sardonically, lies the greatest difference between us. She can dismiss a man, who obviously dotes on her, almost rudely, while I must scheme and flatter just to try to get an introduction to a man who might not even like me.

But it acted as a further goad, and Tiffany put herself out to be as warm and vivacious as Francesca, making conversation with them for the next ten minutes or so as if she were used to moving in such élite circles, being as witty as she knew how, and letting her personality make up for the inequalities between them. She told a couple of anecdotes in a droll way that made Chris and Francesca laugh in genuine amusement, Chris’s deep, masculine tones drawing the attention of several people around them. Tiffany hoped it would draw his other cousin over, because the lawn was starting to clear now as the guests moved towards the other side of the house where tables had been set out for lunch.

The Count had waited for Francesca despite her rebuff, but now she took pity on him. ‘I suppose we’d better go and eat. Tiffany, you will come and sit with us, won’t you?’ She looked round. ‘Now, where’s Calum?’

Thanking her stars that things seemed to be going right at last, Tiffany smiled an acceptance of the invitation and began to stroll along with them. Calum Brodey glanced round from the group he was with and crossed to join them. His eyes flicked to Tiffany, but then he looked at Francesca and said, ‘Remember Grandfather wants us to split up.’

Francesca pouted. ‘Do we have to? I haven’t seen you or Chris for simply ages. I’d much rather sit with you both.’

Calum gave her an indulgent look. ‘We can catch up on all our news over dinner tonight.’

‘But Grandfather will be there, and you can’t really talk when he’s listening. The dear old darling gets so upset sometimes if you tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Not to mention the parents,’ she added with feeling.

‘You shouldn’t lead such a wild life,’ Calum told her, but he was smiling as he said it, just as everyone seemed to smile at Francesca.

‘All right, we’ll split up.’ Turning towards Tiffany, Francesca said, ‘I’m so sorry, Tiffany. Now you’ll have to put up with Chris. How boring for you.’

‘Hey!’ Chris protested in an injured tone.

Calum laughed and looked at Tiffany. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

Tiffany gave a great sigh of relief and pleasure and prepared to be devastating. But just at that moment Sam Gallagher strolled up to them.

‘Tiffany! So there you are. I’m afraid the ice in your drink melted so I drank it myself.’ He looked round the group, all of them regarding him with different expressions, and said a genial, ‘Hi there.’

If Tiffany had been capable of mental annihilation he would have disappeared into dust. Couldn’t the stupid man see that he wasn’t wanted, for heaven’s sake? But he just stood there, grinning amiably, expecting her to welcome him back. She sensed Calum’s withdrawal and said quickly, desperately trying to retrieve the situation, ‘This is Mr—er—I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. One of your other guests,’ she said to Calum, with a look that disowned Sam entirely.

‘It’s Gallagher. Sam Gallagher.’ Sam held out his hand to Calum and Chris, then to Francesca. ‘I guess you must be the Princess.’

‘I guess I must be, at that,’ Francesca agreed, giving him an amused, mischievous look. ‘Have you been looking for Tiffany?’

‘Yeah. I went to get her a drink but she kind of disappeared. Found someone else to talk to, I guess.’

Chris gave Tiffany a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t intend to tread on anyone’s toes.’