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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

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