Then he’d flung his hands back from her jacket so quickly that she had almost fallen and had had to grab hold of the steel workbench as Rob had stabbed the air. ‘I don’t want to see you here tomorrow. Got it?’
Oh, she’d got it, all right. She’d understood perfectly how unfair and how prejudiced these chefs were. She had waited until the sous chefs had stopped fawning at him and plated up new desserts before slipping out to grab her coat and escape from the back door before the pastry chef, skanky Debra, who had been so drunk that she could barely stand never mind make decent pâté sucrée that evening, could say another word.
From that moment she had vowed to be her own boss. No matter what.
Which begged the question...what was he doing here tonight? In an art gallery of all places? Buying art for the restaurants? That was possible, but not fine art. No, it was much more likely that there was someone in the room who could advance his career in some way.
See and be seen was Rob Beresford’s motto. It always had been, and from what she had seen of him in the press and TV, nothing had changed. And if he had to pretend to have some knowledge of the pieces, well, that was a small price for his personal advancement.
The humiliating thing was he did not seem to have recognised her. She had been consigned to the box where all of the other sacked apprentices went to be forgotten. And she had absolutely no intention of reminding him.
Lottie ran one hand over the back of her neck to lift her hair away from her suddenly burning skin as a flash of anger shot through her.
Rob’s powerful, low voice seemed to resonate inside her head and a whole flutter of butterflies came to life in her stomach.
His presence filled the space between them and she felt crowded out, squeezed between the ivory-painted wall and the bench. Last time he had towered over her, his eyes like burning lasers, and she refused to let that happen again.
Not going to happen. This time she was the one who glared at him face-to-face.
Hard angles defined his jawline and cheekbones but they only made the lushness of his full mouth even more pronounced.
At some point his nose had been broken, creating a definite twist just below the bridge. Thank heaven for that.
Otherwise this Rob Beresford had all the credentials for being even more gorgeous than the last time that they had met.
As Rob reached for a champagne flute the fine fabric of his shirt stretched over the valleys and mounds of his chest muscles, which came from a lifetime of hard work rather than lifting weights in a city gym. There really was no justice—that a man who could create dishes as he could was good-looking, too.
Shame that he knew it.
In one smooth movement he pushed the sleeve of his designer dinner jacket farther up his left arm, revealing a curving, dark tattoo that ran up from his wrist. It seemed to match the design that peeked out in the deep V of the crisp white dinner shirt he was wearing unbuttoned. No tie.
For a tiny fraction of a second Lottie wondered what the rest of the design looked like on that powerful chest. Then she pushed the thought away. Body art on a chef? Oh, that made perfect sense...not.
Typical exhibitionist. Just one more way to draw attention to himself.
In the small world of high-level cooking it would be impossible not to run into Rob Beresford at the many chef award ceremonies where she was with the lesser mortals sitting in the back row.
And of course there was his TV show. It took guts to walk into a strange kitchen and tell the chef that the way they had been running their restaurant needed to be turned around and he had all the answers.
The TV audience could not get enough of the fireworks and tears and family trauma that came with having a complete stranger telling you how to run your life after years and years of working day and night. It had to be the third or fourth season. Why did these places apply? Madness. She certainly would never do it.
He was precisely the kind of man she had come to despise for the games that he liked to play with other people’s lives. Pushing them around. Uncaring and selfish.
Harsh? Maybe. But true all the same.
What had she promised herself the day she walked out of the bank? No more lies. No more kidding yourself. No more second best. And no more putting up with other people’s games.
Rob Beresford was a player.
And she had no intention of being part of his little game.
Then he lifted his head and looked at her. No. More than that. He seemed to be studying her. She had been expecting those famous piercing cobalt-blue eyes to give her the beauty-parade head-to-toe assessment.
He didn’t. His gaze was locked on to her face as though he was searching for something, and finding it. Because one corner of his mouth turned up into just the hint of a smile, which only drew her attention to that kissable mouth.
‘I think we have met before somewhere, but I am embarrassed to say that I have forgotten your name. Can you help?’
His voice was hot chocolate sauce on top of the best butterscotch ice cream and had all the potential to make her silly girl heart spin just fast enough to make breathing a challenge. More American than it used to be but that was hardly surprising. In fact, if anything, that trace of an accent only added to the allure.
Could she what? Oh, was that the best he could do? Try and make her feel guilty for causing him embarrassment?
She was almost insulted.
Surely the famous Rob Beresford had better pickup lines that that? Or perhaps he was not on top form. There was certainly something different about Rob. A little less arrogant, perhaps? Not surprising. He certainly got around, if you could believe the hotel and catering trade press.
‘Oh, please. Does that line still work?’
Rob’s eyebrow arched and a sexy smile designed to defrost frozen food at twenty paces switched on like a light bulb.
‘Occasionally. But now I am even more intrigued. Put me out of my misery. Have we met before?’
‘We might have.’ She blinked and then casually turned back to face the canvases on the wall in front of her. ‘But then again I didn’t expect to find you in an art gallery. Have you changed direction? Or perhaps you want to meet a different type of girl? They do say that museums and galleries are very popular with single people these days. So tell me—how do you come to know Adele Forrester’s work? You seem to be something of a fan. Am I right?’
She heard Rob take a short breath. ‘I might be. But here is an idea. You seem to be very curious about me and I am curious about you. What if I answer one question then you have to answer mine? Simple trade. Question for question. What do you say? Do we have a deal?’
Lottie raised her eyebrows, then squinted at him. ‘Can I trust you to keep your word?’
‘Now I am offended,’ he tutted. ‘Absolutely. Just this once. And I promise not to ask any personal questions. Scout’s honour.’
‘You were never in the Boy Scouts!’
‘Two weeks on the Isle of Wight getting sunburnt and learning to light fires. I remember it well. And you haven’t answered my first question.’
Lottie could almost feel the prickle of interest build under her skin as his gaze stayed locked tight on her face.
Maybe she could take a few minutes to chat with him? Equal to equal? Pretend that they had never met? It would make a change from talking to Ian about the fundraiser and the photography shoot he was planning. It might even be amusing to see him struggle to recall where and when they last met.
‘Okay,’ she casually replied as though she didn’t care either way.
‘Okay? Is that it?’
‘That is all you are going to get from me, so take it or leave it,’ Lottie replied with a small shoulder shrug. ‘And I get to go first. My question. Remember?’
‘Right. Yes, I know Adele Forrester and, yes
, I am a huge fan of her work. Love everything that she has ever exhibited and a lot more besides. Happy now? Good. Because now it is my turn to ask for the name of my inquisitor. Because whatever paper you are working for has certainly chosen the perfect character for their entertainment section. So. What name shall I look out for in the Forrester review?’
Lottie nibbled on the inside of her lip to stop herself from smiling. Ah. So he thought she was one of the art critics. Perfect. She was officially incognito. This was going to be fun.
‘Charlotte. But you can call me Charlie. I answer to both.’
‘Charlie,’ he repeated in a low voice, then blinked twice before shaking his head from side to side. ‘An art critic called Charlie. I should have known it would be something like that.’
His trademark collar-length hair swung loosely in front of his face as he moved, then he flicked his head back out of habit rather than design and a low rough chuckle rumbled deep in his throat before he laughed it away.
‘Thank you. I needed that. And does Charlie come with a surname?’
Patience. There was no way that she was going to allow this arrogant man to win his little game. Her surname would instantly give the game away.
‘You are so impatient. That is a completely new question. It’s my turn now.’
Lottie tilted her head towards the canvas and pushed her lips together. She had met enough art critics through her mum to give a decent enough performance for a few minutes.
‘This is such an interesting piece. But it seems so different from the other paintings in the exhibition. Most of the landscapes are luxuriant, and the portraits jump off the page—they are terrific. But this one is more...’
Lottie waved her hand in the air as she tried to come up with the perfect description and failed.
‘Introspective?’ Rob whispered. ‘Was that the word you were looking for? The colours capture Adele’s mood. Every artist has shades to their work and their character. The dark makes the light seem brighter. Don’t you find?’ And with that he turned and gave her a smile that had nothing to do with teeth and everything to do with the warmth of genuine feeling that illuminated his face, from the gentle turn of those full lips to the slight crease in the corner of each eye.
After years working in the hard world of banking where a wrong call could cost millions, Lottie prided herself on being a good judge of character.
And this version of Rob Beresford threw her.
He meant it. He was so...calm and centred...and normal. At that moment he was simply a man in an art gallery having a conversation about an artist that he sincerely admired.
Where had that come from?
Was it possible that he had changed so much in the past few years?
‘Would you call yourself an artist, Rob? The media certainly seem to think so.’
His eyes widened and just like that the tiny thread of connection that had been linking them together on this slim bench snapped with a loud twang and went spinning off into the room.
‘Charlie! Every chef would like to think that they create art on a plate. Colours, tastes and textures. But an artist? No.’
With a quick toss of his head he raised his eyebrows. ‘You surprise me, Charlie. Surely you don’t believe everything you read in the press? I would hate to be a disappointment.’
‘Ah. I knew there was a reason why I never wanted to go down the celebrity route. The price of fame. It must be so exhausting. Having to act out the part every time you show yourself in public when all you want to do is stay home and watch reality TV shows in your pyjamas with a cup of hot chocolate.’
‘Drat. You have found one of my private fantasies.’
And then Rob paused and leant a little closer. Too close. Blocking her view of the rest of the room but forcing her to focus on just how full his lips were and how the dark hair on his throat curled into the open neck of his crisp white shirt.
He lifted his right hand and stroked the line of her jaw from ear to throat with the pad of a soft forefinger, his touch so light that Lottie might almost have imagined it.
But that would have been a lie because the second his skin met her face Lottie sucked in a sharp quick breath and her lips parted, revealing in the most humiliating way possible that she was not immune to his touch.
Just the opposite. She knew that her neck was already flaming red in a blush that engrossed her.
Which was more than humiliating; it was a bad joke. Rob Beresford’s reputation with women was common knowledge in the catering world and the Beresford hotel kitchens had been alive with gossip about who he had seduced and then dumped in quick succession. She had seen it herself.
One single quiver of sexual attraction was not going to change her mind about him. It was biology and a much underused libido playing tricks on her.
Her gaze scanned his face.
At this distance she could see that his eyes were not just blue, but a blend of different shades of blue from steel-grey to the bright evening sky. Mesmerising. Totally, totally mesmerising. And quite shameless.
Because before she had time to protest, Rob cupped the nape of her neck with one hand and bent his head lower so that his nose was pressed against her forehead, his breath hot and slow and heavy on her face.
Without asking for permission she felt his other hand fan out on her lower back, taking her weight, arching her body down. Into his control.
His lips trembled and parted. He was going to kiss her.
Instinctively she slid her tongue across her parched lips but instantly saw his smile switch back on.
Damn. She had fallen straight into his little trap.
‘What are you doing?’ she breathed and raised both hands to push his away. ‘You are being outrageous. Don’t you ever go off duty? Please don’t try and flirt with me, Mr Beresford.’
‘There we go. Another one of those damn fantasies of mine.’
Rob pushed both hands down hard, slid off the bench and stretched to his full height so that when he spoke he had to look down at her with a huge grin on his face. ‘After all, I would hate for you to think that I was acting out of character for some reason. That might be too much for your readers to understand. Because otherwise, who knows? It might actually cross your mind that I am simply here to enjoy the art on my night off.’
His gaze locked on to her eyes and held them tight in its grasp. Only now those blue eyes were more gunmetal than warm sea. Laser cold. Sharp. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the icy air conditioning raised goosebumps along Lottie’s arms and neck.
So this was what it was like to be at the receiving end of one of Rob Beresford’s bad moods.
Not good. So not good.
The cold shiver turned to fiery indignation and Lottie pressed her lips together. What gave him the right to talk to a guest at an art gallery like this?
One more minute and she was going to jump up and give him just as much right back, starting with the last time they met. Maybe he could dish it out but could he take it when the tables were turned and he was on the receiving end? She doubted it.
Lottie curled her fingers into a tight fist and mentally came up with a couple of suitable put-downs from her banking days, but she never got the chance to use them. Because just like that he broke eye contact and rolled back his shoulders for a second before looking back over one shoulder at her.
‘I’ve just had an outrageous idea. Plus it’s my turn for a question. Care to join me on a tour of the exhibition? It’s about time you gave me your expert opinion on the other paintings.’
Rob ran one hand back through his hair and tore his gaze away from the blonde and looked around the room. A trickle of guests was starting to wander into the exhibition space now and he inwardly cursed himself for being stupid enough to lose his temper and act out his frustration with this girl he ha
d just met.
He was so tired of playing the fool for the cameras. Tired of allowing his emotions and excitement to get the better of him.
Just once it would be nice to be taken seriously.
He was Adele Forrester’s only child. Did the press, like this cute blonde, really think that he had no appreciation of the art world after spending most of his precious free time in the company of a woman who was even more obsessed and passionate than he was?
‘You want to hear my opinion of the other paintings, Mr Beresford? Is that right?’
He flicked his head towards the reception area. ‘Absolutely. I think I just saw some waiting staff coming in. Why don’t we find out what culinary delights the gallery have lined up for us this evening before the rest of your colleagues arrive? You never know. Some of them might even be edible! Oh—and, Charlie, tonight you can forget the Beresford. Right here, at this moment, I’m just Rob. Think you can handle that? Or are you scared of living dangerously?’
He offered her his hand and she lowered her head and stared at it, flicked her gaze onto his face, then back.
‘Danger is my middle name. I think I can just about manage that. Rob.’
But just as she stood up her head bobbed to one side and she saw someone behind his back. ‘Oops. Duty calls. I would love to stand around and feed your ego a little longer but I have to get back to work. Another time, perhaps. Have a lovely evening. Ciao.’
And with a tiny finger wave of her right hand she strolled—no, she sashayed across the room on four-inch heels as though she were made to wear them, giving him the most excellent view of the sweetest clinging dress above spectacular legs.
She had a waist he could wrap his hands around and meet in the middle, and the way she lifted her chin as she strode away?
Dynamite.
This girl moved as if she were gliding. Head held high and still, focused on the path ahead, determined. She was like a swan on the water, a perfect example of restrained elegance, both understated and explosively seductive.
The Secret Ingredient Page 3