“I think a person should drink what the hell they like.” Montfort smiled, and she smiled back, an artless grin, the first moment of real fellow feeling they had had; it thrilled him.

“It’s only bourgeois to care about what other people think?” Sophie asked.

“Something like that.”

“Oh, hell,” she said, suddenly, and Montfort turned to see three guests bearing down upon them. He recognized one of them, Bernard Frimes, from Le Figaro; he had given him an interview last week.

So this was the press, then. Montfort watched as Sophie stepped back, and the wall came down between them again.

He watched carefully.

“How cozy,” one of the women said. “A little tête-à-tête?”

Sophie smiled briskly. “I’m just showing Mr. Montfort how House Massot’s new collection is thriving.”

“It’s a fabulous party. How much is it costing your shareholders?” said the other woman, tartly.

“Judy Dean is our public relations officer.”

“Judy only gives us the party line,” Bernard Frimes said. “And we want the truth.”

“The truth is that our relaunch is incredibly successful,” Sophie said. “Look around you.”

“My dear.” The thin, older woman in black placed a spindly claw on Sophie’s delicate cap sleeve. Montfort stiffened; he wanted to brush it off. “It’s true that it’s a wonderful party, and if it were your own money, nobody would quibble.”

“All we see,” Frimes said with a saccharine smirk, “is your guests playing around with millions of euros worth of valuables.”

“Very risky.”

“Highly imprudent.”

Hugh bristled with frustration. He wanted to jump in and defend Sophie. In fact, he wanted to put one arm round her waist and shepherd her away from this pack of mongrels. Take her somewhere else. Such as his hotel room.

But Hugh had shareholders too. He was supposed to be fighting her. Hugh ought to be enjoying this savaging; instead, he regarded the journalists with barely concealed contempt.

Frimes turned to Montfort. “You’re bidding for this company, Monsieur. Have you a comment on this reckless spending?”

Hugh stared him down. “My bid has been announced. I was invited to this party, and I came.”

“This supports your pitch to your shareholders . . . this . . . fiasco ?”

Montfort looked at Sophie.

“My admiration for the jewels of House Massot is a matter of public record. Our bid is on the table. And other than that, as a guest, it would be highly inappropriate for me to make any comment tonight.”

“A very English attitude,” Frimes sneered. “But what would your own stockholders say to that, Mr. Montfort?”

Hugh, the business automaton, looked at Sophie and decided he really didn’t give a damn. For the first time in years, he was starting to feel there was more to life than money. Sophie in that dress was utterly distracting.