‘The grounds?’ he repeated, arching an eyebrow. ‘Are they really so spectacular?’ He heard the mocking incredulity in his own voice and, from the way he saw Ellery flinch out of the corner of his eye, he knew she had heard it, too.

Amelie gave a sharp little laugh. ‘I don’t know if spectacular is really the word. But it will be perfect—’ Her soup forgotten, she’d propped her elbows on the table—Amelie had never quite learned her manners—and now gestured wildly with her hands, knocking her wine glass onto the ancient and rather threadbare Oriental carpet.

Larenz gazed down impassively at the fallen glass—at least it hadn’t broken—and the spreading, scarlet stain. He heard Ellery’s sharply sucked-in breath and she dropped to her knees in front of him, reaching for the tea towel she’d kept tucked into her waist to blot rather hopelessly at the stain.

He gazed at her bent head, her white-blonde hair scraped up into a sorry little bun. It was an unflattering hairstyle, although at this angle it revealed the pale tender skin at the back of her neck; Larenz had a sudden impulse to press his fingers there and see if her fresh and creamy skin was as soft as it looked. ‘I believe a little diluted vinegar gets red wine out of fabric,’ he commented politely.

Ellery glanced up swiftly, her eyes narrowing. They were no longer lavender, Larenz observed, but dark violet. The colour of storm clouds, which was rather appropriate as she was obviously furious.

‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice of arctic politeness. She had the cut-glass tones of the English upper crust; you couldn’t fake that accent. God knew, Larenz had once tried, briefly, when he’d been sent to Eton for one hellish year. He’d been scorned and laughed at, easily labelled as a pretender, a poser. He’d walked out before he’d sat his exams—before they could expel him. He’d never gone back to another school of any kind. Life had provided the best education.

Ellery rose from the floor and, as she did so, Larenz caught a faint whiff of her perfume—except it wasn’t perfume, he decided, but rather the scent of the kitchen. A kitchen garden, perhaps, for she smelled like wild herbs: rosemary and a faint hint of something else, maybe thyme.

Delicious.

‘And, while you’re at it,’ Amelie drawled in a bored voice, ‘perhaps you could bring me another glass of wine?’ She arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow, her generous collagen-inflated lips curving in a smile that did not bother to disguise her malice. Larenz suppressed a sigh. Sometimes Amelie could be rather…obvious. He’d known her since his first days starting out in London, sixteen years old and an errand boy at a department store. She’d been working in the shop where Larenz bought sandwiches for the businessmen to eat at their board meetings. She’d cleaned up quite nicely, but she hadn’t really changed. Larenz doubted if anyone ever did.

‘You don’t,’ he commented after Ellery had walked swiftly out of the dining room, the green baize-covered door swinging shut behind her, ‘have to be quite so rude.’

Amelie shrugged. ‘She’s been arsey with me since I arrived. Looking down that prim little nose at me. Lady Muck thinks she’s better than anyone, but look at this hovel.’ She glanced contemptuously around the dining room with its tattered curtains and discoloured patches on the wall where there had surely once been original paintings. ‘Her father may have been a baron, but this place is a wreck.’

‘And yet you said it was spectacular,’ Larenz commented dryly. He took a sip of wine; despite the wreck of a house this manor appeared to be, the wine was a decidedly good vintage. ‘Why did you bring me here, Amelie?’

‘Spectacular was your word, not mine,’ Amelie returned swiftly. ‘It’s a mouldering wreck, there’s no denying it.’ She leaned forward. ‘That’s the point, Larenz. The contrast. It will be perfect for the launch of Marina.’

Larenz merely arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t quite see how a decrepit manor house was the appropriate place to launch the new line of haute couture that De Luca’s, his upmarket department store, had commissioned. But then perhaps this was why Amelie was his head of PR; she had vision.

He simply had determination.

‘Imagine it, Larenz, gorgeous gowns in jewel tones—they’ll stand out amazingly against all the musty gloom—a perfect backdrop, the juxtaposition of old and new, past and future, where fashion has been and where it’s going—’

‘It all sounds rather artistic,’ Larenz murmured. He had no real interest in the artistry of a photo shoot; he simply wanted the line to succeed. And, since he was backing it, it would.

‘It’ll be amazing,’ Amelie promised, her Botoxed face actually showing signs of animation. ‘Trust me.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ Larenz replied lightly. ‘But did we have to sleep here?’

Amelie laughed lightly. ‘Poor Larenz, having to rough it for a night.’ She clucked. ‘How will you manage?’ Her smile turned coy. ‘Of course, I know a way we could both be more comfortable—’

‘Not a chance, Amelie,’ he replied dryly. Every once in a while, Amelie attempted to get him into bed. Larenz knew better than to ever mix business and pleasure, and he could tell Amelie’s attempt was half-hearted at best. Amelie was one of the few people who had known him when he was a young nobody; it was one of the reasons he allowed her so much licence. Yet even she knew not to get too close, not to push too hard. No one—and in particular no woman—was allowed those kinds of privileges. Ever. A night, a week, sometimes a little more, was all he allowed his lovers.