Praise for
Kate Hardy’s writing:

GOOD GIRL OR GOLD-DIGGER?

‘Refreshing, captivating and feel-good, GOOD GIRL OR GOLD-DIGGER? is another winner from a fabulous writer whose name alone is sure-fire guarantee of high-quality romantic fiction: Kate Hardy!’

—cataromance.com

PLAYBOY BOSS, PREGNANCY OF PASSION

‘This story features a strong heroine who gains strength from her family, and a hero who realises the importance of love and family before it’s too late. Add in their captivating romance and it makes for one great read.’

—romantictimes.com

SURRENDER TO THE PLAYBOY SHEIKH

‘Surrender yourself to this sexy and romantic attraction-at-first-sight story. Every aspect is spot-on, from the smoking-hot pair to the sensual step-by-step build-up as attraction turns to love. This hero is definitely a keeper!’

—romantictimes.com

THE GREEK DOCTOR’S NEW-YEAR BABY is romantic storytelling at its best! Poignant, enjoyable and absolutely terrific…Kate Hardy proves once again that when it comes to romantic fiction she’s up there with the very best!’

—cataromance.com

FALLING FOR THE PLAYBOY MILLIONAIRE—

‘Kate Hardy never fails to deliver poignant, dramatic, realistic and heartwarming romantic fiction…With its cast of wonderfully believable and fantastic characters, and plenty of powerful emotion and dramatic intensity, FALLING FOR THE PLAYBOY MILLIONAIRE is another dazzling keeper from one of the finest writers of high-quality romantic fiction: Kate Hardy!’

—pinkheartsocietyreviews.blogspot.com

‘You’re a party girl.’ So he’d been right, at heart. She was a media darling—just like his ex-wife.

‘Uh-huh.’ She sighed. ‘But don’t believe everything you see in the press about me.’

‘You’re in the press a lot?’ Although her face seemed familiar, he couldn’t quite place her. He skimmed the business news, most of the time online because it was quicker; he certainly didn’t read the gossip and celeb pages in the newspapers.

But Amber was stunning: next to her, all the other women seemed plain.

And that unsettled him. He’d been here before. Lost his heart and his head to a gorgeous media darling. Married her within a month. And he’d really repented at leisure.

Not that he had any intention of getting involved with Amber. He needed to focus on getting his career back on track. He couldn’t afford to let his libido get in the way.

Amber smiled at him. ‘Excuse me, Guy. I enjoyed our chat. Catch you later.’

And then she was gone.

Funny how his little corner of the terrace had suddenly lost its brightness. Guy shook himself. She wasn’t his type. And he’d be crazy to let himself think otherwise.

Champagne With A Celebrity

By

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HARDY lives in Norwich, in the east of England, with her husband, two children, one bouncy spaniel, and too many books to count! When she’s not busy writing romance or researching local history, she also loves cooking—see if you can spot the recipes sneaked into her books. (They’re also on her website, along with excerpts and the stories behind the books.)

Writing for Mills & Boon has been a dream come true for Kate—something she’s wanted to do ever since she was twelve. She’s been writing Medical™ Romances since 2001, and also writes for Modern Heat™; her novel BREAKFAST AT GIOVANNI’S won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Romance Prize in 2008. She says she loves what she does because she gets to learn lots of new things when she’s researching the background to a book: add warmth, heart and passion, plus a new gorgeous hero every time, and it’s the perfect job!

Kate’s always delighted to hear from readers, so do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com

Recent titles by the same author:

Modern Heat™

RED WINE AND HER SEXY EX

GOOD GIRL OR GOLD-DIGGER?

TEMPORARY BOSS, PERMANENT MISTRESS

Medical™ Romance

NEUROSURGEON…AND MUM

THE DOCTOR’S LOST-AND-FOUND BRIDE

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

WE’LL have to wait and see. The phrase that Guy had come to hate most in the entire world. How the hell could he be patient about this, when it could turn his entire world upside down?

But this was the second specialist to say it. His third medical opinion in as many months. And while ‘we’ll have to wait and see if your sense of smell returns’ might be perfectly acceptable advice for most people, it absolutely wasn’t fine for a parfumier. Guy couldn’t do his job properly without his sense of smell.

He’d been covering it up for three months now. It was only a matter of time before someone found out. And then things would get seriously difficult; as it was, his business partner wanted to accept a huge conglomerate’s offer to buy out the perfume house. Guy had resisted, so far—he wanted to keep them focused on what their customers wanted, and continue to support local suppliers—but this would give Philippe the ammunition he needed to force the sale. How could GL Parfums possibly continue as it was, when its head of research and development had lost his ‘nose’?

Hell, hell, hell.

He’d been banking on this last specialist being able to help him. On being able to offer him something more than just waiting to see if it cleared up by itself, because the only possible reason for it was damage caused by the virus. He’d sat perfectly still and gone through the truly nasty procedure of having a camera on a tube fed up his nose and into his sinuses. He’d taken vitamin supplements. He’d spent hours online, scouring every possibility, reading the forums of every support group. And still he was being told, ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

Worse, the specialist had added that it could take up to three years for his sense of smell to come back, and even then it might not come back fully.

Three years?

The last three months had been bad enough.

The prospect of spending three years like this was torture.

Besides, he couldn’t wait for three years. The perfume house couldn’t afford to stand still—if they didn’t develop new fragrances or extend their current lines, they’d have no chance of competing in the market. And then it would go under and everyone would lose their jobs. His staff had supported him and believed in his dreams so much that they’d even taken a pay cut, in the early days, to keep the perfume house going. How could he let them down?

Unless he hired someone to be his ‘nose’ at the perfume house in his stead…and then his own role would have to change. He’d have to shoulder a lot more of the admin and the marketing—the things he’d always been relaxed about delegating, because he’d been happiest in his lab developing new fragrances. Hiring another parfumier would mean that he could keep the perfume house going; but it also meant that the perfume house would stop being his dream. It’d just be a job. He’d be living half a life, unable to do what he loved most: the thing that got him up in the mornings and made him glad to be alive.

He knew it was selfish of him—and unfair—but he really didn’t think he could bear that.

Thank God he’d finalised the formula for the new perfume before his sense of smell had gone. That would buy him a few more months. And then he’d just have to hope to hell that whatever the problem was with his nose could be fixed. That he could find a specialist who could help him.

And somehow he had to drag himself back from the brink so he could be smiling, urbane, sweet-natured Guy Lefèvre, best man at his brother’s wedding. He wasn’t going to drop the vaguest hint that his life was turning into a nightmare: no way was he going to ruin Xav and Allie’s happiness with his own misery.

‘Smile,’ he told himself harshly, ‘and look as if you mean it.’ And he was supposed to be out here cutting roses for the table arrangements, not making clandestine calls on his mobile phone to an ENT specialist and brooding in his garden. Better get on with it, before someone came to find out what was taking him so long.

‘Sheryl, it’s gorgeous. It’s just like what I expected a French château to be like. Did you get the photo I sent you?’ Amber asked.

‘Yes. All tall windows and old stone. Very glam.’

‘It’s a bit shabby inside,’ Amber admitted, ‘but a little bit of work could fix that. Change the faded drapes for voile and light damask, paint the walls white with just a hint of rose, and get someone to polish the parquet and the panelling. And there’s this amazing chandelier in the hallway. Needs cleaning, mind, but it’s a stunner.’

Sheryl laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to persuade Allie to lend you the place for a party?’

‘I’m tempted,’ Amber admitted. ‘How much would people pay for a weekend house party in France, do you think? Or maybe a Marie Antoinette-themed dinner?’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re meant to be having fun at a wedding, and you’re spotting locations for a possible charity ball.’

‘Well, yeah. It’s gorgeous, Sher. The kitchen’s to die for. It’s enormous. There’s this old terracotta floor, cream-painted cabinets—and they’re obviously handmade—gleaming copper pans and a scrubbed wooden table.’ The kind of kitchen she would love to have, herself.

‘Just as well the paps can’t hear you,’ Sheryl teased. ‘If only they knew that Bambi Wynne the party girl likes being all domesticated.’

‘Just as well you won’t tell them, then,’ Amber retorted, knowing that her best friend was completely trustworthy and would never betray her to the media. She pushed away the thought that she’d actually quite like to be domesticated, pottering round at home with a family to settle down with. Being the centre of someone’s world.

How ridiculous.

She had a fabulous life—one that most people would envy. A nice flat in a fashionable part of London; good friends to meet for lunch and go shopping with; invitations to celebrity parties and cinema premières. Her time was her own, and if she fancied shopping in Milan, Paris or New York she could just hop on a plane without having to worry. She was on decent terms with all her family, so why on earth would she have this hankering to be tied down?

She shook herself. ‘And the rose garden here. I’ve never seen so many in one place before. You know that corner of the handmade soap shop we like in Covent Garden? Walking through here’s even better than that. Like drinking roses every time you breathe in.’ On impulse, she wandered over to one choice bloom and picked it. She sniffed deeply and sighed. ‘This has to be the most beautiful scent in the world.’

Guy rounded the corner and stared in disbelief.

Véra?

Common sense kicked in. No, of course Xav wouldn’t have invited his ex to the wedding. Even if Allie knew her through work, he very much doubted that she and Véra would be friends. Allie wasn’t in the least bit princessy, whereas his ex-wife had turned out to be a demanding, selfish diva. More fool him for letting his heart rule his head and not letting himself see what she was really like before he’d married her.

Then the woman turned, and Guy realised that he’d actually been holding his breath.

It wasn’t Véra.

Though this woman was physically very like his ex: tall and slender, with legs that went on for ever. She wore her hair the same way, in long, dark spiral curls; even though Guy knew better than to act on the impulse, his fingers tingled with the urge to find out if they felt as silky as they looked. And he’d just bet that under those dark glasses she’d have huge blue eyes, enhanced by coloured contact lenses and super-volumising mascara to make them even more striking.

She was obviously one of the wedding guests. One of Allie’s friends, he guessed, because she looked the media type—she was beautifully groomed, even in jeans and a T-shirt. And she was chatting happily on her mobile phone as she strolled through the roses, gesturing with her free hand. She looked absolutely carefree.

And then, to his shock, she stooped and snapped off one of the roses.

Oh, now this really wasn’t on. He didn’t mind people wandering in his garden, but he did mind them interfering with his roses. What would she do next—toss it to the ground and tread on it, now it had served her whim?

He strode over to her. ‘Excuse me.’

She looked up. ‘Oh. Got to go, call you later,’ she said swiftly into her phone, and ended the call before giving him the most dazzling smile. ‘Sorry about that. Was there something you wanted?’

He gestured to the rose in her hand. ‘Don’t you think you should ask first?’

She frowned. ‘It’s beautiful, and flowers are for sharing. I didn’t think Allie and Xav would mind if I picked a single rose for my room.’

‘It’s not their garden,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Oh.’ Colour bloomed in her cheeks, making her skin look as pink and as soft as the rose in her hand. ‘Well, in that case, I apologise.’ She gave a disarming shrug and another of those sweet, sweet smiles. ‘I guess it’s a tad late to ask permission now.’

She pushed her sunglasses up over her forehead to the crown of her head, and Guy felt his body tighten. She didn’t have blue eyes. They were a deep, deep brown, and absolutely enormous. And, from his time with Véra, he could tell that she wasn’t wearing much make-up at all: not even mascara to define those amazing eyes. Just the barest sheen of lipstick. Then again, she didn’t actually need make-up. She had to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, including the days when Guy had been married to a supermodel and had mixed with some of the most gorgeous women in the world.

And no doubt she knew just how stunning she was, because she bent her head slightly to sniff the rose, looking up at him. The perfect coquettish pose—one that was very close to his ex’s trademark.

‘This really is the most amazing scent,’ she said.

He knew that. Except he couldn’t smell it any more. Only something like the ghost of a scent—so it was more likely that he was simply remembering what they smelled like instead of actually smelling them. And memory wasn’t enough. ‘Yes,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

‘I didn’t think roses would still be blooming at the end of September.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘Still, I guess this is the Med. Or near enough.’

He knew he ought to be polite. She was a guest in his home. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t smell, and it certainly wasn’t her fault that she reminded him of Véra. But she’d pressed all his buttons; he was nearly crazy with the frustration of not being able to fix the two biggest problems in his life; and the strain of keeping it from those he loved most—because he knew they already had enough on their plate and didn’t need the extra worry about him—wasn’t doing a lot for his temper.

‘If you don’t know where we are, try looking at a map,’ he suggested. ‘And kindly don’t damage any more of my roses.’ He turned on his heel and walked off, without a backward glance. He needed to get out of here. Now. Allie’s roses would just have to wait.

Amber stared at the man’s retreating back.

Wow.

What had she done? Were these prize-winning roses and he was the gardener, or something? It would certainly explain why there were so many roses around here. Didn’t posh gardeners have lots of different varieties though, and pride themselves on breeding different ones? Most of these roses seemed to be the same colour, cream at the centre shading to a deep blush-pink at the edges.

And what did he mean, it was his garden? Surely it belonged to the château and the vineyard? Or maybe he’d been the gardener here for years and felt that it was ‘his’ spiritually.

All that suppressed anger, over one little rose.

Crazy.

Though she felt a tiny bit guilty. He was right about one thing: she was a guest, and she should’ve resisted the impulse to pick a rose for her room. Or at least asked first.

Never mind. She’d ask Allie about her gorgeous sexy gardener—and if he ever smiled. Because, even though he’d been all brooding and simmering, she’d noticed how gorgeous he was. Sun-bleached fair hair, eyes the colour of a summer evening sky and a mouth that promised passion, all wrapped up with a seriously hot body.

She rolled her eyes. Picking a rose, without asking, was enough of a gaffe. Seducing her friend’s gardener would definitely be off limits. Besides, after that embarrassing feature in Celebrity Life a month ago—detailing every single one of her boyfriends over the past year, how long they’d lasted and how they’d dumped her—she’d decided to steer clear of men for a while.

She headed back to her room, filled the glass in her bathroom with water and put the rose in it, then placed it on the table next to her bed.

This place was so gorgeous. OK, so the walls needed a lick of paint and the heavy gold damask curtains were faded and the rug was a bit threadbare, but the half-tester bed was like a fairy princess’s. The whole place screamed ‘shabby chic’ and history. And her room had the most amazing view over the rose garden. It was the kind of room where you’d be quite happy to get up early in the morning, because you’d get to see the sun rising over the garden.

Lucky Allie, having all this at her disposal.

And definitely lucky her, having a friend who could invite her to stay somewhere so fabulous.

She wandered down to the kitchen; Allie was sitting at the kitchen table with someone else she recognised and hadn’t seen for ages. ‘Gina!’ She gave the designer a huge hug, kissing both cheeks. ‘When did you get here?’

‘The taxi dropped me off ten minutes ago.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You should’ve texted me. I could’ve waited at the airport for you and given you a lift. Never mind.’ She hugged her again. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

‘The coffee’s hot, if you want some,’ Allie said with a smile.

‘Yes, please.’ She poured herself a mug from the cafetière and added a splash of milk. ‘By the way, Allie, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve just upset your gardener.’

‘My gardener?’ Allie looked surprised.

‘He caught me picking one of the roses. He was a bit cross with me.’

Allie frowned. ‘I don’t have a gard—oh, wait. Was he tall, blond and gorgeous?’

‘Tall and blond, yes.’ Amber shrugged. ‘Gorgeous…’ Definitely. ‘He might be, if he wasn’t scowling.’

Allie blinked. ‘Guy never scowls.’

‘Who’s Guy?’ Amber asked.

‘Xav’s brother. It’s his château.’

Oh. So it really was his garden. Amber bit her lip. ‘In that case, I owe him an apology.’

‘Sorry, it’s my fault. I should’ve warned you that he’s precious about his roses, so don’t touch them.’

‘He’s a garden expert?’

‘Parfumier,’ Allie corrected. ‘You’ve heard of GL Parfums?’ At Amber’s nod, she said, ‘That’s him. Guy Lefèvre.’

‘GL Parfums? They do that fantastic shower gel. The citrussy one,’ Gina said. ‘They were going on about it in Celebrity Life, the other week, about how it was the best pick-me-up ever.’

Amber groaned. ‘Don’t mention them.’

Gina hugged her. ‘They gave you quite a mauling last month, didn’t they?’

‘Mmm, and how the hell did they find out that Raoul the Rat dumped me by text? I swear they must be tapping my mobile.’ She deliberately kept her voice light, but that feature had hurt. And Raoul had hurt her badly. She’d thought he was different, that he might be The One—but he’d turned out to be yet another of the liars and losers she always seemed to date. Sometimes she thought it was as if she had a tattoo on her forehead that was invisible when she looked in the mirror, but was written in neon colours for everyone else. Shallow and heartless? Take me, I’m yours!

She shook herself. ‘Let’s talk about something nicer. So that’s his fragrance, is it?’

Allie nodded. ‘That was the first scent Guy made for the perfume house. Originally it was an aftershave, but then he extended the line. Actually, Gina, I know he wants to talk to you because he likes what you did for our labels. He said something about a new project.’

‘Really? Oh, I’d love the chance to work with him,’ Gina said, looking enthusiastic. ‘His perfumes are brilliant and it’d be a fantastic opportunity for me to be involved in designing packaging or what have you for a new perfume.’

Xav strolled into the kitchen, wrapped his arms round his wife-to-be and kissed her. ‘Have you seen Guy anywhere, ma belle?’

‘No, though we were just talking about him being a genius with scent,’ Allie said.

‘Then he’s probably sneaked off to his lab,’ Xav said, and kissed her again. ‘I’d better go and fish him out, because we have a hot date with a barbecue lined up.’

‘That’s a terrible pun,’ Allie said, laughing. ‘Hot date with a barbecue, indeed.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better get started on the salads, I guess.’

‘Count me in for kitchen duties,’ Amber said as Xav left the kitchen. ‘Important things first: what are you doing for pudding?’

‘Pudding?’ Allie’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh, no. I forgot pudding. How could I do that?’

‘Because you’re getting married tomorrow and have a dozen more pressing things to think about?’ Amber suggested.

Allie sighed. ‘I’d better run down to the village and get something from Nicole’s. She makes the best tarte tatin in the world.’

Amber couldn’t resist the opportunity of getting her hands properly on this kitchen. ‘I could make pudding,’ she said. ‘We had this amazing one at the ball last month.’ She pulled up some of the photographs on her phone to show them.

‘Oh, wow, that looks fantastic,’ Gina said.

‘And it tastes even better. Is there somewhere in the village that’d sell raspberries and passion fruit?’

‘Nicole’s farm shop,’ Allie said.

‘Righty—I’ll go shopping. Allie, if you could chat up your scary brother-in-law and wheedle three roses out of him, I’ll be right back.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Course not. Is there anything else you need?’

‘No.’

But Amber could see in her face that Allie was having an attack of butterflies. If this Nicole made great pastries, hopefully she’d sell chocolate as well. Cake would do, at a pinch.

It didn’t take long to buy the ingredients she needed. She drove back to the château, then put her hair into a ponytail, ready to start cooking. ‘Oh—before I forget. Butterfly-taming material,’ she said with a smile, handing over the chocolates.

‘You’re wonderful. And I got what you asked for.’ Allie produced three roses.

‘Fantastic. I’m going to play.’ Amber carefully painted the petals with egg-white, dipped them in icing sugar and set them to dry while Gina and Allie were in charge of the salads. She cooked the meringue and prepared as much of the filling as she could. ‘I need to assemble this at the very last minute, or it’ll be soggy and disgusting,’ she said, ‘so I’ll do it when people have nearly finished eating, OK?’

‘More than OK,’ Allie said, giving her a hug. ‘I don’t know why Celebrity Life keeps making you out to be an airhead. They really have no idea about who you really are.’

Amber knew exactly why they did it. She’d turned down a date with one of the journos and, even though she thought she’d been tactful in her refusal, he’d really taken a huff. As a result, the magazine’s favourite sport seemed to be Amber-baiting. She tried her best to ignore the snide headlines—When will Bambi be a Wynne-r in love?—but it was starting to rankle. After that last nasty feature, she’d had to stop herself going to the office and punching him on the nose. Ignoring him was the best policy. She’d just have to grit her teeth; someone else would do something indiscreet, soon enough, to take the spotlight off her.

‘Who cares about Celebrity Life?’ she said lightly, and picked up a platter of bread to take out to the terrace.

Xav was already cooking things on the grill, and Guy was pouring wine for all the wedding guests who were staying overnight at the château.

He handed her a glass in silence.

Time to fix things, she thought. She was definitely in the wrong about the rose, and it wouldn’t be fair for Allie and Xav to have needless tension at their wedding. ‘Guy, may I have a word, please?’ she asked.

He looked wary. ‘Why?’

‘I owe you an apology,’ she said, ‘for picking your flowers without asking. Especially as I didn’t have the manners to introduce myself when we met. I know your name and that you’re Xav’s brother. I’m Amber Wynne. Nice to meet you.’ She held out her hand to shake his.

For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse, but then he took her hand and shook it. The second his skin touched hers, desire jolted through her, shocking her with its intensity; judging by the surprise in his eyes, quickly masked, it was the same for him.

Interesting.

Except, she reminded herself, she was off men. Her love life was a disaster area, and she’d promised herself a break for the next six months.

‘I owe you an apology, too, Amber,’ he said, surprising her. ‘You’re a guest and I shouldn’t have snapped at you. My only excuse is that you caught me at a bad time.’

‘And your roses are important to you. I thought you were maybe the gardener,’ Amber said, ‘but I take it that you grow them for your perfume?’

Guy looked slightly taken aback, clearly realising that she’d talked to Allie about him. ‘Well, yes.’

‘May I?’ She gestured to the chair next to him. At his brief nod, she sat down. ‘You have a beautiful garden,’ she said, ‘and a beautiful home.’ And she really hoped he hadn’t overheard her telling Sheryl that it needed a bit of work. ‘Thank you so much for letting me stay here.’

He shrugged. ‘You’re a wedding guest—any friend of my sister-in-law-to-be is a friend of my family.’

Guy had been prepared to dislike Amber, because she reminded him so much of Véra, but there was an easy warmth about her; to his surprise, he found himself relaxing and chatting to her. And when she encouraged him to talk more about his roses, for one crazy moment he thought he could smell them. On her skin.

No. Of course not. The virus he’d caught three months ago had put paid to that. But, all the same, she intrigued him.

And attracted him. An attraction he wouldn’t let himself act on—not while his life was in chaos and all his energy seemed to be used up in fighting the fear that the career he loved was over. Besides, she was only here for the wedding. It wasn’t as if their paths were likely to cross again in the near future. There was no point in starting something he had no intention of continuing.

When Allie and Gina started to clear away, Amber stood up and started helping—something else Guy hadn’t expected. Véra would have considered herself a guest and therefore someone to be waited on, not someone to help with the waiting.

As if she read the expression on his face, she said, ‘I’m in charge of pudding. Back in a minute.’ She smiled, and was gone.

And what a pudding. She came back holding a platter containing two soft meringue roulades, filled with what looked like some kind of cream-and-fruit mixture; the top was decorated with candied rose-petals and a drizzle of passion-fruit seeds, and she’d found some indoor sparklers somewhere and stuck those in, too, so her pudding could make a real entrance.

‘So that’s why Allie wanted three more roses,’ he said when she brought him a slice neatly plated.

She looked awkward. ‘Sorry, but they were so perfect for this—cream in the centre shading out to deep pink at the edges.’

‘And candying them must’ve taken you a while.’

‘It’s the little details that make the difference,’ she said simply.

‘And you pay attention to them.’ Again, he hadn’t expected that. He’d pigeonholed her as a careless, thoughtless diva. How had she managed to wrong foot him so completely? He gestured to the pudding to cover his awkwardness. ‘This looks good. Are you a chef?’

She shook her head. ‘I like messing about in the kitchen. But being a chef would mean working crazy hours. Not my thing.’

‘So what is your thing?’ he asked, suddenly curious.

‘I organise parties.’

He blinked. ‘You organise parties?’

‘It’s how I met Allie. She came to one of my parties, a couple of years back, and we hit it off. We’ve become friends.’

‘You’re a party girl.’ So he’d been right, at heart. She was a media darling—just like his ex-wife.

‘Uh-huh.’ She sighed. ‘But don’t believe everything you see in the press about me.’

‘You’re in the press a lot?’ Although her face seemed familiar, he couldn’t quite place her. He skimmed the business news, most of the time online because it was quicker; he certainly didn’t read the gossip and celeb pages in the newspapers, and the only time he saw one of the celeb magazines was if the cuttings agency sent it over because it contained a piece about GL Parfums. One of the things that drove his business partner, Phillipe, crazy was Guy’s insistence on low-key product launches—but Guy had already been burned by the media. Badly. And he wasn’t giving them a chance to dig around in his life again.

‘She’s the darling of the celeb mags, our Bambi,’ Gina said, coming over and draping her arms round Amber’s neck.

‘Bambi?’ The question was out before he could stop it.

‘Because of those big brown eyes and the legs up to her armpits. If she wasn’t so nice,’ Gina said cheerfully, ‘we’d all hate her for looking this good. Everyone else has to work at it. Not her. She could be wearing a sack after having no sleep for a week, and she’d still manage to look glamorous and start setting a trend! Life just isn’t fair.’

Amber laughed. ‘Thank you for the compliment, Gina, but you have to credit my mother for giving me her genes. And if you’d let me get you out of your “I’m an artist so I must wear black” uniform and put you in some colour to show off that porcelain skin, beautiful auburn hair and those gorgeous eyes, there’d be a queue of men from here to Paris.’

‘No chance. I’m an artist,’ Gina retorted, returning the grin.

‘Hopeless,’ Amber said, rolling her eyes. ‘Tell her, Guy. She’s gorgeous.’

‘She’s gorgeous,’ Guy said dutifully. Gina was pretty enough. But Amber was stunning: next to her, all the other women seemed plain.

And that unsettled him. He’d been here before. Lost his heart and his head to a gorgeous media darling. Married her within a month. And he’d really repented at leisure.

Not that he had any intention of getting involved with Amber. Even if she didn’t remind him of the biggest mistake of his life, he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Not right now, when his life was such a mess. He needed to focus on getting his career back on track. On finding a cure for his loss of smell. He couldn’t afford to let his libido get in the way.

‘Come and help me with the coffee?’ Gina asked.

‘Sure.’ Amber smiled at her. ‘Excuse me, Guy. I enjoyed our chat. Catch you later.’

And then she was gone.

Funny how his little corner of the terrace had suddenly lost its brightness. Guy shook himself. She wasn’t his type. And he’d be crazy to let himself think otherwise.

Chapter Two

THE next morning, Amber was awake before the alarm on her mobile phone went off. She had a quick shower and washed her hair, then headed for the kitchen. Allie and Gina were already there, having breakfast; she joined them, then did their nails afterwards and then made them sit to dry their nails properly while she sorted out the washing up.

Next was make-up and hair; and she was intrigued by the differences between a French wedding and an English one. ‘So you have two wedding ceremonies—the official one at the Mairie, where you wear a business suit, and then at the church, where you have the white dress?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ Allie confirmed.

‘Two weddings. That’s just greedy,’ Amber said, laughing. She stood back to look at her handiwork. ‘Oh, Allie—Xav’s going to take one look at you and then be desperate to carry you off to his lair.’

‘You look stunning,’ Gina agreed. ‘Radiant.’

Allie flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Ah, that’s what you’re supposed to say to all brides.’

‘But it’s still true,’ Amber said. She pushed back the tiny bit of wistfulness: ridiculous. Right at the moment, she didn’t even want to date anyone, let alone get married and settle down.

When Amélie, the flower-girl, arrived, Amber sat on the floor with her and taught her a counting song to make her feel less shy and more at ease, then did her hair, too.

‘I look like a princess!’ the little girl exclaimed in French when Amber showed her in the mirror.

‘You certainly do,’ Amber said, giving her a hug. ‘Absolutely beautiful. And now I’d better get ready myself. See you all in a bit!’

Guy stared as Amber walked out of the château. Yesterday, in jeans and a T-shirt, she’d been stunning enough. But, dressed up, she was unbelievably gorgeous. As elegant as Audrey Hepburn, in a gold silk dress with spaghetti straps and matching strappy sandals; and her hair was piled on top of her head, secured with pearl-headed pins.

He was glad that he’d offered to drive some of the wedding party to the Mairie. At least concentrating on the road would keep his thoughts off Amber. Her smile, warm and bright and yet with a hint of unexpected shyness, made heat coil low in his belly and desire creep all the way up his spine. Worse still, his fingers itched to take the pins out of her hair and tumble her curls over her shoulders. And then he had a thought that really stopped him in his tracks: the idea of her hair tumbled across his pillow.

Oh, hell—he really had to get a grip.

‘Bonjour, Guy.’ Her voice was soft, low-pitched, a little bit on the posh side. Sexy as hell. ‘Allie says you’re driving us. Thank you.’

‘Pleasure,’ he responded automatically. ‘Grab a seat.’

When she climbed into the front seat next to him, he really wished he’d been more specific and told her to sit in the back. It took all his concentration to drive to the village, knowing that every time he changed gear his hand was only a few centimetres away from her thigh. Especially as the hemline of her dress had already ridden up above her knee to reveal smooth, touchable skin—and she didn’t seem in the slightest bit aware of it! She was chatting happily about how this was the first time she’d ever been to a French wedding and she was dying to see the croquembouche, the wedding cake made from choux buns held together in a pyramid with caramel.

This woman had the power to drive him crazy. Which made her very, very dangerous.

The wedding service at the Mairie was short and sweet; while Allie and Xav changed, the rest of the wedding party had a glass of wine in the café in the square, a couple of doors down, while they waited. Amber opted for a coffee rather than wine, wanting to pace herself; although she was chatting with some of the other guests, something made her break off mid-conversation and turn round.

And then she realised why.

Guy had walked into the café, looking stunning in a tailcoat, sky-blue waistcoat and matching cravat. Formal dress really suited him, and Amber wasn’t surprised that all the other women in the coffee shop were staring at him, too. Guy Lefèvre was the kind of man who attracted attention, even though he didn’t seem to be aware of it. There was just something about him and, when his gaze meshed with hers for a moment, her heart gave an odd little flip.

Oh, this was bad. Even if she wasn’t officially being celibate, she couldn’t possibly fall for Guy Lefèvre. He might not be one of the rats she usually dated, but she knew it would never work between them; they were from completely different worlds.

Then Allegra and Xavier appeared at the door. Allegra’s wedding dress was simple and elegant, in pure white; she wore a simple tiara in her hair, and carried an exquisite bouquet of white roses. Gina, as chief bridesmaid, was holding Amélie the flower-girl’s hand; both wore similar dresses to Allegra’s, but in the same sky-blue as Xavier and Guy’s waistcoats, and the little girl’s dress had a deep blue velvet sash round it.

The whole wedding party walked to the tiny church on the edge of the village, led by the bride and groom; white ribbons were strewn between the hedgerows, blocking their path, until Allegra and Xavier cut them. Clearly this was some kind of French tradition; Amber made a mental note to ask Allie about it later. The church was ancient and pretty, built in pale stone; inside, it was full of light. At the altar there were two red velvet chairs placed beneath a silk canopy—clearly waiting for the bride and groom—and as they walked in Allegra’s mother played the violin, a sweet and haunting piece of Bach.

Although the service was conducted entirely in French, Amber could just about follow what was going on. As Allegra and Xavier exchanged rings Amber thought wistfully how lucky Allegra was to have found her one true love. She didn’t think she’d ever find one herself.

And then she was cross with herself for letting herself be maudlin. She loved weddings and parties. And, as Allie had claimed that French weddings went on all night and finished at breakfast, Amber had every intention of having a good time.

When the bride and groom had been showered in dried delphinium petals outside the church and had stepped over the laurel leaves strewn on the path, the champagne reception began in the churchyard. The vin d’honneur, or the toast to the bride and groom: Amber knew that the whole village was invited to this part. And when Xavier poured a glass of champagne at the base of one of the gravestones and Allegra did the same to what looked like a much newer grave without a headstone, Amber realised it was a way of including those who were no longer with them—obviously Allie’s great-uncle, and someone who presumably had been very close to Xav.

Back at the château, a huge marquee had been set up on the lawn, with tables edging a dance-floor. Time for the champagne reception. But what she hadn’t expected was the way the champagne was opened. Guy and Xavier were both wielding curved sabres. They held the bottles with the corks pointing away from them, slid the sabres towards the corks and the corks flew out of the bottles with a short burst of champagne.

Amber had never seen anything like it. It was even more impressive than watching someone do a cascade of champagne glasses. If she could persuade Guy to teach her how to do it, it would be so fantastic for next year’s midsummer ball.

Her chance to ask him came when she found herself unexpectedly seated next to him for the formal meal.

‘That thing you did with the champagne was very impressive,’ she said.

He lifted one shoulder. ‘The sabrage, you mean?’

‘It’s not something I’ve seen before,’ she said. ‘So I take it that it’s a traditional French thing?’

‘Yes. It’s from Napoleonic times—the Hussars celebrated victory by sabring the top off a bottle of champagne while they were still riding their horses at full gallop.’

And she could just imagine Guy in a Hussar officer’s uniform. He’d look stunning on horseback. Sexy as hell.

With difficulty, she dragged her mind back to what he’d said. ‘That sounds like a recipe for disaster, with glass flying all over the place—doesn’t some of the glass get in the champagne?’

‘No. The pressure of the champagne takes everything out.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Was she going to question everything he said? Guy wondered. Or was she really interested? To test her, he gave her all the facts and figures. ‘It’s a matter of holding the bottle at the right angle and hitting the lip of the bottle in the right place—at the seam, where it’s weakest. And it’s not a sharp sword—it’s a champagne sabre, modelled on the design of the Hussars’ swords.’

‘So, with training, anyone could do it?’

‘With training, yes.’ And suddenly he realised the hole he’d just dug himself. Surely she wasn’t going to ask him to let her have a go?

She smiled. ‘Any chance of you teaching me?’

‘Why would you want to learn that?’ he parried.

‘I already told you, I organise parties. And that includes a midsummer ball to raise funds for cancer research. Opening champagne like that at the ball would be spectacular—even better than the cascade of champagne glasses we did this year.’

‘Why cancer research?’ he asked.

‘Because my favourite grandmother had breast cancer.’ For a moment, a shadow crossed her face, but then she smiled. ‘She’s in remission right now, but this is my way of doing something to help.’

‘Partying.’

‘If you organise parties well and people have a good time, they’re prepared to pay a lot of money for the tickets, which means the charity makes more,’ she said. ‘Sure, I could’ve done a sponsored walk or sat in a tub of baked beans or what have you, but this is more fun. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.’ She grimaced. ‘And that wasn’t meant to be a pun on my name.’

That sounded personal, Guy thought. No doubt the press enjoyed making puns with her name.

‘Actually, I might as well be bold,’ she said. ‘As well as the money I make from the ticket sales, I hold a tombola to raise funds—big things, like a make-over, or a balloon flight, or a spa day, or a portrait by a really good photographer. I’ve managed to get dinner with a heart-throb in there too, by getting Mum to chat up one of her friends.’

‘Your mother being…?’

‘Libby Wynne, the actress.’

Oh, so that was why she looked familiar. Now he knew, he could see the resemblance. Though if pressed he’d say that Amber was even more beautiful than her mother.

‘So, as you’re this genius parfumier,’ she continued, ‘could I put you down for making a personalised scent for someone?’

It was the worst thing she could possibly have asked him.

Four months ago, he would probably have smiled and said yes. Now, he had no idea if he’d actually be able to do it. ‘It’s not just something you do on a whim,’ he said coolly.

She spread her hands. ‘Obviously there’s more to it than just mixing a couple of oils together.’

‘A lot more.’

‘If designing a scent is too much to ask, maybe I could ask you for a gift basket instead—a big one?’

He wasn’t sure if her chutzpah amused him or terrified him. ‘You’re utterly shameless, aren’t you?’

‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’ She shrugged. ‘What’s the problem? I can’t expect people to read my mind.’

What’s the problem? he thought. My problem is that I’m incredibly attracted to you and I really don’t need this. Not right now. ‘Whatever,’ he drawled. ‘Put me down for a basket—just tell Allie nearer the time and I’ll sort something out. And I’d better circulate a bit. We have dancing between courses, with this being a French wedding.’ And please don’t suggest I start dancing with you, he begged inwardly.

She didn’t—and then he discovered he was disappointed that she hadn’t asked.

Crazy.

He needed his head examined.

Amber recognised the tune of the first dance—‘Time After Time.’ It seemed to be traditional in France, too, that the newlyweds should start the dancing, followed by the best man and the chief bridesmaid. And such a beautiful song, she thought wistfully, mentally singing the lyrics. Would she ever find someone who’d catch her when she fell, someone who’d wait for her and support her? Judging by her past relationships, probably not; she always managed to pick the complete opposite.

She took a sip of her champagne. Enough of the pity party. This was a wedding, and she was going to have fun. There were loads of people here she hadn’t met yet, and a few people who looked shy and a bit left out. One thing she was good at was getting a party going—and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Guy knew exactly where Amber was, even when his back was to her, because he could hear laughter. She was clearly working the party. Asking for more donations for her charity ball? he wondered, and sneaked a look.

No, she was fetching drinks for his great-aunts and charming his great-uncles, and there was an approving smile on all their faces as she chatted with them. He was beginning to see why she organised parties: she had excellent people skills and the gift of putting people at their ease.

Then she went up to Allie’s parents. This would definitely be worth watching, he thought, no longer hiding the fact that he was looking at her. The Beauchamps were notoriously standoffish; they’d been the parents from hell for Allie, and if Amber asked them to come and do a guest number at her ball, for nothing, he knew they’d send her away with a flea in her ear. They might even use it as an excuse to flounce off and fly back to wherever they were next playing a concert.

And then he blinked. Was he seeing things? Emma Beauchamp was actually smiling. Either Amber had met her before—and, even though she was a friend of Allie’s, he thought that unlikely—or her people skills were even better than he’d thought. If she could thaw Emma Beauchamp, she could charm anyone.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Amber. Clearly deciding that she’d schmoozed enough, she started dancing. But not on her own. And not a sexy, siren-type call to all the men who also couldn’t take their eyes off her, either. No, she’d got all the children together in a group, and she was teaching them a simple routine. The girls all seemed thrilled that one of the grown-ups was paying them so much attention, and the boys were all clearly bowled over by her smile and couldn’t do enough to please her. And their parents were all watching her with an indulgent smile; as soon as she noticed, she beckoned them to come up and join in. Within ten minutes, all the people who hadn’t been dancing were up on their feet, joining in. And when one little girl slipped over, Amber scooped her up, gave her a cuddle to dry her tears and had her smiling again within a minute.

Amber clearly didn’t care about grubby finger-marks, despite the fact that her dress was obviously expensive. She was all about fun.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, Guy fetched a flute of champagne and took it over to her. ‘You look hot,’ he said.

She dimpled at him. ‘Now, are you saying my face is bright red, Monsieur Lefèvre, or was that an offer to dance with me?’

‘Uh, I meant you’ve been dancing for ages and probably needed a drink, not that you look…’ His voice faded and he could feel his own face heating. Especially as the look in her eyes told him that she knew he was lying. The attraction was mutual. He could tell by the way her lips parted, inviting him to kiss her—and it looked like an unconscious reaction rather than a planned seduction. ‘All right. Both,’ he admitted.

Her grin broadened. ‘Well, hey. I did wonder if my dress was a bit too short.’

Above the knee. Yeah. He’d noticed. But her words made him look again.

For a moment, his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Then he called her bluff. ‘Nice knees, Mademoiselle Wynne.’

‘Why, thank you, Monsieur Lefèvre. And for the drink.’ She took the glass, and it felt like an electric shock going through him when her fingers briefly brushed against his. And he definitely couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth as she sipped delicately at the rim.

She had a beautiful mouth.

Irresistible.

And at that second he knew that, at some point tonight, he was going to kiss her. And he knew that she’d be kissing him right back.

The jazz band switched into a number Amber recognised. The tango from the old Al Pacino film she’d watched with her mother a few months ago and loved. Even though she knew it’d be much more sensible to sit this one out and not bait Guy any further, her mouth wasn’t working in sync with her brain. ‘Dare you.’

‘Dare me?’ His eyes were suddenly very, very dark.

Shut up, Amber, shut up now, she warned herself. But her mouth was on a roll. ‘Or can’t you tango?’

‘Challenging me, Amber? Isn’t that a bit risky?’

Say no. Back off. Sit down, her brain telegraphed urgently.

Her mouth was having none of it. It smiled. Taunted him. ‘Bite me, Guy.’

With slow, deliberate movements, he took the glass from her hand and set it down on the table. Then he yanked her into his arms, so his mouth was next to her ear. ‘Bite you, hmm?’ he drawled, his voice low and incredibly sexy. ‘I’m taking that as an offer, mon ange.’

Amber was very, very glad that he was holding her up. Because she could imagine his teeth grazing her skin as he explored her all over with his mouth, and the idea sent her weak at the knees. Not to mention sending her pulse rate into overdrive.

It looked as if she’d just unleashed a monster.

There was no going back, because then Guy began to dance with her.

She’d danced with professionals, but it had felt nothing like this. With them, it had been choreography and patience. This was something more elemental, leaving her aware of every beat of blood through her body. Her body was reacting to his closeness, growing more aroused every time he spun her back into his body and wrapped his arms round her midriff, holding her close to him, sliding one leg between hers and encouraging her to do the same to him.

What would’ve been choreography with anyone else felt like a prelude to sex with Guy. A thigh pressed between hers. Another press, making her wonder what it would feel like to have his bare skin against hers, his legs tangled with hers. A withdrawal, as if he’d pulled out of her body, ready to surge back in as deeply as he could. Her body pressed against his, hip to hip and belly to belly and breast to breast. The scent of his skin, overlaid with a light citrussy fragrance that made her want to taste him.

Nothing existed except Guy and the music. Every nerve-end was concentrated on him—on the way his body touched hers, teasing and enticing and promising all at the same time.

And then she felt the brush of his lips against the bare skin of her shoulder, a feather-light contact that made a pulse beat hard between her legs.

His eyes were dark, a stormy blue in the evening light. Did he feel this same deep throb of desire? Was he thinking about what it would be like to kiss each other properly, hot and wet and urgent?

Bite me, she’d said.

And how she wanted to feel his mouth on her body. Teasing her. Arousing her. Taking her right over the edge.

And then the music came to an abrupt end. Shockingly so.

‘Bravo, Mademoiselle Wynne,’ Guy whispered in her ear in the final hold.

Amber was even more shocked when people actually clapped them.

Oh, no. Don’t say they’d been the only dancers on the floor?

But when she glanced round, the dance-floor was empty.

This was bad. He was going to think she was a total show-off. And although she opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she hadn’t meant this to happen, the words just wouldn’t come. She didn’t have a clue what to say.

Celebrity Life would have a field day with her, because she was behaving just like the airhead they always made her out to be.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered finally.

He drew closer, stooped slightly so that his breath fanned her ear. ‘I’m not. That was…enlightening.’

And she was in too deep. Way too deep. ‘Could I, um, get a glass of water or something?’ she asked.

He raised an eyebrow, as if calling her a coward. ‘Sure.’ He escorted her over to the bar area, and ordered them both a glass of iced water. ‘So where did you learn to dance like that?’

‘I had lessons when I was in my teens.’

‘And?’

She sighed. ‘All right. I’ve dated a couple of dancers. And, because I organise the balls, I’ve talked a few professionals into coming and giving a display before the general dancing starts. One of them taught me to tango.’

‘Like that?’

She laughed wryly. ‘Hardly.’ She’d never danced quite like that with anyone before.

‘Why not?’

Because the dancer hadn’t turned her on, the way Guy Lefèvre did. There hadn’t been the chemistry—on either side. ‘Let’s just say I would’ve needed a Y chromosome for it to work,’ she said drily.

Guy raised an eyebrow. ‘Nicely put.’

‘Maybe. I’m sorry. My mouth runs away with me. Thank you for the water.’

‘Pleasure.’ But he didn’t move away and start circulating, as she’d expected. He sat down with her.

This should be relaxing. It was the first time she’d sat down since the jazz trio started playing. But it felt as if she were sitting on hot coals. She couldn’t stop fidgeting.

‘What’s the matter, Amber?’ he asked softly.

‘Nothing.’

‘Liar.’

She took a deep breath. ‘How many more times do I have to apologise to you?’

‘You don’t.’ He sighed, set his glass down and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘Come on.’

‘What—you want to dance again?’

‘It’s noisy in here.’ In silence, he shepherded her away from the marquee and the dancing, to the peace of the rose garden.

This was bad, Amber thought. Very bad. Leaving a wedding party before the bride and groom was incredibly rude—unless things were different in France, which she somehow doubted. And if anyone had noticed, it meant she’d have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

‘Dance with me here,’ he said softly.

She could still hear the music from the jazz trio, but here it was muted. Soft and dreamy and incredibly lovely. And the air was filled with the scent of roses. How could she resist stepping into his arms?

One of Guy’s hands was splayed across the bare skin between her shoulders. His touch made her skin tingle—and she wanted more. Much more. She found herself moving closer, wrapping her arms tightly round him. His cheek was pressed against hers, and Amber wasn’t sure which of them moved, but then his lips were brushing the corner of her mouth. Like gossamer, but it lit a fire deep inside her.

She kissed him back, still keeping it light.

In return, his mouth turned coaxing, drawing a line of tiny, nibbling kisses all the way along her lower lip.

With a small sigh of pleasure, she opened her mouth to let him deepen the kiss. And it was like nothing else she’d ever experienced. Nobody she’d ever kissed before had made her feel literally weak at the knees, making her hold onto him for dear life. Every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his skin against hers, stoked the desire higher and higher. Wanting more, she couldn’t help pressing against him, shifting her stance slightly so that he could slide one thigh between hers—just as he’d done when they’d danced the tango, except this time there was no audience. Just the two of them.

Then he pulled back. ‘This probably isn’t a good idea.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she agreed.

‘Tell me to stop.’ He hooked his thumb into the strap of her dress and bared her shoulder before nibbling his way along it.

‘I can’t.’ She undid his cravat, then the top three buttons of his shirt, and pressed her mouth against his throat in a hot, wet, demanding kiss.

‘Amber.’ His voice was husky. ‘Last warning. Tell me to stop.’

She undid his waistcoat, then finished undoing his shirt. ‘Go,’ she whispered.

In response, Guy scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the house.

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