style="font-size:15px;"> ‘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
