‘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