Champagne with a Celebrity. Kate Hardy

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.

      Chapter Three

      GUY paused at the top of the stairs, set her on her feet, backed her against the wall and kissed her again. Thoroughly. By the time he broke the kiss, Amber’s knees felt decidedly weak, and she was forced to cling to the front of his shirt to hold herself up.

      His gaze was hot and intense as he touched the backs of his fingers against her cheek. ‘Alors, mon ange,’ he said, his voice low and soft and incredibly sexy. ‘In the rose garden, I gave you the chance to stop. This really is your last warning. If we don’t stop now, I’m going to take you to my bed.’

      ‘I’d rather that was a promise than a threat.’

      ‘A promise of what?’

      ‘Pleasure. For both of us. Just for tonight.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m a disaster area when it comes to relationships. But there’s a spark between you and me, and the way you danced with me…I can’t ignore that.’

      ‘I’m not exactly good at relationships, myself,’ Guy told her. ‘And I’m not looking to get involved with anyone.’

      ‘Right. So we both know where we stand.’ She stood on tiptoe, and pressed her mouth lightly against his. Nibbled his lower lip.

      He gave an exclamation of what sounded like mingled need and frustration, and kissed her back, his mouth hot and sweet and demanding.

      Then he took her hand and led her to the end of the corridor. Not to her room, she noticed: he took her to his.

      It turned out to be similar to hers, with a huge old-fashioned half-tester bed covered in pure white bed-linen. The walls were painted teal, and the heavy damask curtains were a similar shade, lightened with cream voile; there were rugs scattered across the polished wooden floor, and a landscape painting hung on one wall.

      No doubt in some of the rooms there would be portraits of his ancestors—men in eighteenth-century costume who looked exactly like Guy, with those same amazing blue eyes and that sun-kissed hair.

      And who knew? Maybe one of them had danced with a woman at a wedding, and the attraction had been so strong that he’d carried her up the stairs to this very same bed…

      ‘Are you still sure you want to do this?’ Guy asked softly.

      She trailed a forefinger down his chest. He really could’ve been a model for one of his own perfume ads. Muscular without being overdeveloped, his skin burnished to gold by the sun and beautiful enough to make any woman want to reach out and touch him. ‘Absolutely. I had these pictures in my head when you danced the tango with me,’ she admitted softly.

      His gaze was scorching. ‘I hope they’re the same pictures that were in mine.’

      She did, too. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

      His response was to kiss her hard.

      And then he took the pins from her hair, one by one, and laid them on his dressing table. He combed through her hair with his fingers, and nodded in satisfaction as it fell past her shoulders. ‘I like that. And your hair’s so soft. So silky.’ He wound a strand round his finger, then released it again. ‘Ravissante.’

      When he spoke in his own language, it was incredibly sexy. She licked her lower lip, wanting him to kiss her again; but instead he took her clothes off, very, very slowly. So slowly that it made her ache with need and want to push his hands away so she could rip them off, then rip off his own clothes and guide him into her body.

      But Guy was being thorough. Methodical. Paying attention to the little details. A tiny mole on her shoulder, the crease of skin on her elbow, the softness of her curves. Almost as if he were learning her shape with his mouth and his hands. He unzipped her dress with incredible slowness and patience—and then let it drop on the floor while he stroked her skin.

      ‘I love this lacy stuff. It’s gorgeous. Like you.’ He traced the edge of her camisole top with the tip of his forefinger. ‘But it has to go, Amber. I need you naked. And I really, really need to be inside you.’

      Oh-h-h.

      She wanted that, too. So desperately.

      He slipped one spaghetti strap down over her shoulder and kissed her bare skin. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back in offering to him; he took the hint and kissed a line across her throat, pausing to tease the spot where her pulse beat crazily, then moved to the other shoulder, nuzzling her skin. His hands rested lightly on her waist, and the heat of his mouth against her skin was driving her mad. By the time he’d stripped her down to just her lacy knickers, she was quivering.

      He looked gorgeous, with his shirt and waistcoat open and his cravat undone, but she needed to do more than just look. She needed to touch. To feel. To explore him, the same way he’d just explored her. Curve for curve, touch for touch.

      ‘You’re wearing too much,’ she said shakily.

      ‘I’m in your hands.’

      The waistcoat went first, and then she pushed the soft cotton of his shirt off his shoulders, tracing the line of his collarbone as she did so. His skin felt glorious, soft and smooth, and there was just the right amount of chest hair to be sexy; she couldn’t resist trailing her fingers across it.

      ‘You have lovely hands,’ he said, his eyes darkening. Giving her permission to go further.

      She undid the button at the waistband of his trousers, and ran her fingers across his flat abdomen. ‘Very nice.’

      ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Wynne.’ His voice was full of amusement.

      She felt the colour flood into her cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to say that aloud.’