Champagne with a Celebrity. Kate Hardy
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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