As he approached the goddess, he paused. What the fuck was he going to say? Before the Jenny Jackson debacle, he probably would have charged in, all charm and puppy-dog eyes, but now … Oh, God, he couldn’t get it wrong again.

Now he was so close he could touch her. From behind at least, she was absolutely flawless. Not a blemish could he detect on that wonderful, amazing back; not a hair was out of place.

She clearly sensed him standing behind her as she turned around slowly in her chair, frowning slightly.

God, the face was even better than the back. Ben had become used to young girls with cute faces that would collapse like little pug dogs as they got older. Amy Lascelles was the ultimate case in point – round eyes, pouty lips, no bone structure to speak of. This woman, with her almost feline attributes, would look good until the day she died, he just knew it.

‘Can I help you?’ Oh, Jesus fucking God, the accent too. Just pull yourself together, man.

‘Hi. I’m Ben. I’m with that crowd of reprobates over there …’ Ben pointed at the film gang and Natalia did everything in her power to remain cool. He was with the film? He was so good looking, the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life, with those thick, dark lashes framing startlingly blue eyes, those eminently kissable pink lips now smiling to reveal perfect white teeth. He had to be the leading man, he just had to be.

She smiled tentatively, and Ben noticed that her teeth, while lovely, were not absolutely Hollywood perfect. There was a tiny gap between one of the canines and incisors on the left that added a certain sweetness to her icy glamour.

‘I was going to offer you a drink, but it looks as if you’ve beaten me to it,’ he said, cursing himself for not coming up with anything wittier.

With a gleam in her eye, Natalia downed her Ricard in one.

‘Now there is vacancy.’ She looked him in the eye, challenging him, and Ben laughed, hailing a passing waiter.

‘Une bouteille de Dom Pérignon, s’il vous plaît.’

‘But you did not ask me what I wanted to drink. I was enjoying my Ricard.’ Natalia looked up at him from under her eyelashes. She hadn’t flirted like this since she used to do it for money, when it was second nature. She had forgotten how much fun it could be, in the right circumstances.

‘Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. Would you really rather have Ricard?’

Natalia burst into peals of laughter, every angle of her face more uplifted than ever, her cat-like eyes crinkling with mirth.

‘I’m sorry. I mess with you. Dom Pérignon is wonderful. Please, sit.’ She patted the empty chair next to her. This man was doing something to her that she had not experienced for years. He looked a little familiar, but that was because he was a film star, she supposed.