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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

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.’