Читать книгу Champagne with a Celebrity - Kate Hardy - Страница 8

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.