British Bachelors: Fabulous & Famous

The Secret Ingredient

Nina Harrington

How to Get Over Your Ex

Nikki Logan

Behind the Film Star’s Smile

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Secret Ingredient

About the Author

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

How to Get Over Your Ex

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

Behind the Film Star’s Smile

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

The Secret Ingredient

Nina Harrington

NINA HARRINGTON grew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

ONE

Rob Beresford stepped out of the black stretch limo onto the red carpet outside London’s newest and most prestigious art gallery, slowly rolled back his shoulders, and stretched out to his full height.

Rob ran the fingers of his right hand through his mane of collar-length dark wavy hair in a move he had perfected to draw attention to what, according to the Beresford hotel group marketing department, was his best feature.

‘Make sure that your fans see that fantastic head and shoulders shot,’ his agent, Sally, kept telling him. ‘That’s what your millions of lady followers will be looking for. Make the most of it while you can!’

Ah. The joys of self-promotion.

After twenty years in the hotel business Rob knew the drill inside out.

He gave the press what they wanted and they loved him for it. They had seen him on good and bad nights and both sides played the game when it suited them.

It was a pity that the paparazzi made more money when he was playing the bad-boy celebrity chef than on all of the other countless occasions when he was working in the kitchens creating the award-winning recipes for the Beresford hotel restaurants.

They wanted him to misbehave and throw a tantrum and grab a camera. Punch someone out because of a careless remark or lose his temper over an insult to his family or food.

The Rob Beresford they wanted to see was the young chef who had become notorious after he physically lifted the most famous restaurant critic in Chicago out of his chair and threw him out of the Beresford hotel restaurant when he dared to criticise the way his steak had been cooked.

And sometimes he was tired enough or bored enough to let them goad him and provoke him into a stupid response, which he instantly regretted.

Press the red button and watch the fireworks. Oh, yes!

But not tonight.

For once he was not here to celebrate the Beresford name or promote his TV show or best-selling cookery books. Tonight was all about someone else’s success. Not his. And if that meant that he had to act out his part in public yet again, then so be it.

He was wearing the costume; he had rehearsed his script. Now it was time to act out his part until the star of the show arrived.

Tonight he needed the crowd to love him and play up the success of the art gallery. And the artist whose work had been chosen to be exhibited for their prestigious grand opening event. Adele Forrester. Fine Art Painter. And his mother.

But inside his designer clothing? Inside, he was a wreck.

Even the photographers in the front row only a few feet away could not see the prickle of sweat on his brow on this cool June evening and he quickly covered up the tenseness in his mouth with a broad smile so that no one would ever know that, for once, Rob Beresford was more than just nervous.

He was dreading every second of the next few hours and would only be able to relax when he was safe back in the hotel room with his mother, congratulating her on a stunning exhibition that was bound to sell out fast.

The plan had been simple. They would arrive together, his mother would smile and wave a couple of times and Rob would escort her sedately into the exhibition to the sound of applause from her faithful fans and art lovers. Proud son. Star mother. Winner all the way.

So much for that plan.

The past week had been a blur of rushed last-minute arrangements and then a twenty-four-hour cold virus, which had been going the rounds in California, had knocked her out for most of the day. Followed by a serious attack of first-night nerves.

Until an hour ago he’d thought that he had succeeded and his mother was dressed, made up and ready to go, smiling and happy that after eight years of preparation her work was going to be shown in public.

But then she had made the mistake of peeking out of the hotel front entrance, seen the press pack and scurried back into the room, white-faced and breathing hard. Trying to control her panic while pretending that it was about time that she walked down the red carpet on her own. After all, this was her special night. No need to wait. She would make her own grand entrance. Why did she need her handsome son stealing her spotlight?

Right. She was forgetting that he knew her. Only too well.

So the limo had driven around the corner with him inside alone. While she cowered inside her hotel room, going through the relaxation exercises one more time. Afraid to come out and walk a few steps down a carpet and have her photo taken.

And just the thought that his beautiful mother did not think she was ready or good enough for this crowd was enough to make his blood boil.

They had no idea how far she had come over the past few years to get to the point where she could even think about turning up in person to an exhibition of her paintings.

And they never would.

Fifteen years ago he had made his mother a promise.

He had given her his word that he would protect her and take care of her, and keep her secret, no matter what. And he had kept that promise and would go on keeping that promise, no matter how much it had impacted his life and the decisions that he had been forced to take to keep her safe.

He had stayed in Beresford hotels in cities close to the major psychiatric specialist units and turned down gigs in restaurants other chefs would kill to have worked in, just to make sure that his mother had a stable environment when she needed one.

Not that she liked cities. Far from it. He had lost count of the times he had made mad dashes to airports wearing his chef’s clothes so that he could keep her company on a long flight to the latest new creative retreat that she had heard about, that afternoon. And suddenly it was the only thing she needed to complete her work and she had to go that day or the rest of her life would be in ruins.

No time to pack or organise anything. Then she was on her way, usually without the things she needed, but it had to be done now.

So he had to drop everything and go with her to keep her safe. Because when she was manic she was amazing, but there was one universal truth: whatever soared high had to come back down to earth. Fast. And hard. Sometimes very hard.

Walking down a red carpet and smiling was a small price to pay for being able to support his mother financially and emotionally.

Rob scanned the rows of photographers lined up behind the mesh barriers on either side of the narrow entrance and acknowledged some of the familiar paparazzi that followed him from event to event whenever he was in London with a quick nod and a wave.

The rest of the pack jostled for position at the barricade, calling out his name, demanding pose after pose.

Fans held up signs with his name on them. Cameras flashed wildly. All desperate to capture a rare evening appearance from the chef who had just been shortlisted for Chef of the Year. Again.

Spotlights hit him from every angle.

He turned slowly from side to side in front of the floor-to-ceiling poster for the gala exhibition of new work from Adele Forrester, making sure that her official photograph and the poster would always be the background to any of his photos.

One hand plunged into his left trouser pocket. One hand raised towards the crowd. Wearing his trademark pristine white shirt and dark designer suit. No tie. That would be too conventional. A call to look this way then that was answered with a swagger. He rolled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and went to work the crowd.

It had taken him every day of the past ten years to create an image and a brand that served him and the Beresford family well and now was his chance to use it to help his mum.

A pretty brunette in her twenties held out one of his recipe books, stretching towards him, her stomach pressed against the metal barrier and shoulders so low that he had a perfect view down her deep V-necked top into a very generous cleavage.

Rob quickly stepped forwards, grin locked in place, his pen already in his hand, and signed a flourish of his name on the cover page while the crowd went mad behind her, screaming and calling out his name at ear-damaging volume.

He walked slowly down the line, signing yet another recipe book—one of his early ones—then a poster from his restaurant-makeover show.

And then the questions started. One male voice and then another.

‘Is Adele turning up in person tonight for the show or has she done a runner like last time?’

‘Where have you hidden your mum, Rob?’

‘Have you left her behind in that treatment centre? Is that the only kind of artist retreat she knows these days?’

‘Are the rumours true about her retiring after this show?’

Louder and louder, closer and closer, the questions came from every direction, more pointed and all demanding to know where his mother was.

They were goading him. Pushing him harder and harder, desperate for a reaction.

They wanted him to explode. To push the camera down someone’s throat or, even better, give one of them a black eye.

A few years ago? He would have done it and taken the consequences. But tonight was not about him and he refused to let the press win, so he pretended to have developed sudden hearing loss and politely ignored them. This of course made them goad him even more.

Nine minutes later he had walked the whole of the line, smiling and laughing towards the waiting crowd, leaning in for the compulsory mobile phone shots.

Then just like that the press turned away as the next limo pulled up and, without waiting for permission or a good-behaviour pass, Rob turned his back on the crowd and photographers and strode purposefully down the last few feet of red carpet, through the open door of the art gallery and into the relative calm of the marble atrium where the other specially invited guests were already assembled.

This preview show was the one exclusive opportunity for the art critics to admire and study his mother’s work without having to share the gallery with the general public. That was the good news. The less-good news was that it had been the art critics who had descended on his mother like a pack of rabid wolves when she had imploded at her last exhibition in Toronto.

Having a screaming and crying nervous breakdown in public was bad enough, but for her tormented and terrified face to be captured for ever by the press had made it worse.

Instead of defending her for her fragile creativity, they had condemned her for being a bad example to young artists for her excessive lifestyle.

But that was eight years ago.

Different world. Different faces. Different approach to mental illness. Surely?

Rob paused long enough to take a flute of chilled champagne from a passing waiter and was just about to launch into the media crew clustered around the gallery owner when he caught sight of his reflection in the installation light feature.

A sombre dark male face glared back at him, his heavy eyebrows low above narrowed eyes and a jaw that would be a better fit on a prizefighter rather than a patron of the arts.

Yikes! Maybe not.

He didn’t want to terrify the critics before they had even had a chance to see the artwork. And most of them seemed to be enjoying the refreshments.

A quick scan of the room confirmed that unless there was a back door through the kitchen, he was trapped. Unless... Yes! There was one person who was taking time to actually see the paintings instead of networking over the catalogues and free booze before the food was served.

A pretty blonde woman. Correction. Make that a very pretty blonde. She was sitting completely alone at the far end of the gallery, away from the hustle and noise from the street. Her gaze appeared to be completely engrossed in the artwork in front of her.

Rob turned away from the other guests, nodding to people as he passed, and started strolling down the gallery space, taking the time to scan some of the twenty-two paintings that he knew inside out.

He could give the critics a full history of each and every brush stroke. Where and when and what mood his mother had been in when she painted them. The hours spent debating locations and the quality of the light. Desperate for each work to be perfect. Flawless. Ideal.

The despair that came when they did not match up to her exacting standards.

The joy and delight and laughter of walking along beaches day after day, which only seemed to make the darker ones blacker. Like the time he was called out of a business meeting when she set six of his favourite canvases on fire on the hotel patio in a barbecue pit. That depression had lasted weeks.

These paintings truly were the survivors.

Especially the canvas that the blonde was looking at that very minute.

Rob exhaled long and slow. He should have known that a critic would be drawn to such a totally over-the-top sentimental and emotional piece.

It was good—no doubt about that.

But it was so obvious that his mother might as well be standing there waving a banner telling the world that she had painted it in a dark time when the depression had almost become too much and she’d had to go back on the much-hated medication again.

It was probably the only piece that he had suggested to his mother to leave behind in her villa in Carmel, California. It was just too personal and way too deep to show to the world.

Too late. Because there it was. Not the biggest painting but the most intimate and revealing in the whole collection.

But just who was this woman who had obviously spotted the best picture in the room?

Rob stood to one side, sipping his champagne, and watched her for a few minutes in silence, his gaze scanning her pose, her body, her clothing, taking it all in and trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

She certainly didn’t look like one of his mother’s art critic pals or the hyenas back in Toronto. Failed artists every one of them. Far from it.

Straight blonde hair falling to her shoulders, she was wearing a sleeveless aqua dress and he could just make out a line of collarbone above a long, slender, elegant neck, surprisingly overlaid with muscle as opposed to starved thin like most fine artists he had met.

And she really was stunningly pretty. A break in the clouds outside the window shone a beam of sunlight onto the cream-coloured gallery wall, which reflected back from her skin. It became luminescent and pale. No artificial tan for this girl. She truly was all white peaches and cream.

But what were her hands like? At the moment they were pushed flat against the bench on either side of her body, palm down, but as he watched she lifted her shoulders and her hands clasped around her arms as though she was cold. The air conditioning was certainly chilly but it was more than that. She was holding on to herself.

Totally wrapped up in her thoughts. Contained. Calm. Her gaze locked on to the painting as though it was the most important thing in the world. She was transfixed. Oblivious to the world. Totally caught up in the painting.

Because she got it. It was so obvious.

And for the first time that day—no, make that the first time this month—he felt that little bubble of a real smile pop in his chest.

Perhaps there was at least one art critic in the room tonight that was going to make him change his mind about their species?

Now all he had to do was find out her name and...

‘Rob. So pleased that you could make it.’ Rob blinked away his anxiety as the gallery owner came forward to shake his hand and, with one pat on his shoulder, guide him back towards the entrance to introduce him to several of the press who were clustered around the media table.

He glanced quickly over one shoulder back to the blonde, but she had turned slightly away from him to take a call on her mobile.

Later. He would find out a lot more about this woman...later.

* * *

Lottie Rosemount chuckled into the mouthpiece of her mobile phone. ‘You really are shameless, Dee Flynn! But are you quite sure that Sean does not mind me using his hotel for the fundraiser? He is doing me a seriously big favour here.’

‘No need to panic, oh, great organiser lady.’ Dee’s familiar laughing voice crackled down the phone. ‘Let’s call it one of the many perks to having a boyfriend who just happens to run his own hotel chain. Sean expects you to invite the great and good of London town and fill his hotel to bursting. And once they see how fabulous his new hotel is? Job done.’

‘Oh, is that what it is. A perk? Nothing to do with the fact that the lovely Sean would jog to the moon and back if you asked him. Oh, no. But I am grateful. You are a total star! Thanks, Dee. And have a great time in the tea gardens.’

‘I will, but only if you stop worrying, missy. Yes, I can hear it in your voice. Just because a few hundred people will be turning up on Saturday night doesn’t mean that you have to be nervous. They will hardly notice that Valencia has not turned up. You wait and see.’ Then Dee’s voice changed to a breathless gasp. ‘Sorry, Lottie. They’re calling my flight. Miss you, too. But we need the tea! Bye, Lottie. Bye.’

Lottie held the phone in her hand for a few seconds before clicking it closed and exhaling. Very slowly.

Worried? Of course she was worried. Or should that be terrified?

She would be a fool if she wasn’t.

What if the fundraiser was a flop? There were so many creative people bursting with talent who needed a helping hand to get started living their dream. Scholarships to help gifted chefs find training was only the start. But a big start in more ways than one.

Pity that Dee had to be in China this week. She could have used some moral support.

Especially when the celebrity chef she had booked as the main attraction for the fundraiser had just cancelled that morning. It had taken months of pleading and cajoling before multi-award-winning chef Valencia Cagoni had finally agreed to turn up for the night.

Yes, of course Lottie understood that Valencia was still with her family in Turin because both of the four-year-old twins had chickenpox and were grounded as infectious tyrants. And no, Valencia was way too busy with the calamine lotion to think of another chef who could step in at such short notice and take her place.

Thank you, Valencia, my old boss and mentor. Thanks a lot.

Panic gripped her for a few seconds but Lottie willed it back down to a place where she kept all of the suppressed fear and suffocating anxiety that came with taking on such a huge responsibility.

This fundraiser had been her idea from the start, but if there was one good thing that her father had taught her it was that she always had options. All she had to do was think of one. Fast.

Lottie shuffled from side to side on the hard seat and tried to get a comfier position. She was going to have to give the gallery owner some feedback before his paying customers started complaining about having frozen bottoms.

On the other hand, this was not a museum and she had been sitting in one place a lot longer than she had planned. Wealthy clients looking for artwork to adorn their walls would not be perched on the end of a leather bench for more than a few minutes while she had been sitting there for—Lottie checked her watch and snorted deep in the back of her throat in disbelief—twenty minutes.

Amazing.

This was the first time in weeks that she had been able to steal a few minutes to enjoy herself in between running her bakery and organising the fundraiser and she was quite determined to enjoy every second of it. Because she probably would not find another slot before the event.

But she had always been the same. Every time her mother bought a new piece of art for one of her interior design clients, it was Lottie who had the first look before the piece was shipped off to some luxury second or third or, in one case, eighth home around the world. That was all part of her mum’s high-end design business.

If Lottie saw something she liked she took the opportunity to appreciate it while she could. It was as simple as that.

Having the time to enjoy works of art was probably the only thing she really missed in her new life.

Of course she had known that running a cake shop and tea rooms would not be a nine-to-five job, but, sheesh, the hours she was working now were even longer than when she worked in banking.

She loved most of it. The bakery was her dream come true. But when her photographer friend Ian had casually mentioned that he was looking for a caterer to serve canapés and mini desserts for the opening of a new gallery specialising in contemporary art she had jumped at the chance.

Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms needed a photographer to take images for the bakery website and Ian needed food for the gallery tonight. Now that was the kind of trade she liked and it had nothing to do with her old job working the stock market.

Lottie glanced back at the main reception area.

She could hear the visitors start to arrive and gather in the bar area that had been opened up onto the stunning patio overlooking the south bank of the Thames on this cloudy June evening. The weather was warm with only a slight breeze. Perfect. Just the way she liked it.

Her skin did not do well in hot sunshine. Too fair. Too freckly.

Much better to stay here for a few minutes and enjoy this painting all to herself while she had the chance before the evening really got started.

The food was all ready to be served in the small kitchen behind the bar, the waiting staff would not be here for another ten minutes, and even the artist had not made an appearance yet.

So she could steal another few minutes of glorious self-indulgence before she had to go back to work.

This was her special time. To be alone with the art.

Lottie waggled some of the tension out of her shoulders and rolled her neck from side to side before lifting her chin and sighing in pleasure.

Most of the exhibition was high-art portraits and landscapes in oils and multimedia in a startling bright and vibrant colour palette, but for some reason she had been drawn to this far corner of the room. It was away from the entrance and the drinks table but was bright with natural light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

And the one picture in the whole collection that was muted and subtle.

It was a small canvas in a wide red glass frame just like all of the others.

But this one was special. Different. She had seen it in the catalogue for the exhibition that her friend Ian had created and had been immediately drawn to it.

It was hard to explain but there was just something about the image that had taken hold of her and refused to let her go.

Lottie’s gaze scanned the picture.

A middle-aged woman in a knee-length sleeveless red dress was standing on a sandy shore edged with pine trees and luxuriant Mediterranean plants. She was slender and holding out her arms towards the sea.

Lottie could almost feel the breeze in the chiffon layers that made up the skirt as they lifted out behind her.

The woman’s head was held high and tall and there was a faint smile on her lips as she stared out to sea, reaching for it with both hands while her pale feet seemed totally encased in the sand.

It was dusk and on the horizon there were the characteristic red and gold and apricot streaks in the misty shadows that stretched out to the horizon. Soon darkness would fall but Lottie knew that this woman would stay there, entranced, until the last possible moment, yearning for the sea, until the very last of the day was gone.

While she still had a chance for happiness.

A single tear ran down Lottie’s cheek and she sniffed several times before diving into her bag for a tissue, but then remembered that she had left them back at the cake shop, so made do with a spare paper napkin she had popped into her bag for spillages.

Last chances. Oh, yes. She knew all about those.

Until three years ago she had been a business clone in a suit, trapped in cubicle nation in the investment bank where her father had worked for thirty-five years. All she’d had to do was keep her head down, say the right things and do what she was told and she’d had a clear career path that would take her to the top. She’d even had the ideal boyfriend with the right credentials on paper just one step higher than her on the ladder.

How could her life have been more perfect?

The fact that she hated her job so much that she threw up most mornings was one of the reasons she was earning the big bucks. Wasn’t it?

Until that one fateful day when all of the pretence and lies had been whipped away, leaving her bereft and alone. Standing on a beach like the one in the painting. Holding out her arms towards the sea, looking for a new direction and a new identity.

She wasn’t balls-of-steel Charlie any longer, the girl who had walked away from her six-figure salary and the career track to the top of her father’s investment bank to train as a pastry chef. Oh, no.

That girl was gone.

The girl sitting with tears in her eyes was Lottie the baker. The real girl with the real pain that she had thought she had worked through over these past three years but was still there. Catching her unawares at moments like this when the overwhelming emotion swallowed her down and drowned her.

For the first time in a long time she had allowed her public face to slip and reveal that she was hurting.

Foolish woman! Exhaustion and unspoken loneliness made her vulnerable. That was all.

The paper napkin was starting to disintegrate so she stuffed it back into her bag.

Maybe at the end of the night when everyone was heading home she could steal a few minutes with the artist and ask her about ‘Last Chances’.

Who knew? Maybe Adele Forrester might be able to answer a few of her questions about how making the most of last chances could change your life so very much. And what to do when all of the people and friends that you thought would stick by you decided that you had nothing in common with them once you jumped ship and stopped answering your calls.

Starting with that, oh-so-perfect-on-paper boyfriend.

Yes, maybe Adele had a few answers of her own.

With one final sniff, Lottie blinked and wiped her cheek with the back of her finger. Time to repair the damage to this make-up and get ready to rock and roll. She had two hundred portions of canapés to plate out.

Busy, busy.

Yes, she should really make a move now. Oops. Too late.

Lottie sensed rather than heard someone stroll closer and stand next to her, so that they were both looking at the canvas in silence for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.

‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ Lottie sniffed as yet another tear ran down her cheek, preventing her from turning around and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger.

‘Absolutely perfect. How does she do it?’ Lottie asked. ‘How does Adele capture so much feeling in a flat image? It’s incredible.’

‘Talent. And a deep feeling for the place. Adele knows that beach at all times of day and season. Look at the way she blends the ocean and the sky. That can only come from seeing it happen over and over again.’

Lottie blinked again, but this time in surprise.

He understood. This man, because it was a man’s voice and definitely a manly pair of designer trousers, was echoing the exact same thoughts that were going through her head.

How did he do that? The tremor in his voice was instantly calming and restorative. Someone else saw the same things in this work that she had. How was that possible?

It was unnerving that he knew what this painting was all about and could talk about it with such passion.

And then the harsh reality of where she was struck home and she felt like a fool. Ian had told her that this was a preview show for art critics and media people. This man was probably a friend of Adele Forrester who knew perfectly well the history behind the picture.

Maybe he could answer her question?

Lottie lifted her chin and shuffled sideways on the bench so that she could look up into the face of the man standing by her side.

The room froze.

It was as though everything around her slowed down to treacle speed like a DVD or video being played in slow motion.

The laughter and gossip from the clusters of elegantly dressed people gathered around the gallery owner became a blur of distant sounds. Even the air between them felt colder and thicker as Lottie sucked in a low, calming breath.

Was this really happening?

‘Rob Beresford,’ she said out loud, and instantly clenched her teeth tight shut.

Thinking out loud had always been her worst habit and she’d thought she had it beaten. Apparently not. Her mouth gaped open in confusion.

And why not?

Rob Beresford. Her least-favourite chef in the world. And the man who had single-handedly tried to destroy her career.

TWO

‘In the flesh.’ Rob shrugged. And without asking permission or forgiveness he sat down next to her on the flat leather-covered bench and stretched his long legs out towards the exhibition wall. ‘I hope that you are enjoying the exhibition. This piece is really quite remarkable.’

Lottie tried to make her senses take it in. And failed.

Rob Beresford.

Of all the people in the entire world, he was the last person she expected to meet at a gallery preview show.

He looked like a picture postcard of the ideal celebrity chef. Stylish suit. Hair. Designer stubble. Damn the stylist who had his clothes pitched perfectly.

But underneath the slick exterior the old Rob was all still there.

She could see it in the way he walked. The swagger. The attitude and that arrogant lift of his head that made him look like a captain of some sailing ship, looking out over the ocean for pirate ships loaded with treasure.

He had not changed that much since their last meeting almost three years earlier.

When he had fired her from her very first catering job.

Just thinking about that day was enough for an ice cube large enough to sink the Titanic to form in the pit of her stomach.

She had only been working as an apprentice in the Beresford hotel kitchen for three months when the mighty Rob Beresford had burst into the kitchen and demanded that the idiot who had made the chocolate dessert go out into the dining room and apologise in person to the diner on his table who had almost broken his teeth on the rock-hard pastry he had just been served.

Apparently Rob had been totally humiliated and embarrassed. So he’d needed a scapegoat to blame for the screw-up.

In one glance the head pastry chef had nodded in her direction and the next thing she’d known Rob had grabbed the front of her chef’s coat and used it to haul her up to his face so close that she could feel his hot, angry, brutal breath on her cheek. His anger and recrimination had been spat out in the words that would be burnt into her heart and her mind for the rest of her career.

‘Get out of my kitchen and back to your finishing school, you pathetic excuse for a chef. You don’t have what it takes to be in this business so leave now and save us all a lot of wasted time. Nobody humiliates me and gets away with it.’

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 had 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.

Even the way she walked screamed out that she came from a background of old money plus an expensive education and all that came with it.

Either that or she was the best actor that he had ever met, and he had met plenty of actresses in the hotel and restaurant trade. Hollywood and Broadway. A class and C class. They were all the same under the slick exterior. Girls ready and waiting to say the words someone else had written for them.

But Charlie the art critic? Charlie was in a class of her own.

And in his crazy world, that was pretty unique.

Who was this woman and what had he done to upset her? He had met her before, that was certain. And from that frosty glare she had given him when he’d sat down next to her, chances were that it had not been one of his finer moments.

Now all he had to do was work out what terrible crime he had committed. Rob could never resist a challenge.

He was going to chase this woman down to her lair and find out her name before the night was out.

Maybe he could salvage something out of his nightmare of an exhibition after all?

‘Charlie. Just a moment,’ he said to her back, and strode after her across the exhibition space, back towards the reception area where waiting staff were stacking side plates and cutlery onto white tablecloths over polymer tables.

It had been a long day and his body clock was starting to kick in. Perhaps it was time to show his appreciation for the lady who had finally given him something to smile about?

With his long athletic legs and her shorter high-heeled ones, it only took Rob a few steps to catch up with Charlie, who surprised him by stepping behind the desk.

‘Hold up. You never did give me your name. A business card. Email address. Phone number, if you are old school. Come on. You know you want to keep in touch. For...follow-up questions.’

Rob’s voice faded away as he stepped closer.

‘You’re wearing an apron. Are you waiting tables?’

‘You’re right, the rumours about you could not possibly be true. You are more intelligent than you look,’ Charlie said, and flashed him a glance in between giving directions to the very young-looking art-student waiters. ‘But I can only hope that you have a sense of humour, as well. Because it’s even worse than that. You see, I am not an art critic. Never have been. Probably never will be. I’m the chef who is taking care of the canapés this evening.’

And before Rob had a chance to take it all in, Lottie picked up a tray of steaming-hot savouries and thrust it out towards him like a weapon.

‘Could I interest you in one of my humble pies? I think they are just what you need.’

THREE

‘Not at the moment, thank you. No. I think I’ll pass.’

Rob picked up one of the business cards that Lottie had fanned out next to the condiments and the deep frown creased his forehead as he read the address out loud.

‘Lottie Rosemount’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms? That’s where Dee Flynn works.’

Lottie could practically see the cogs of Rob’s mind work as his gaze ratcheted up one notch at a time from the business card past the platter of savoury canapés and finally to her face. Where it settled for one millisecond as the inevitable hit home.

‘Please tell me that you’re not Lottie Rosemount.’ He finally groaned.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat for a second before she smiled it away with a quick flick of the head.

Busted! Playtime had officially just ended and it was back to work.

‘Sorry. Can’t do that. Life is so unfair sometimes. Don’t you think? Welcome to my world, Mr Beresford.’

Shame. She had enjoyed being taken seriously as an art expert for a few minutes. Now it was back to being plain old Lottie the cake maker. It was always curious to see how people’s expectations changed when she announced that she baked for a living, but she had not expected to see that stunned look on Rob’s face. He was in the same business, after all.

Her body still tingled at the touch of his hand at the small of her back. One thin layer of silk was all that had separated his clever long fingers from her naked skin.

Time to jump in and take control while he was still at the glaring-in-disbelief stage. ‘I did tell you that my name was Charlotte and people call me so many nicknames that it’s fun to have a change now and then. Just for the variety.’

‘Lottie Rosemount.’ Rob nodded slowly up and down, then gave a low whistle. ‘I don’t believe it. So you like playing games with people? Lottie. Or do you have another nickname you prefer to use on social occasions?’

Games. Hell, no. He was not accusing her of playing tricks on him.

‘Oh, no. Lottie works fine. As for playing games? On the contrary. It goes against my principles.’

His reply was a choked cough and he gestured towards the bench, which was already occupied by other patrons.

‘But it was okay to string me along just now and pretend that you were an art critic. Did you even like that painting you were staring at or just doing it to impress me?’

She heard the annoyance in his voice and was shamefully delighted.

‘I don’t recall saying that I was a critic. And as for trying to impress you? Well, someone has a very high opinion of themselves. For the record I have always adored contemporary art and I love these pieces. Especially that painting. If that is okay with you? Or are you one of those people who think that the catering staff should stay in their place? Out of sight. So that they are not able to embarrass the management.’

His back stiffened and instantly Rob seemed to grow about five inches taller.

‘No. I am not one of those people, Lottie. Far from it, actually.’

The words whirled around inside her head at the confused signals. He was acting as if she had insulted him. Well, that was rich.

‘Good. Because I do love that painting and was pleased to have the chance to see it. So, seeing as we share a common interest, I think it only fair that I share my other passion with you before the masses of starving media arrive.’

‘You have more than one passion? Please, carry on. I would hate for you to feel that you cannot act on your principles. Heaven forfend.’

Ignoring the sarcasm was not something Lottie found easy, but she got through it by focusing on opening up a new batch of bakery boxes.

The next thing Rob knew he was holding a dessert plate with a piece of cake on it. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

‘Lemon sponge?’

‘I do hope that you enjoy it. The gallery gave me strict instructions that Adele Forrester had specifically requested two desserts. Individual dark chocolate tarts and lemon drizzle cakes. A special order from a fine artist. Now that, Mr Beresford, I could not fake. Dig in.’

His lips closed around the forkful of cake and her gaze locked on to those lips.

She had never seen such sensual lips on any man before and, oh, boy, they looked good enough to eat. The tip of his tongue flicked out tantalisingly and wiped away a smear of lemon sauce.

A flash of raw and unadulterated attraction hit her hard. Unexpected and entirely inappropriate. Strange how it felt seriously good.

Do that again. Please.

Lottie didn’t realise that she had stopped breathing until a very loud ringtone smashed through her foodie trance and she instantly whipped the other cakes onto the platters and arranged them artistically on the buffet table so that the guests could help themselves.

Saved by the bell.

Rob put down his plate and casually fished the mobile phone out of his pocket, checked the caller identity. And flicked the phone closed with a crisp clip.

‘Interesting cake. But I have to go and meet another lovely lady. I’ll be seeing you around.’ He smiled at Lottie, then gave her an outrageously over-the-top wink. ‘You can bet on it.’

* * *

See you around?

Of course Rob was going to see her around.

His half-brother, Sean Beresford, was totally in love with her best friend and business partner, Dee, and unless she had totally misread the signs, there would be engagement parties and wedding planning before the end of the year. And right there next to Sean would be his best pal, Rob.

She was going to have to put up with Rob for Dee’s sake. But really? Trying to flirt with her in an art gallery? Sheesh. And why did he have to be so...so...him?

So who was this lovely lady anyway? Some A-list celebrity? Or that supermodel Dee had told her he was seeing?

Lottie casually turned her head so that she could see Rob’s back.

He was making a beeline for the tall, elegant, very slender older woman who was walking on air through the doors leading into the gallery. One hand was high in the air, the other waving from side to side from the wrist in flamboyant over-the-top gestures.

The moment she saw Rob she gave a quick squeal, flung her arms forward and gave him such a warm and sweet hug that Lottie knew that they cared about one another. He seemed perfectly happy to hook her arm over his and escort her into the room, lighting their way with the kind of beaming smile that should be licensed to power companies.

But it was only when she stepped closer under the exhibition spotlights that Lottie realised she was looking at Adele Forrester. She recognised the characteristic high cheekbones and profile from the posters and exhibition catalogues that her friend Ian had created.

And it totally floored her.

Adele was lovely, happy, laughing and enjoying herself.

Well, that was one more illusion shattered! So much for the tortured artist who had painted that wonderful landscape of the woman on the shore looking for a last chance. She had clearly found her mojo because right at that moment Adele Forrester was the star of the show, Rob Beresford was her escort and they were both having a great time.

Rob Beresford and Adele Forrester.

This evening was certainly turning out to be full of surprises. Little wonder that he was a walking expert on the artist’s work when they were clearly such great pals. Not lovers. She could see that. No. There was none of that awkward first touch. They seemed closer. Almost like best friends or family.

Curious. She had not expected that. Perhaps she should call Dee and find out if Sean had mentioned anything about how Rob knew an artist like Adele Forrester.

Instantly the gallery owner and several of the guests surged forwards to shake Adele’s hand, smiling and laughing and crowding in to get attention from the star of the show.

Lottie tried to peer over their heads but it was no good. Adele was swamped.

And right on time the first batch of art-student waiting staff emerged from the kitchen carrying platters of hot canapés straight from the oven.

It was show time!

* * *

He had known that this was going to happen.

Worse. It was entirely his own fault.

He should never have left his mum alone at the hotel with the champagne that the gallery had sent around and several packs of cold medicine.

He had taken his eyes off the ball and indulged in a little free time with a lovely blonde who had turned out to be the opposite of what he’d expected.

And now his lovely mother was as high as a kite.

Flying over everyone’s heads but coming down to earth just long enough to make polite and quite sensible conversation with the very people who had the power to make her life miserable if she imploded.

He had let her down.

There was no other way of describing it. The most important exhibition of her career and Adele Forrester had just described her signature style to the art critic of the largest broadsheet newspaper in London as Californian rain.

The real problem was that she adored chatting about her art so much. This was her world and she was amazing. Truly. Grabbing her arm and dragging her away would not only be creepy, but annoying.

That wouldn’t work. So he had switched to plan B. The oldest technique in the world. Distraction and diversion.

Now. How many lovely lady art critics could he charm just long enough for them not to notice that the artist they had come to chat to was totally sozzled? Time to find out.

* * *

‘Lemon drizzle cake! Oh, how did you know that was my absolute favourite? You are a complete genius and I don’t even know your name. How embarrassing. My son never makes me lemon drizzle, no matter how often I plead with him.’

Lottie grinned and loaded a plate with three squares of moist cake. ‘Lottie Rosemount. And I am told that your agent made a special request, Miss Forrester.’

‘Oh, one more reason why I love Sally so much. And please call me Adele.’

Lottie watched Adele dive into her bag and sneeze onto a lovely hand-embroidered hankie, which was now sodden. She squeezed her eyes together, then blinked a couple of times.

‘Can you believe it? I wait eight years for an exhibition and I have to come down with a horrible head cold. Almost through it, but my head! It feels as though it is totally full of cotton wool. Excuse me, darling. Time for another of these cold tablets I bought this morning. They really are the perfect pick-me-up.’

Adele popped one into her mouth and washed it down with a huge slug of pink champagne before smacking her lips. ‘Quite delicious.’

Lottie took a quick glance at the medicine box Adele had left on the table.

‘Er. Adele, those are one-a-day tablets. Are you sure it’s okay to take so many with alcohol?’

‘One a day? Really? Oh. Well, that must mean that they work faster. Excellent.’

Adele rested a beautifully manicured hand on Lottie’s arm and swayed slightly. ‘As long as they get me through the night, sweetie, I am prepared to take the risk. I have waited a long time for tonight. There is no way that I am going to miss a single moment.’

Then her eyebrows lifted and a huge sweet grin illuminated the room. ‘Ah. There’s my son. Better load my plate up with those delicious-looking bites before he catches up with me and reminds me that it is way past my bedtime.’

Then Adele flashed a completely over-the-top dramatic wink before blinking in rapid succession.

‘A girl can always use more pizza squares. Don’t you think? Ah. Rob. Perfect timing as always. Give your old mum a hand and hold my glass while I sample these pastries, will you, kiddo? They all look so good.’

Lottie inhaled a long slow breath, redolent with the aroma of the last of the mushroom-and-anchovy croustade slices Adele was tucking into with great relish, before slowly sliding her gaze up Adele’s arm into the face of Rob Beresford.

The man who had sat down on that bench and let her prattle on about the paintings without even giving one tiny hint about why he knew so much about Adele Forrester.

Because apparently this lovely woman with the amazing artistic talent...

Was his mother.

There were bad words to describe men like Rob. And kiddo was not one of them.

And he had been accusing her of playing games!

Oh, Adele. Where had it all gone wrong?

The snake waited until Adele was chatting to Ian before sliding closer to the serving area. ‘Charlie... No. I mean, Lottie. Good. You are still here.’

Rob glanced from side to side before asking in a low whisper, ‘I need a back way out of the gallery and I need it fast. Start talking.’

His fingers started tapping out a beat on the table and his whole body language screamed out impatience and frustration.

Lottie glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of giggling press ladies in regulation black who had their heads pressed together comparing their mobile-phone photos and shooting very unsubtle smoochy glances in his direction. Hair flicking and quick-fire reapplication of lip gloss seemed to be the order of the day.

‘So I see,’ Lottie replied with the same fixed, professional smile that she had used all evening, the one that made her jaw ache. ‘The owner has a very useful gallery plan. You will find it just over there. Behind the barman’s head.’

Lottie pointed to the large display on the wall next to the drinks table, which was slowly emptying as the remaining guests wandered out onto the terrace to enjoy the cool late-evening air before heading home.

‘What’s the matter, Rob? Need to make your escape before the girls pounce on you?’

The smile dropped from the handsome man’s face and he half turned and flashed her the withering, contemptuous look that had made him notorious in the hard-nosed cookery shows, but had no place at all in a fine-art exhibition.

It was nothing like as angry as the look he had given her when he had fired her but Lottie reared back and pretended to dodge to one side. ‘Oh, my. Are those daggers aimed at me? I do hope that the wind won’t change because you would not want your face to stick like that.’

Then she leant forwards a little and winked. ‘I worked in banking for many years. So the hard approach is wasted on me. Same goes for sighing loudly and frowning. Been there, done that. Not putting up with it a moment longer.’

Rob’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at her in what looked like real astonishment.

To her delight the hard line of his mouth lifted up into the tiniest of smiles. ‘Okay. Let’s try it your way,’ he replied in a low, hoarse voice that almost trembled with suppressed energy. ‘Excuse me, Miss Rosemount, but could you please direct me to the back way out of the gallery through the kitchens?’

Her hands got busy stacking her bakery platters into a wide plastic crate. ‘Of course, Mr Beresford. If you go through those two swing doors and walk about ten metres past the dishwasher there is a fire door to the main staircase to the building. It comes out at the loading bay at the back of the gallery.’

His reply was a quick ‘thanks’ as he strolled past her at jogging speed, one hand in his pocket as though he were boarding a yacht.

‘You’re welcome,’ she murmured to his back.

What was that all about?

Or rather who was that all about?

Lottie swung the final platter and table cover into the carry crate and looked up to scan the room.

He certainly did not want to see someone here this evening. But who? Most of the critics had left when the food ran out and Adele had been around the gallery at least ten times over the last two hours, explaining each and every piece to them before returning to the bar for a refill.

Perhaps he had seen a former girlfriend he did not want to be photographed with? Or maybe one of the rival chefs on the bake-off contest had turned up and was itching for extra publicity.

There must be someone. Then a flash of blue sparkle just in front of one of the largest paintings caught her attention, followed by a peal of very loud and very over-the-top female laughter.

And Lottie’s heart sank.

Because suddenly the reason for Rob Beresford’s desire to explore other exits from the gallery became startling clear.

It was Adele Forrester.

And she had just staggered into one of the major installations from a very famous artist. It was by pure chance that the gallery owner had caught it in time to prevent a major disaster. On their opening night.

Ouch.

The problem was that Adele was treating it as a huge joke. Her hands were waving in the air but as she stepped forwards it was only too obvious that she was way too unsteady on her feet to be standing up.

Oh, Adele! Cold tablets plus champagne were a bad combination.

Any minute now she was going to fall over and embarrass and humiliate herself, which was the very last thing she needed!

Yep. Back door.

In a second she whipped off her apron and dropped it into the crate.

‘Adele.’ Lottie smiled as she strolled as casually as she could manage up to the stunningly dressed woman who was clinging on to the slightly intoxicated and more-than-slightly terrified gallery owner.

Adele turned towards her a little too quickly and her legs gave a definite wobble but Lottie stepped forwards, hooked her arm around Adele’s, and took her weight before anyone had a chance to notice. ‘I feel so guilty. I promised to save you some of that lemon drizzle cake you loved so much and now there are only three pieces left.’ Then she grinned and snuggled closer as though they were the best of pals and intent on a girl huddle. ‘I have kept them hidden in the kitchen for you. If you are ready?’

With one final laugh in the direction of the very relieved gallery owner, Adele clung on to Lottie and chatted merrily about how much she loved London. And cake. And champagne. But somehow Lottie held Adele mostly upright as they very slowly and sedately crossed the gallery and with one push they were through the doors and into the kitchen.

One bar stool and a plastic cake box later, Lottie could finally catch her breath and rub some life back into her arm. Give it five minutes and they would be on their way.

The sound of heavy male footsteps taking the stairs two at a time echoed up and Lottie closed her eyes.

Rob burst into the kitchen, his gaze taking in the scene, eyes flashing, dark and powerful. Accusing and angry. Full of that same fire and mistrust as the last time that they had met.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, and he jerked his chin higher with every word.

‘Adele needs some air and lemon drizzle cake. I was helping her to get both. Okay?’

The Rob she had met three years ago had been obscenely confident of who he was. Master of the universe. Demanding and expecting everyone to worship his talent and magnificence. And that man was right here in the room all over again.

‘I can take it from here. She’s fine. Just fine.’

But as she nodded Lottie was incapable of dragging her gaze from those stunning eyes.

And the longer she looked, the more she recognised something so startling and surprising that it unnerved her.

Rob might appear to be the most confident and put-together and in-control man that she had ever met, but in those eyes she recognised anxiety and concern.

Something was worrying him. Something she did not know about.

‘Have you organised some transport?’ Lottie whispered, trying to sound casual so that Adele would not be scared.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Rob snapped. ‘The most important thing is to get her out of here before she makes a fool of herself.’

Lottie smiled down at the lovely woman who was half leaning against the dishwasher and nibbling delicately at the cake, apparently oblivious to their conversation.

‘Why? This is her party. Her work. Surely she is allowed to have fun at the opening night?’

‘Not in front of these people. They are looking for any excuse to pull us down and sell the photographs to the highest bidder. They know me. And they know where to find me. The last thing I need is a scene. Not good at all.’

‘You. They know you.’

Lottie stared at him open-mouthed and then shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh, I have been so stupid. I actually thought that you were concerned that your mum might embarrass herself on her big night. When all of the time you were more concerned about how this might look to the press pack waiting outside the front entrance. You and your precious image are the only things that matters.’

‘You don’t know what you are talking about,’ he whispered, and she saw something hard and painful in those dark and flashing eyes.

‘Oh, don’t I? You would be surprised. I know a lot more about men who put their so-called appearance above everything else than you think.’

She could feel her neck flushing red but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

How many times had her father used the same expression? The last thing he wanted was a scene. How often had she stood next to him at company functions afraid to speak or even move, because he had given her strict instructions to stay silent and keep in the background? Don’t make a fuss. You are an embarrassment. No one likes a show-off. And never, ever, do anything that would put him in a bad light.

The one time she got drunk after a multimillion-dollar client signed with her and she arrived home in the middle of her parents’ bridge party, happy and loud and laughing, her mother was so disgusted that she asked her to go to her room and stay out of sight in case her guests saw her.

No mention about her happiness. It had all revolved about her father’s carefully stage-managed and totally fake image. Everything her family did was to make sure that the rest of the world never saw a crack in the carefully constructed outside persona.

He had been a tyrant, a bully and a liar. And a con man.

And now Rob was acting in exactly the same way.

She felt so angry with him she could hit him. The egotistical creep. Her fingernails pressed into her palms as she fought the urge to throw open the kitchen door and leave Rob to sort this mess out on his own.

‘This is really good cake. Is there any more?’

Adele!

Guilt and shame shot through Lottie so fast that it blasted away her contempt for Rob and left her with a lovely lady who needed help.

In a click the fog that was clouding Lottie’s brain cleared. It was Adele that mattered here, not Rob.

‘Absolutely,’ Lottie replied. ‘In fact I am on the way to the bakery right now. Would you like a lift? I can drop you off at the hotel later if you like? When you’re feeling a little steadier.’

‘Great idea,’ Adele replied and tried to pick up one of the wine glasses draining in the dishwasher tray. ‘Oh. My glass is empty.’

‘No problem. I have lots of lovely coffee and tea back at the bakery. And then when you get back to the hotel, your son here—’ and at this point she flashed him a narrow-eyed squint ‘—can make you some lovely hot chocolate. How about that?’

Adele staggered to her feet and held out her arm. ‘Lead the way. Cake ahoy.’

* * *

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No can do. This is a two-woman delivery van. And Adele is quite happy in the passenger seat.’

Rob grunted and waved back to his mother, who was sitting quite sedately in the van with her seat belt already fastened, looking vacantly and very glassy-eyed down the lane behind the gallery.

In the end Lottie had given way and skipped ahead with her bakery crate while Rob had helped his mum negotiate the quite steep staircase to the delivery bay.

‘Then drive to the hotel and I’ll follow in a black cab.’

Lottie took a calming breath and then lifted her chin and leant closer to Rob so that she could talk to him through clenched teeth. ‘And watch Adele fall out of the van onto her face in front of the cameras? Oh, that would be a good idea. Not a chance. Your mother needs somewhere to go for a couple of hours to rest and recover before she heads back to the hotel.’

Her hand flipped up. ‘Dee is away in China and I have a spare room your mum can use if she likes. Next question.’

He stepped up so that their chests were almost touching.

‘My mother is my responsibility. Not yours.’

Lottie narrowed her eyes and stared up at Rob. His face was in shadow from the street lights and security lamps, making the hard planes of his cheekbones appear even more pronounced.

‘Let me make something very clear. I am not doing this for you. I am doing it for Adele. Bully.’

‘Let me make something clear. I am not letting her out of my sight. Kidnapper.’

They stood there, locked in a silent stand-off as the air between them positively crackled with the electricity that sparked in the narrow gap.

And into that gap drifted a completely obvious but daring idea.

She needed a replacement chef for Valencia Cagoni at the charity fundraiser and Rob needed transport in her van. Maybe there was a way they could both get what they wanted?

Lottie inhaled a long slow breath through her nose as the plan took shape.

‘There might be one way you could persuade me to let you travel in the back with my bakery trays. If you can lower your pride, of course. I realise that would mean coming down in the world from the kind of transport that you are accustomed to.’

A thunderous look and a lightning-sharp glare were joined by a hand-on-hip move that would no doubt terrorise any lesser female. But Lottie held her ground as he slowly walked around to the back of her white delivery van and peered inside.

‘The back of the van?’

She nodded slowly up and down. Just once. ‘There is a charity fundraiser on Saturday evening at the catering college we both went to. You were notorious. I was a star. The big-name chef who was lined up to attend can’t make it. So I have to find a second-best alternative. I suppose you would do as a last-minute stand-in. Or do you want to go home in a taxi?’

His nose twitched. Ah. Perhaps there was still a faint sense of humour lurking there behind the scowl.

‘One evening. Charity fundraiser. That’s it.’

‘Absolutely.’ She grinned. ‘Leap in.’

FOUR

‘Well, the way Sean tells it, Rob was squeezed into the back of your delivery van all the way back to the bakery and you took every corner at speed just to make sure that he would be tossed around in the back as much as possible.’ Dee giggled down the phone. ‘Shame on you, Lottie Rosemount. Although...I would have liked to have been there to see it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Lottie replied, with the phone jammed tight between her shoulder and her ear. ‘A good dry-cleaner should be able to get the stains out of his trousers. Although chocolate and double cream sticky smears can be tricky, especially on cashmere.’

‘You should try getting soy sauce out of a silk top!’ Dee laughed and Lottie could visualise her friend wiping her eyes before sniffing. ‘Now here is the thing, sweetie. I haven’t told Sean that Rob was the head chef who fired you from your job when you were an apprentice. Secret squirrel, just like you asked. So the boy wonder is still in the dark at why his devilish charm is being wasted on you. At the moment. But you know how much chefs love to gossip and the fundraiser is at a Beresford hotel. Rob is bound to find out one way or another. So-o-o...it might be time to fess up and call it equals before the big night.’

‘Equals? Oh, no. Rob Beresford doesn’t get away that easily. A twenty-minute van ride through central London does not match up to being fired from your dream job for something you did not do. I think I can stretch the retribution out for a little bit longer.’ Then Lottie put down her mixing spoon and took the phone in one hand before asking in a low voice, ‘Does that make me a bad person? Because I don’t want him to turn me into an evil witch.’

‘True. That coven look is so last year. But don’t worry. You just want to make the boy suffer as payment for the horrible mistake he made when he let you go. His loss. I understand that perfectly. You have to get it out of your system and this is your chance to do it. And maybe have a little fun in the process. Am I right? And now I am going to be late. Email. Later. Bye.’

Lottie put down the telephone and thought back to that moment when she had turned around to find Rob Beresford sitting within striking distance of her and fun was not the first thing that came into her mind.

The sound of laughter rang out from inside the tea rooms and Lottie looked up as one of their regular gentlemen customers held open the door for two elderly ladies whose hands were full of shopping bags and the three cake boxes containing all they needed for a spectacular sixth birthday party for a very special grandson.

Her regular crowd of early shoppers were still enjoying the special-offer breakfast special. Cheese and ham panini followed by a freshly baked and still-warm blueberry and cinnamon muffin washed down with as much tea as they could drink. Good tea, of course. Dee Flynn might not be spending much time in the tea rooms these days but she made sure that the tea was as good as ever.

Sunlight flooded into the cake shop from the London street and bounced back from the cream-and-pastel-coloured walls.

This was how she had imagined it. Years ago when she was working the corporate life and popping into coffee shops for a triple espresso and a paper sack full of carbohydrates, fats and sugar just to get through the morning.

Her bakery. Her cake shop and tea rooms.

It was all real. She had done it. No, correction. She had not done this all on her own.

Lottie smiled and reached out for a spatula but then let her hand drop onto the worktop.

She missed Dee more than she would ever admit. Dee had been the one and only person she had asked to join her and it had been such fun planning the cake shop and tea rooms together. A girl who had a passion for baking and an Irish girl whose idea of heaven was the contents of the wonderful mystery packages that used to arrive from tea gardens all over the world.

But then Dee had fallen for Sean Beresford and now her life was one huge adventure. Exciting and thrilling. Her tea import company would go live by the end of the year and she was loved by a man who was almost good enough for her.

One day soon Dee would be off for good, leaving her alone. Again.

A woman’s voice lifted up from the chatter and Lottie looked up in time to see a handsome couple in business suits laughing together as they strolled hand in hand down the pavement, a cake box swinging from the man’s arm like an expensive briefcase.

From the side view the blonde in the designer suit and high heels looked so much like the old version of herself that Lottie clasped hold of the workbench for support.

Not so many years ago she had been that girl. Hardworking and driven, but happy to eat out in fine restaurants several times a week with the man her father thought was suitable boyfriend material.

Strange. She had taken it for granted at the time that one day she would move to the next step and marry the young executive, take the standard maternity leave and create a pristine and perfectly run home of her own with her two perfectly mannered children around her. One boy. One girl. All part of the grand master plan her parents had slotted her into.

The problem was she had bought into the whole family thing from the start and she still wanted it. Only this time the family she wanted was going to be very different from the one she had grown up in. That was not negotiable.

Cold, icy silences at torturous formal mealtimes would be replaced by warm, real interest in what the people around the unpolished practical pine kitchen table were thinking and doing. Helpful and supportive. Wanting the best for her children and being there for them no matter what happened and what choices they made. Working with a man who she could love as a real partner for the long haul.

A man who did not insist that every surface in the house was sanitised and polished daily in silent obedience by the slaves of women who were his token wife and daughter.

So, overall the precise opposite of what she had grown up in and survived.

Yeah. Well, that was the dream.

And her life at that moment was the reality.

No boyfriend. No family. No children of her own. And no prospects for creating that family unless something changed in her life or she made it happen.

When was the last time she had shared a meal cooked by someone else with a man who she could call her boyfriend—or even a lover?

When was the last time she had even gone on a date?

Lottie stood on tiptoe to watch the young executive couple press their heads together, happy and oblivious to how blessed they were, before they turned the corner and moved out of sight.

Drat Dee for showing her just what she was missing in her life.

One day she would find someone who she could trust enough to share her life and dreams with. One day.

When the phone began to ring again, Lottie had to take a moment to blink away stupid tears before picking it up.

‘Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms.’

‘Good morning, Miss Rosemount. I trust that you slept well.’

It was Rob!

Her foolish girly heart skipped a beat and her stomach flipped so hard that she had to grab the mixing bowl of icing before it slithered off the worktop.

Sleep? How did he expect her to sleep? It had taken hours to settle a very bouncy and over-stimulated Adele into Dee’s room and persuade her not to munch the entire contents of the biscuit displays. Followed by several hours of tossing and turning as she replayed the scenes with Rob on repeat inside her head.

Breathe. All she had to do was breathe normally. Keep it casual. That was the key. Lottie’s mouth curved up into a smile. He was totally in her control, and that felt disgracefully good.

‘Splendidly, thank you,’ she lied. ‘Good morning to you, too. I hope that the bruises have faded?’

‘Not yet,’ a low rough voice replied. ‘Those packing crates were lethal.’ Then he gave a low cough. ‘I was wondering if my mother was awake yet. We had agreed to catch up about her plans for the day.’

Ah. So that was why he had phoned. He was worried about how his mother was.

Okay. She got that. As long as Rob remembered that she was the person who had invited his mother to stay in Dee’s room overnight, for the simple reason that she liked Adele Forrester and the poor woman was in no fit state to face the press.

And definitely not because her son Rob had looked desperate.

‘As of ten minutes ago your mum was snuggled under Dee’s duvet and snoring lightly. That cold medicine and champagne combination make a very effective knock-out potion. It may be a while before she surfaces.’

‘Fine. See you in an hour. Try and get her up in time. Ciao.’

And then he put the phone down on her. Unbelievable!

Lottie glared at the handset in disbelief for a few seconds before shaking her head and returning it to the wall bracket.

That man had no manners whatsoever.

Lottie sniffed and picked up her spatula and got back to work filling an icing bag with the luscious soft-cheese-and-orange-zest icing for the mini carrot cakes that were already lined up in their cases and waiting for a soft swirl of Lottie’s special recipe topping.

The cheek of the man. Just because he was a celebrity chef with his own TV show and food awards up to his armpits did not mean that he could simply order her about and expect her to say, ‘Yes, chef,’ like one of his kitchen brigade!

Lottie tossed the spatula back into the bowl and squeezed the piping bag down until she had formed a perfect swirl in the bowl.

But at least one good thing had come out of it all. Robert Beresford, international chef and gossip-columnist golden boy, had promised to turn up for the fundraiser at the hotel. And she was going to hold him to that, no matter what happened.

‘Oh, can I lick the bowl out? Please? You know I cannot resist your icing! Mmm, delish.’

Lottie chuckled as her friend and part-time waitress wiped her fingertip around the scrapes of icing left in the glass mixing bowl and popped it into the mouth. ‘Oh, that is so good,’ Gloria moaned. ‘When are you going to give me the recipe, woman? My girls would love me for ever.’

Lottie threw her head back and laughed out loud. ‘What are you talking about, Gloria? Your three girls already think you’re a goddess because you work here and go home loaded with edible swag every afternoon. And what about that handsome husband of yours? How did the chocolate melting-middle brownies go down last night?’

‘Go down? Oh, yes. I am going to need a regular supply, if that boy has the stamina to keep up with me,’ Gloria replied with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Lottie glanced quickly at the tables, then leant across and wiped the icing from Gloria’s cheek. ‘You are terrible! And setting a bad example for the customers.’

Then she flicked her head towards the counter. ‘How are we doing out there? Ready for the carrot cakes?’

‘Girl, we are always ready for that carrot cake. Pass them over and turn the oven on to make the next batch. They’ll be gone in an hour. And before I forget, the gals have been asking me about the Bake and Bitch club meeting next week. What special treat do you have lined up?’

Lottie winked and started washing up. ‘Wait and see, Gloria. You are just going to have to wait and see.’

* * *

Rob stared out of the floor-to-ceiling office window at the overcast sunless skies of central London in June. It was hard to believe that only thirty-six hours earlier he had been eating barbecue in the glorious Californian sunshine with his restaurant brigade.

His eyes felt heavy, gritty, and ready to close, but just as Rob rolled back his shoulders his talent agent, Sally Richards, finished the call on her mobile phone.

‘Good news. The first reviews and photos of the exhibition are all looking brilliant. The only photographs I have seen are when she left the hotel for the event last evening. Adele smiled sweetly on the way out and gave them a lovely wave before jumping into the limo. Not a word about her staggering home early the worse for wear. So relax, Rob. You got away with it.’

‘By the skin of my teeth and through the back door. What a nightmare,’ he replied and then covered a yawn with one hand.

‘So are you ready to rock and roll? Because I have to tell you, I have a tube of under-eye concealer in my bag and you need it more than I do. Did you get any sleep at all on the flight? Eight hours, wasn’t it? Nine?’

Rob snorted a reply to the one talent manager he had used since he first stepped out from his dad’s Beresford hotel chain and started making a name for himself.

‘That was the New York leg of the journey. I had to stop en route from California to check up on a few things at the Beresford New York office. Then the traffic was horrendous. So I missed my flight to London and had to battle with the usual airport media scrum. So all in all just about a typical day’s travel in the crazy world I live in.’

‘Hey. That’s why you love it so much!’

Rob looked around and blinked at Sally a few times before collapsing down on the leather sofa with a grin. ‘If you say so, but these past few months have been a nightmare, Sally. My mum...well, you know my mum. Hates medics. Always has done. She promised me that she would start taking the medication as soon as she finished the final piece for this exhibition, but I don’t know. I called her from the airport yesterday and she sounded high as a kite. But last night she was so doped up with cold medicine it was hard to know what was going on inside her head.’

Rob ran his hand back and forth over his mouth and chin. ‘It’s been eight years since her meltdown at the last exhibition. Eight years, Sally! And the press are still baying for something juicy to say. I thought that if I came here I could provide some sort of diversion. You know what they’re like. Why bother with a clever artist with a fading reputation when she has a TV celebrity as a son? Who knows? If we goad him enough we might be able to set off some of those fireworks and get some photographs to sell to the highest bidder. And they have the perfect ammunition to do it with.’

Sally walked around and perched on the edge of the desk.

‘Did you manage to keep it together?’

There was something in Sally’s tone that made Rob sit back on the sofa and look up. ‘Barely. I would not give them the satisfaction. So don’t give me that look. I played nice and did not punch anyone, no matter how much I wanted to. Happy? Because I know that voice. There’s something else going on here. Fire away. Let’s get it over with.’

‘Observant as ever.’ She smiled and paused long enough to reach across the desk and pass a bundle of printed sheets across to Rob, who glanced at them once before tossing them onto the sofa cushion.

‘You cannot be serious. I’ve just finished filming the final TV series and it practically killed me fitting everything in. I’ve done the interviews and press calls and earned that money. And now they want me to do another series? What is that all about? We’ve been down this road before, Sally. Mum needs me to be close at hand. Travelling across the States then flying back to get her through this exhibition has been tough on both of us. She needs me to be in California. And I really need to get back to work in the Beresford kitchens. Sean has hardly seen me this year and I have been relying way too much on the chefs I trained. Time to get back to doing what I do best. Working with food and creating amazing dishes for the Beresford hotel chain.’

Sally raised both hands in the air. ‘I did what you asked me to. I made it clear to the production company a year ago that you have had enough of the restaurant makeover show for TV. One more series and that’s it. But the audience figures are soaring higher month on month, Rob. Viewers cannot get enough of you. Look at the numbers, Rob. This is crazy money. Sign the new contract and you don’t need to work again unless you want to. Ever. This could be just the opportunity you need to build up that emergency fund.’

Rob paused, then glanced up at the woman who had looked after his interests since he was seventeen. ‘Come on, Sally. You know this was never about the money. Every penny I have earned on the TV shows and personal appearances has gone into my mum’s account.’

‘And last time I checked, the investment plan we worked on was doing very nicely and bringing in a respectable income to cover her not-so-little spending sprees. But how long is that going to last? You are top news at the moment. But once you move back into your kitchen the focus will shift onto the next hot new chef and Rob Beresford will not be the man of the moment any longer. And you can stop glaring at me. Because I’m not the only person who has got their head about that fact. So far I have had three enquiries from documentary film companies. Every one of them wants the exclusive rights to a behind-the-scenes exposé of the real Rob Beresford. And if you don’t take part they will make them anyway. That’s the way it goes.’

There were a few seconds of silence before Rob responded in a low voice. ‘Are you telling me that someone else is planning to write my life story without even asking me?’

‘Absolutely. That’s why you should think about it. Because you know what would happen if they did. They are bound to focus on the one thing we’ve worked hard to keep in the background.’

Rob pushed himself shakily to his feet and walked stiffly over to the window, his shoulders rigid with stress. ‘My mother would not survive. It took her months to pull back from the last bout of depression and I can’t force her to take the medication while she is painting. It has to be her choice. That was what we agreed.’

‘Then tell the story the way you want to before somebody else does.’

‘Tell my story? You think the readers would want to know about all of the gruelling years I spent in hotel kitchens? There is nothing exciting and glamorous about that way of life.’

Rob rolled back his shoulders and winced. ‘Speaking of which, I have an appointment with a baker and something tells me that I had better not be late.’

Sally coughed low in her throat and looked at him over the top of her spectacles. ‘A baker? Today? I thought you would be spending time at the gallery with Adele.’

‘I’ll explain later, Sally...if I survive.’

* * *

It was mid-morning before Rob pushed open the door to Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms and stepped inside.

And almost whirled around on one heel and went straight back out again.

Because he had just walked into what looked like a children’s tea party, complete with ear-damaging levels of laughing, calling out and crying, some sort of jangling music, and a group of toddlers swaying their bodies from side to side and waving their hands in the air just in front of the serving counter while the girl he now knew to be Lottie Rosemount was conducting the dancing with a large wooden spoon.

She was wearing wide-leg navy trousers and a floral T-shirt covered with a large navy apron with a picture of a cupcake on it. Her blonde hair was tied back in a high ponytail and a pretty navy-and-white headband drew attention to an oval face that even without a trace of make-up still managed to be stunningly pretty.

This was the place that Sean’s girlfriend, Dee, loved so much?

He had survived restaurant opening nights that were quieter and more in control than this!

After a ninety-hour week and several international flights the last thing he wanted to do was join in a school party. His job was to earn the money so that his mother never had to worry about having nothing in the bank ever again.

But when could he ever refuse her anything?

She was the one and only woman on the planet who he had promised to take care of for as long as she needed him.

And he kept his promises. Even if that meant turning up to a small high-street bakery on a weekday morning.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Lottie called out. ‘That was simply amazing. Disco dancing and sporting stars of the future. No doubt about it. And don’t forget, the Yummy Mummy club meets at the same time next week. So if you are ready to say the word about the one thing we all love best in the whole world...wait for it, Helena, and please stop doing that, Adam...three...two...one. Let’s have a great big...cake!’

Rob winced and half closed one eye as the wannabe dance troupe screamed out the word and then they all burst into a barrage of yelling and screaming and calling and jumping up and down.

All he could do was stand to one side as the actually very yummy mummies wrestled their little darlings into submission and baby buggies and in some cases reins and shuffled past him towards the entrance and the busy London street outside on the pavement.

Holding the door open for them seemed like a good idea. The first time.

Except that the second each lovely mummy spotted him smiling politely at them the forward movement onto the pavement slowed down to the point where a very rowdy and disorderly queue had formed in the cake shop.

‘Hello, handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like that horrible rude chef that shouts a lot on the telly?’ The second girl shrugged. ‘Only not as good-looking. Sort off.’ Then she covered her hand with her mouth and laughed before shuffling off.

‘I get that a lot. No problem,’ Rob called after her with a quick wave before helping a very attractive brunette with her buggy. His reward was a beaming smile and a small business card popped into his shirt pocket with a cheeky wink while the little girl in the buggy amused herself by painting the jam from her donut onto the leg of his trousers.

Charming.

Five minutes later he had to physically unwrap the fingers of one charming cherub from his jacket and slide backwards into the cake shop. In an instant he closed the door tight behind him, his back flat against the glass, and exhaled slowly.

‘It must be nice to be so popular.’ A familiar female voice chuckled and Rob opened his eyes to see Lottie staring at him from behind the counter. ‘Are you available next Thursday morning? I’m thinking of doing Zumba for the under-fives. You would be a great hit for the lovely mums.’

‘Sorry. Previous booking. And please tell me that it’s not always like that.’

‘Oh, no,’ Lottie tutted. ‘Sometimes it can be quite rowdy.’ Then she smiled. ‘But brilliant fun for the kids. They have the best time and the mums have a chance to meet their pals. I love it.’ Then she pressed her lips together. ‘Do you drink tea?’

‘Don’t tell Dee but I would love a coffee,’ Rob replied and stepped forwards to the counter.

Lottie pushed her lips out. ‘Let me guess. Double-shot Americano. The breakfast of champions.’

Just for one split second Rob thought about calling her bluff but just the thought of that coffee was making his mouth water.

‘Damn. I hate to be predictable. Hit me.’

‘With pleasure,’ she whispered and then shook her head, rolled her eyes skywards and turned back to face him with a small shoulder shrug. ‘House rule. If you are a guest you have to eat something baked on the premises with your beverage. The donuts lasted thirty seconds but I have grown-up cakes galore.’

Then she turned away and continued talking but he couldn’t hear a word above the hiss and explosive steam from the coffee machine.

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ Rob said and strolled casually around the counter and stepped up to Lottie as she tapped out the coffee grounds.

In front of him was a kitchen about the same size as the one in his London penthouse apartment, except this kitchen was jam-packed with stainless-steel appliances and what looked like two commercial-size ovens. The air was filled with the most delicious aroma of baked goods. Spices and vanilla combined with the unique tang of caramel and buttery pastry and fresh-baked bread. Rob took a moment to appreciate the aroma.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ she muttered between clenched teeth and whirled around and pressed both hands flat against his chest and pushed hard.

‘Nobody—and I mean nobody—comes into my kitchen without asking me first. Do you let strangers just walk into your kitchen? No. I didn’t think so. Step back. All the way. And stay there. Thank you, that’s better. Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.’

Then she exhaled slowly and stepped back to the coffee machine, mumbling under her breath as she went.

‘Apologies,’ Rob said and raised both hands in the air. ‘My fault entirely. I am so used to walking into other people’s kitchens I forgot my manners.’

‘Um, well, I hope that you remember at the fundraiser,’ Lottie replied and stabbed the coffee spoon in his direction. ‘The whole idea is to raise funds for scholarships to the catering college. Not scare the VIPs away.’

‘Hey. I can play nice when the occasion demands,’ Rob replied and hit her with his sweetest smile.

‘That’s good to know.’ Lottie sighed as she strolled towards his table carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee that smelt so good his mouth was practically watering before he sat down.

She took a breath, put the tray onto the table, and then shuffled onto the chair facing him.

Watching him take that long, deep sip of piping-hot black coffee. Just the way he liked it. Perfect.

‘Great coffee. And thank you again for helping my mother out last night. It was very generous of you,’ Rob added with a slight bow of the head. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘No problem. Adele has been no trouble at all.’

Ah. Adele had been no trouble? So why did she think he would be?

With a low growl Rob put down the coffee and folded his arms and sat back in his chair so that he could face Lottie. ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you? Help me to understand.’

She blinked a couple of times and swallowed a long sip of coffee before her gaze flicked up into Rob’s face and their eyes met. ‘You were right, last night in the gallery. We have met before. About three years ago I was one of the catering students who had won a place in the Beresford hotel kitchens right here in London. You were entertaining guests one night and came in to see us after the meal and...you fired me. Gave me the sack. Threw me to the wolves. Let me go.’

Lottie clasped her hands so tightly around the coffee cup that Rob could see the whites of her knuckles and there was just enough of a tremble in her voice to make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle to attention. ‘Remember the pastry chef? Debra? The one who could barely stand up that night, never mind create something amazing? Debra was the one who had made the desserts. But I was the one who got the blame and the sack instead of her.’

Lottie paused and then lifted her chin, defiance blasting out from those green eyes with all of the heat of a fiery dragon. ‘It was no secret that you were sleeping with Debra at the time so you were not going to fire the person responsible for that particular disaster, were you? So I went. And she stayed. Does that help to make things a little clearer, Rob?’

FIVE

Every sound in the cake shop seemed to fade into the background as Rob focused on the bitter words that had exploded from the lips of the pretty girl sitting so still across the small table from him.

Of course he remembered Debra.

A shiver of cold regret and bitter disappointment bubbled up.

His rules were simple and easy to remember.

They could have fun. They could have a fling and a great time together and while it lasted he would be the most attentive and faithful boyfriend that a girl could want. Then they would walk away and get on with their lives.

That was how it worked and he made damn sure that any girl he dated was very clear that he was not in the business of negotiating. They were either in or out. Black or white. Their choice.

Debra had lasted longer than most and they had enjoyed a pretty good relationship for a few months. Until the inevitable had happened. She had started pushing for a long-term commitment that he hadn’t been prepared to give. She had kept telling him how much she loved him and how different she was from all of the other girls, so his rules did not apply to her. She was too special and different to be treated like one of the others.

She had not felt so special when he’d packed his bags and had been out of her door an hour later. In fact he recalled crying, screaming, and a humiliating display of begging.

It was weeks later that he’d found out through the gossip channels that Debra had been getting over his breaking up with her with the help of vodka and free hotel wine.

Lottie was the apprentice pastry chef who he fired that night to teach Debra a lesson and try and shock her into taking her life back.

Well, that explained a lot.

‘I remember it well. I ended up taking Debra home to her parents a few days later and finding her the professional help that she needed. It was a great relationship while it lasted and Debra is a remarkable girl. I met up with her and her husband when they were in Los Angeles for a professional chef conference last autumn. They seem like a great couple who have a stunning restaurant together. I am happy for her.’

Rob slowly unfolded his arms and stretched them out across the table.

‘That was a long time ago, Lottie. I made a choice. It was the right decision at the time and I have to stand by that. End of story.’

There was a gasp from across the table and Lottie stared at him, wide-eyed.

‘The right decision at the time? For who? Your squeeze?’

She sat back heavily in the chair and blinked. ‘Is that it? Is that the only apology you have for me? Because I have to tell you that, as excuses go, that is pathetic.’

‘No excuses. It was my job to recruit top talent for the restaurant and Debra is a great pastry chef. I didn’t know about her drinking problems until they impacted her work.’

Rob leant forwards from the waist and pressed the flat of his hand down on the pale wood tabletop.

‘My only regret is that I allowed personal feelings to block my judgement. I should have spotted that Debra was in trouble weeks earlier and done something about it before things got out of hand. Instead I stayed away to give her some distance. The last thing she needed was me standing looking over her shoulder and shouting orders at her. That was my mistake.’

‘What about firing me as some sort of scapegoat? I was incredibly lucky to find another placement the next day after some serious pleading.’

A smile crept over his lips and he tilted his head towards Lottie. ‘Sometimes I’m just too sensitive and caring for my own good.’

‘Really? I had no idea.’ Lottie nodded but every word was dripping with venom. ‘You hide it so very well.’

‘On the contrary.’ Rob shrugged. ‘Take this charity fundraiser you conned me into.’ His hand flipped up into a question before he reached for his coffee. ‘I cannot wait to hear all about it. For a start, I would like to know who’s running the show. Whose idea was it to create scholarship funds for trainee chefs? Because I hope that they know what they’re getting themselves into. That is one hell of a lot of hard work.’

The blonde sitting opposite leant forwards, her forearms on the table until her face was only a few inches away from Rob’s nose, and smiled sweetly. ‘That’s an easy question to answer. It was my idea. I know precisely what I have got myself into and, yes, it is a lot of hard work. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Then she slid back, lifted her chin and smiled before replying. ‘This time I am the one who gets to set the rules and call the shots. And I can’t tell you how liberating that is.’

Then she nodded towards the plate she had slid towards him. ‘Take now, for example. No coffee without something to eat. This time it happens to be my speciality pear-and-almond tart. Enjoy.’

Rob stared at the food, and then looked up into a pair of sparkling green eyes.

Only Lottie’s eyes were not simply green. They were forest green. Spring-bud green. The kind of captivating green that knocked the breath out of his lungs.

It was hot outside, but it had suddenly become a lot hotter in this cake shop.

It must be the heat from the ovens.

Her attention was totally focused on him, and her head tilted slightly to one side as she waited patiently for his reply for a few moments.

Just for a second, her gaze faltered and a chink appeared in the façade through which he got a faint glimmer of something unexpected. Suspicion, maybe, but a fierce intelligence and power. It lasted only an instant. But it sent him reeling, before the closed-mouth smile switched back on.

Lottie polished a pristine fork on a clean corner of her apron before placing it next to the pastry on Rob’s plate. ‘You know how hard it is to make a name for yourself in the catering world. I was lucky and so were you. We had money and backup. A full scholarship is the only way most of these young people can afford to go to college and get the training they need to show what they can do. I happen to think that’s worth spending time on. Just because I chose to become a baker does not mean that I tossed my business management degree into the nearest bin on the way into the catering college.’

She gave a small shoulder-shrug. ‘Relax, Rob. The charity has a full-time administrator and a professional team running it. Any questions, talk to Sean. He has been through the details and offered the use of the Beresford for the event.’

Ah. So that was it. This girl thought that he was going to turn a charity auction into a Rob Beresford promotional event.

Was that really how she saw him? As a self-serving egomaniac? Well, this day was just getting better and better.

And with that she extended her free hand towards him, her eyes locked on his. Her gaze was intense. Focused. ‘We made a trade last evening. One personal appearance in exchange for bed and breakfast. I need to know that we still have a deal this morning and you are not going to walk out on us.’

Rob stared at the food, then looked up into those sparkling green eyes, and took her hand.

It was warm, small, and sticky and calloused, with long, strong fingers that clamped around his. This was no limp, girly handshake. This was the hand of a woman who cooked her own food, kneaded her own bread, and washed her own dishes. The sinews and muscles in her wrists and forearms were strong and toned.

He was accustomed to shaking hands with men and women from all sides of the building trade every day of the week in his job, but this was different. A frisson of energy, a connection, sparked through that simple contact of skin on skin.

‘I gave you my word. I’ll be there.’

Her fingers gripped his for a second longer than necessary before releasing him, her eyes darting to his. The crease in her forehead told him that he was not the only one to have felt it. But to her credit Lottie nodded towards his plate. ‘Good. Now that’s cleared up, why don’t you enjoy your tart? You still look as though you need it. Tough morning?’

He paused before replying. ‘Yes, actually, it has been a tiring morning, and I’m sure it’s delicious but I don’t eat cake.’

Lottie sniffed and tilted her head. ‘Well, that’s a shame. Luckily I am confident that with your extensive culinary expertise you will have observed that this is not cake. This is a tart, which I made today, in this kitchen. At some silly time of the morning.’

Lottie gave her ovens a finger wave, and then moved to sit down on the corner of the table, her arms folded. ‘Speciality of the house. And nobody leaves this kitchen without trying my baking. Including you, Rob Beresford.’

Her eyes ratcheted down to the pastry, then slowly, slowly, came back up to his face. ‘I have heard the words and shaken on it, but now I want to see the proof that you want to cooperate with me. The success of the evening all depends on what you do in the next five minutes. So, what’s it going to be, Rob?’

What Lottie had not expected was for Rob to reach out towards her. She forced herself not to back away as Rob picked up her left hand and kissed the backs of her knuckles before releasing it with a grin.

‘We came to an arrangement. And a Beresford man always keeps his promises.’

Lottie uncrossed her arms and wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup as Rob glared at her for a second before picking up his fork and breaking off a piece of warm, fragrant tart.

Lottie Rosemount had no intention of letting the scholarship students down when it came to the simple matter of organising a fundraising event.

The last thing she needed was a celebrity chef turning up and questioning her abilities.

Even if that chef smelt of warm spice and looked as if he had stepped down from a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. She had never met anyone who could totally rock designer denim jeans and a white shirt.

Her eyes could not move from his wide, full lips wrapping around the cake fork.

She had to see his reaction when he tasted the combination of sweet almonds and warm spice with the aromatic juicy fruit of the ripe pear, which she had poached gently in spiced pear juice syrup until it was almost falling apart.

It had taken six trial batches before she was happy with the variety of pear and the cooking time.

Ah. There it was.

Rob’s eyes fluttered closed for just a fraction of a second and then he chewed a little faster so that he could break off a huge piece of tart with his fork and pick it up with his fingers.

Oh, yes. He had got it. He liked it!

He was staring into her eyes now, the corners of his mouth turned up with a flicker of something that could have been amusement, interest, or more likely frustration that she had forced him into agreeing to come to the fundraiser.

A slight twinge of guilt flickered through her mind. She had been quite shameless. One overnight stay for a distressed artist in exchange for an hour shaking hands and supporting the charity. That was not too terrible. Was it?

‘Mmm,’ he murmured and drained the last of his coffee. ‘Not bad. In fact, seriously good. Where did you say you trained?’

‘Here and there. I finished my apprenticeship with Valencia Cagoni when you fired me. You can check the rest on my website later.’

The creases in the corners of his eyes deepened as Lottie inhaled a powerful aroma of spicy masculine sweat, which was sweet even against the perfume of the fruit and nuts in her food.

His gaze hovered over her ring finger, then flicked back to her face, eyebrows high.

‘Not married? Or are you too rebellious to wear a ring?’

Lottie almost choked on a piece of pastry from her tart and quickly swallowed down a slurp of coffee before wheezing out a reply.

‘Not married, engaged, dating, or anything else. Where would I find the time for that?’

‘If you wanted it enough you would find the time.’ His eyes flashed a challenge that was definitely hot enough to warm the coolest of breezes.

Wanted it? Oh, she wanted it. But it had to be the right man who wanted the same things. And so far they were thin on the ground.

‘Not very high on my priority list at the moment,’ she lied, but not very convincingly because that smile on Rob’s face lifted into a knowing smirk of deep self-satisfaction.

Damn. She had fallen straight into his trap.

‘So it’s all work and no play for the lovely Miss Rosemount. That doesn’t sound like much fun.’

‘And your life is one great circus of constant amusement because your business runs itself. Is that right?’

Damn him for making her snappy.

‘I never said that,’ he replied with a twist of his head towards the door where a young couple was staggering in with a baby buggy and shopping bags.

She couldn’t move. There was something electric in the few inches of air between them, as though powerful magnets were pulling them together.

At this distance, she could feel that frisson of energy and strength of the man whose whole professional life had been spent under the glare of public scrutiny—by choice.

This was the kind of bloke who was accustomed to walking into a cocktail bar or restaurant and having head waiters fawn over themselves to find him the best table.

Well, not this time, handsome!

She could stick this out longer than he could.

It was Gloria who saved him. Her friend came galloping down the stairs from the bedroom and third-floor studio and instantly twisted her mouth into a smile.

‘Well, hello! You have to be Rob. You mum has been telling me all about you, scamp. I’m Gloria.’

With a laugh she turned to Lottie. ‘Adele decided to take her breakfast to the studio with Ian. They’re having a great time up there so I thought I would leave them to it.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from across the table. ‘Ian?’

‘My friend Ian Walker,’ Lottie said. ‘You must have met him last night. He was the photographer who worked with your mum on the exhibition catalogue for the gallery. Tall, thin, about forty. And a great fan of your mum’s work.’

Suddenly Rob was standing ramrod-straight next to her, his back braced, and looking horribly tall, as though he feared the worst.

‘Then I think it’s time I caught up with them, don’t you?’ he said. ‘So you have a studio?’ he went on. ‘That is different. I have been to plenty of artists’ studios in my time but above a bakery? My mum and her pals would spend more time scoffing the goods than working.’

Her mouth opened and then closed before she answered him with a smirk. ‘Ah. So this is going to be a first. And who said anything about artists? Prepare to be disappointed. Follow me.’ Then she caught his smile and her eyes narrowed. ‘On second thoughts, you can go first. Straight through that door. Then at the top of the stairs take a sharp left and carry on up to the third floor. You can’t miss it.’

Rob took the stairs two at a time then slowed down to take the narrow second steps, conscious that Lottie was by his side the whole time.

His mother was alone with a man who he had never met; he certainly did not recognise the name. In his book, that meant trouble. Lots of trouble.

Especially when they stopped outside what looked like a bedroom door.

Lottie stepped forwards and gently turned the brass handle, casually swung open the wooden door and stepped through.

The walls and ceiling were painted in brilliant white.

Light flooded in from the plain glass windows, illuminating one single picture hanging over what must have been the original chimney breast.

Staring back at him was a life-size formal portrait of Lottie Rosemount—the impact of seeing her captured knocked Rob physically backwards.

He was so stunned that it took a few seconds for him to notice that Lottie had moved forwards and was chatting to a tall, thin, older man, who he vaguely recognised, standing next to a long table covered with a pristine white cloth.

His quick brain struggled to take in what he was looking at.

It was the complete opposite of what he had been expecting.

Instead of the chaotic blend of noise and bakery odours and general chaos he had walked into in the cake shop, the third-floor space was a haven of quiet sunlight and calm.

It was a separate world. An oasis. And totally stunning.

The studio had clearly been a loft and the ceiling was angled away into one corner, but half of the roof was made from glass panels, which created a flood of light into the centre of the room. The outside wall had two wide panels of floor-to-ceiling double patio doors. And sitting outside on a tiny patio chair, cradling a large white cup, was his mother.

She was wearing a silk kimono, her hair was already styled, and there was a china plate stacked high with pain au chocolat and Danish pastries, which he knew that she adored. Next to an open box of tissues.

‘Darling. There you are! What a lovely morning. Do come and look at this wonderful view. Isn’t it divine?’

Rob rolled back his shoulders and, with a nod to Lottie and Ian, who were totally engrossed in looking at some images on a laptop computer, walked out onto the narrow roof terrace.

He pressed his lips to his mother’s hair and wrapped his arm loosely across the back of the chair as she blew her nose.

‘How are you this morning, Mum? Cold any better?’

‘Much. I have it down to sniffles. And I slept for hours! Hopefully I shall stay awake at the gallery today when the great British public arrive. It was such a shame that I did not last much of the evening.’

He rested his chin on her shoulder so that they were both looking out at the same panoramic view across the London skyline towards the river Thames.

‘Now, tell me what you have been up to this morning.’

Perhaps it would be better not to mention last night after all.

His breath caught in his throat.

All of the Beresford hotels in the city had views over London, but this? Somehow being on this tiny terrace reminded him so much of the house where he had grown up with his dad. The window box full of red geraniums. The wrought iron railings. The tiled clay roofs that spread out with the old chimney pots. Church spires. And the faint sound of the busy London street just below where they were standing. Red buses, black cabs. The whole package.

He had missed this. He missed the real London.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he whispered. ‘This is special.’

‘It’s wonderful. How clever of you to persuade your friend to allow me to stay here. Because I have to tell you, darling, your hotel is charming and so efficient but this place is divine and Gloria and Lottie have been perfect hosts. And the studio...’

Adele pressed one hand gently to the front of the kimono and Rob was shocked to see the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes.

‘When I first came to London your father tried so hard to find me somewhere to work and the closest I came was somewhere just like this. A third floor of an old stone house that had belonged to one of the Impressionists. I loved it, for a while.’

Then she waved one hand. ‘It was not to be, but that is past history and there is no point living with regret. Strange, I had almost forgotten how special this city is.’

‘London? I thought that you hated it here.’

‘Hated it?’ his mother replied and turned around to face him. ‘Oh, no, darling. I could never do that. I was so young and I simply couldn’t find my balance.’

Then she looked out across the rooftops. ‘We’ve both come a long way since then, kiddo. A hell of a long way.’

A killer grin lightened her face. ‘This is wonderful and I intend to enjoy every minute of it before heading back to the gallery. So scoot. Go and talk to Ian. That man worked miracles with my catalogue and Lottie needs your help. Call me before you go. But in the meantime, I am simply splendid.’

And with that she snuggled back in the chair and picked up a flaky pastry and bit into it with moans of delight.

It was the happiest that he had seen her for weeks.

Well. So much for all of his concerns about finding his mother a wreck!

Perhaps he had to thank Lottie Rosemount for a lot more than he’d first thought.

* * *

He loved his mother very much.

Lottie exhaled slowly as the thought crept into her mind that she had made a horrible mistake.

She darted a quick glance towards the terrace where Adele was quite happily enjoying the June sunshine with Rob chatting so sweetly by her side, his arm draped so protectively close, and swallowed down a moment of deep humiliation.

She had been wrong.

Last night had not been about Rob trying to save his credibility and reputation at all.

It had all been about protecting his mother. Not himself.

That was why he had been so concerned about going to the hotel.

He had been terrified that his mother would embarrass herself and the press would be full of photographs of Adele staggering about looking half drunk and falling out of a limo onto the street in front of the cameras.

How could she have been so stupid?

When Rob Beresford had walked into that art gallery all she had been able to see was the man who had treated her so unfairly.

But what about the rest? It was gossip. Tittle-tattle scandal about Rob’s many conquests and how he had ditched Debra without a moment’s notice.

A low icy shudder ran across her shoulders.

She was a fool. No, worse than that. She had allowed her memory of what had happened when they had last met to cloud her judgement.

This was not just unfair, it was wrong.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She had made a total fool of herself by doing the very thing she’d promised she would not do again: judge people based on what they had done in the past.

And if she was guilty of that she was woman enough to put it right.

Right now.

‘Rob.’ Lottie smiled and strolled over to the terrace. ‘Can I drag you away from Adele for a moment? You’re an expert on recipe books and this is my first. Do you remember Ian? This lovely man has bravely taken on a very different kind of challenge: making my novelty birthday cakes look good enough to eat. Welcome to my budget photo shoot!’

* * *

On a white cake stand on a pedestal in the middle of a long table covered in a white cloth was a cake.

It had been shaped into a racing car Rob vaguely recalled seeing on movie posters for a children’s cartoon film some months ago.

The long low body was covered with bright red fondant icing with a white stripe running down both sides. The wheels were white discs and the whole design looked so realistic it might have been mistaken for a toy. Except that Lottie had just finished icing liquorice round sweets in place of the headlights and steering wheel.

All in all a perfect cake for a car-mad little boy.

It was brilliant.

Rob stepped closer and nodded to Ian, who stopped work adjusting a light stand and an elaborate studio camera system on a tripod to come forward and shake his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Rob. Adele has told me a lot about you.’

‘Really?’ Rob answered and glanced towards his mother, who was now chatting happily to Lottie and eating croissants. Because she has not said a word about you. ‘Congratulations on the exhibition catalogue. Everyone I spoke to last evening loved the layout.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ Ian shook his head. ‘Although I confess that I didn’t expect to meet Adele here this morning when I turned up to work on the charity cookbook Lottie is pulling together. Do you have an interest in food photography, Rob?’

‘Me? Not at all. I leave that to the experts. I simply prepare the food and the stylists and photographers get to work on the recipe books.’

He quickly scanned the room, taking in the high ceilings and natural light from the skylight and tall windows. ‘Has this always been a photographer’s studio?’

‘Not as far as I know. Lottie refurbished the loft as soon as she bought the place. It is quite something. And I need to get back to it or the cake will dry out. Later.’

A quick tour of the loft revealed that Lottie’s taste in books ranged from classic French cuisine to high finance and shared the space with a fine collection of spiders’ webs and dust.

At the far end, away from the windows, was a screened-off area, and Rob could not resist peeking behind the découpage screen.

A double bed with a Victorian carved wooden headboard was flat against the wall. Dressed with white bedcovers trimmed in lilac satin and a soft-looking duvet.

Feather. He could tell from the way it was made.

Hmm, interesting. He wouldn’t be trying that bed out. Way too girly.

But who slept in a bed that size?

He was just about to investigate when there was a sharp cough from behind his back. ‘Found anything interesting back there,’ Lottie asked and he knew without bothering to look that she had her hands on her hips, ‘Mr Nosy Parker?’

‘My natural, insatiable curiosity cannot be contained, Goldilocks.’

‘Goldilocks? What do you mean?’

Rob peeked at her over one shoulder and smiled. ‘Thought so. I have discovered your secret hideaway. Not a bad spot. Not bad at all.’

‘Actually, it’s lovely. I don’t mind sleeping in the studio for six months during the summer. It’s not such a bad place to wake up in the morning.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

Lottie strolled over to the screen and gestured to the terrace where Adele was just finishing off her breakfast.

‘When I was in business my first Christmas bonus paid for an apartment in the city with a view over the Thames. At the moment I am renting it out to one of my former colleagues while she is working on a project in central London and wanted a home rather than a serviced apartment.’

Lottie dropped her hand. ‘You know the statistics about how many restaurants and cafés never make it to their first birthday? Well, I am just coming up to eight months and—’ she tapped on the wooden frame on the screen ‘—so far, so good. But who knows? Things change. People change.’

Then she paused. ‘What gave me away?’

Then he gestured with his head towards the garment bags and clothing hanging on two garment rails behind the decorated screen. ‘Designer clothing is not really Dee’s style.’

‘I could have put my clothes in storage but I prefer to have them handy. A girl has to be ready for all eventualities.’

‘Is this what you are wearing on Saturday evening?’ Rob picked up the skirt of a stunning slinky mocha-coloured satin slip with a lace trim and lifted his eyebrows before releasing it. ‘Because I am not sure the Beresford Richmond is ready for this kind of allure. Va va boom.’

‘Please don’t touch the frillies. And my gown is going to be a surprise, so do stop looking.’

‘Fair enough. What time shall I pick you up?’

‘That’s okay. I’m meeting you there.’

‘Why, Miss Rosemount, surely you are not frightened of tongues wagging if we walk in together, are you?’

‘Not at all. But I am going to get there early to help set things up. That’s all.’

‘Is that it? Or do you have a rule about not dating chefs?’

‘Dating? Of course not. I don’t have any problem with chefs. Far from it. I have spent three years working my backside off becoming one.’ Her gaze locked on to his chest but slowly, slowly, lifted to his face. ‘Just arrogant chefs with egos to match the size of their name on the menu.’

Lottie gave a small shoulder-shrug. ‘Any girl who dates a chef who likes to have his name in the gossip columns knows what she is taking on and I am not just talking about the long hours and bad tempers.’

‘Harsh. You could say that about any type of successful person, the kind that has earned that reputation through sweat and puts the work in for that success. Publicity is not a bad thing. Not when restaurants are closing every week. The press love me just as long as I give them something to write about. It’s part of the job.’

‘Ah. Well, there you have it. You can glory in the glare of publicity for the charity and we lesser mortals shall scurry around in the background making sure that everything is working. Win-win. I can hardly wait. It promises to be a very interesting evening.’

SIX

It was like going back in time.

Rob Beresford stood at the entrance to the park across the street from the West London Catering College where he had spent two of the most gruelling years of his life learning how to cook at a professional level.

The building might look a little cleaner and they had added more glass and pale colours to the entrance to make it look less like a prison, but otherwise it was just the same.

Somewhere in a storage unit in London there was a box stuffed with his diplomas and degree certificates for what the college liked to call the culinary arts and professional cooking.

From what he remembered it was mostly culinary sweat and manic activity fuelled by industrial quantities of cheap coffee and cheaper carbohydrates.

He had grown up in London and spent the first nineteen years of his life here. It would always feel like home.

And now he was going to a Beresford hotel to raise funds so that some other youngster with nothing but a fire in his belly could have a chance to show what they could do.

How ironic was that?

With a low chuckle he shook his head and strode out along the sunlit pavements and turned the corner, away from the college and into the world he lived in now. Sean had done a great job refurbishing the Beresford Richmond and Rob waved to the reception staff as he jogged up the staircase to the main conference room and flung open the doors to the cocktail bar.

He scanned the room looking for Sean or Lottie and walked slowly between the drinks tables, waving and saying a brief hello to familiar faces from the hotel and food world, flashguns lighting up his back as he tugged at the cuffs of his evening shirt.

He was a Beresford working the crowd in a Beresford hotel.

This was the one time he was willing to put his handmade tux on show for the press and wear his heart on his sleeve.

His father, Tom Beresford, had founded the Beresford hotel chain from nothing and worked hard to create a line of luxury hotels in cities around the world. But Rob admired him for a lot more than that. No matter where his mum had gone to find artistic inspiration, his dad had made sure that Rob had his own room and a stable home and school life. It had been a shock when his dad had announced that he was going to marry again. Until then it had only been the two of them. But she was so lovely. And as a bonus—he got a new brother.

And there he was. Sean Beresford. Hotel troubleshooter and the current manager of the hotel he was standing in, greeting the sixty or so especially invited guests in person, same as always. Charming but professional.

Rob took the initiative by thumping Sean on the back in a half hug. ‘Heard that there was a charity auction tonight and thought I might pick up a few bargains. How about you?’

He was rewarded by a short snort. ‘Dee is in China. Again. But somehow Dee and Lottie persuaded me to host their fundraiser here. I even agreed to be the master of ceremonies. So behave.’

‘I am behaving! And well done on the refurbishment. This is a fabulous venue.’

‘Thanks. Hard work but worth it. VIP events like this are a perfect way to get word-of-mouth publicity. Gold dust. I had no idea that Lottie knew so many people in high places.’

His brows came together. ‘Lottie Rosemount?’

‘Absolutely. That girl has a contact list to die for. If anyone deserves praise for making this benefit a sell-out it’s Lottie. Oh, have to go. Enjoy the party! And I hope you like the food. We’re trying that new event menu from the Beresford Paris which has been so popular.’

‘Wait up. What are you serving? Surprise me.’

‘Canapés followed by plated cold starters, three choices of hot buffet, salad and cheese. And I know you are going to sample some of everything because you always do before the desserts arrive.’

Sean gestured with his head towards the swing doors that led to the kitchen. Waiters were clearing away what little was left of the patisserie.

‘I have a head chef in there who has been screaming at her brigade all night that Rob Beresford is in the room and they had better cook as though their jobs depended on it. Forget the other city chefs. You are the one my team want to impress. They are nervous wrecks in there! So don’t worry about the food. Your job is to do the celeb thing. And good luck with that. See you later.’ And with that Sean strode over to greet the cluster of new arrivals who had packed the reception area behind him.

Rob stepped to one side, and tried to bring his breathing back down to a level where he could control it.

What the hell was the new event menu from Paris?

He was supposed to be responsible for the entire food-and-drinks range across all of the Beresford hotel chain.

His mother’s exhibition and the filming of the TV show had sucked every second of his life for the past few months but surely he would have heard about a new menu?

Why had no one told him about it? Or worse. They had told him but the message had got lost in the hundreds of emails he received every day.

Of course he had to trust the hotel chefs. He had personally picked them, got drunk with them and slayed them with cooking better than them. But as for trusting other people to create an entirely new menu? Forget it.

He needed to get to the hotel kitchens and find out exactly what they intended to serve at this function.

He glanced around the gilt high-ceiling dining room. Top hoteliers, company directors in designer suits, food journalists and, if he was not mistaken, several of the college lecturers who were responsible for what skills he had. So overall pretty much everyone in London with an interest in developing amazing new chef talent.

Brilliant for the charity. And a nightmare waiting to happen if this new menu was not totally spectacular.

And walking towards him around the edge of the room, one very, very pretty girl.

Lottie Rosemount. Only not the hard-working baker version of Lottie he had spent most of the day with.

This Lottie was dressed in a pale lilac cocktail dress that fitted her perfectly, the fabric draped close to her waist then flaring out over the slim hips to just above the knees. Then long, slim but muscular legs and high heels.

Tonight Lottie Rosemount was every bit the young female corporate mover and shaker he had seen at parties all over the world. Efficient. Brilliant. Organised.

Only he knew the real Lottie. The woman who had taken a high-street bakery and transformed it into something spectacular. Doing what she loved to do, her passion. On her own terms.

When had he last met a woman like that? Not often. Oh, he had met plenty of glossy-haired girls with high IQs who had claimed they were doing what they truly loved, and plenty of lady bakers had studied business, but so few people were able to combine the two skills to create a successful bakery.

Lottie had.

Maybe that was why he connected with the elegant, stunning woman he was looking at now, though he had only met her a few days earlier.

They were different from other people.

Her life forces, her energy, sparkled like the jewels in the bracelet on her wrist. She was effervescent, hot, and so attractive he had to fight down that fizz of testosterone that clenched the muscles under his dress shirt and set his heart racing.

Just at the sight of her.

Rob watched Lottie chatting away to the other guests. He heard her speaking and replying to questions in French and what sounded like Russian. Of course. She must have studied modern languages for business.

He headed for the bar, anxious not to make a fool of himself, ogling the woman in the lilac dress, but she strolled across through to the other room, totally confident and completely at ease in this group of top decision makers in the catering world. It was the kind of ease that came from an expensive education. Hadn’t she mentioned something about a management degree?

It was an education designed to open doors. And it had.

His education had been at the school of hard graft and a local college that would take in a boy with a police record and next to no academic qualifications past the age of seventeen.

He picked up a glass of sparkling water and turned back to the cluster of other guests at the same moment as Lottie started introducing some tough-looking lads to one of the college lecturers he vaguely recalled from his student days, going out of her way to make them feel relaxed and included.

He had got it wrong.

She was not one of the hobby bakers who opened a cupcake shop for a joke. A whim to keep her and her friends amused and give them somewhere to meet up to laugh at the poor schmucks who had to slave for a living.

Just the opposite

She had trained. Worked. Slaved. Knew what she was talking about.

People did not often surprise him, not after years in the hotel trade.

Lottie Rosemount was one of a kind.

Perhaps that was why his gaze stayed locked solid on that lovely face until she turned and strolled away towards the stage on Sean’s arm to begin the charity auction, leaving Rob to stare after her. And the low back of her dress.

Whoa. Mind-blowing. Brain-blasting whoa.

What had he intended to do? Oh, yes. Find out what the hell was going on with this new menu he knew nothing about.

He caught sight of a waiter emerging from the kitchen with a platter of canapés. Then another, and another. His heart instantly sank. It was too late.

The food service had started. There was no way he was going to barge into that kitchen and start asking questions when the food was already on plates.

Plan B. He was going to have to find out the hard way. By tasting every single dish presented to the guests at this event. And they had better be spectacular. Or he would want to know why.

* * *

‘Well. What did you think?’

‘I think he did a fine job.’ Lottie smiled, her gaze focused on the stage. ‘Consider me impressed. But don’t you dare tell him that I said that. The students are thinking of joining his online fan club and they must have taken at least a hundred photos on their mobile phones.’

Lottie stood shoulder to shoulder next to Sean and they watched in contented silence as Rob chatted and laughed with the newest group of catering students. He had spent most of the last hour following the charity auction happily introducing the wide-eyed students to chefs who Lottie had held in awe for most of her life. Chefs who she had somehow managed to get to donate seven-course dinners as auction prizes were like putty in Rob’s hands.

‘There is one tiny little thing which I should mention. Did Rob come up with tonight’s menu?’

Sean shook his head. ‘Rob is responsible for the hotel standards but the executive chef at the Paris hotel sent over the recipes.’

Lottie slowly produced a printed copy of the menu that she had stolen from the table and passed it to Sean who groaned out loud.

‘Oh, great, what’s this? Marks out of ten? And what are these scribbles down the side and over the page?’

‘Suggestions. Ideas. Proposals. And when it comes to that mess of a salad, a shut-down notice. Pomegranate seeds on the same plate as chopped walnuts, anchovies and smoked ham? It was a mess. But the rest?’

Lottie flipped the flat of her right hand from side to side and sucked in air between her teeth. ‘It was edible. But that is all I could say about it.’

Sean coughed. ‘Don’t hit me, but it sounds like you might enjoy working with that brother of mine and coming up with your own recipes.’

‘Work with the mighty Rob Beresford? The very idea. I’m far too good. His ego would never recover.’ Then she laughed and nudged Sean in the arm. ‘Let’s go talk to your chef and hear what she has to say about tonight’s meal. I’d like to hear what she thinks.’

Then Lottie paused and shot a quick glance back towards the stage and her voice faded away. ‘But after that I need to catch up with Rob about a very interesting phone call that I have just had with Valencia Cagoni. Your brother has some explaining to do.’

Sean snorted out a reply. ‘Too late. He’s seen you and is coming this way. Best of luck!’

Lottie lifted her chin as Rob sauntered over with a couple of students and waved towards the buffet table where a few remaining desserts were being demolished by the students before they were cleared away.

A wave of conflicting emotions coursed through her at the sight of his handsome face smiling at her. Confusion, disbelief, annoyance, and something alarmingly like respect were in the mix.

‘Hi,’ she said in a very hoarse voice, then covered it up with a quick cough. ‘Fed up with signing autographs yet?’

‘They’re a great bunch.’ Rob nodded and half turned to face the buffet. ‘You were right about the scholarships. Half of those young men wouldn’t be here if their fees were not paid. Good idea. I like it.’

He rolled his shoulders back and shoved both hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I like it so much I am going to do something about it. Leave it with me. I’ll come up with something to give that fund a boost.’

‘Really?’ Lottie squeaked. ‘That’s fantastic. Splendid. Great.’

There must have been something in her voice that made Rob turn and look at her.

‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Never better. In fact I have just had the most fascinating chat with my old boss, Valencia Cagoni. Her twins are recovering from the chickenpox and she was delighted that I had found such an inspiring replacement chef for the fundraiser. But, of course, you know Valencia very well, don’t you, Rob?’

Lottie whirled around and stepped closer to Rob so that the few remaining guests would not be able to hear their conversation.

‘In fact, you know her so well that you sometimes pass on your personal recommendations for new apprentices in her restaurant.’

She took a breath and took one more step so that she could almost reach out and touch him if she wanted to. ‘Apprentices like me.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You were the one who persuaded Valencia to give me that training place. You made the call, you told her that I would be coming to see her and that she should give me a chance.’

‘She told you.’ Rob winced. ‘Damn.’

Lottie stabbed Rob in the chest with her forefinger. ‘You are responsible for my entire career. You!’ Then she stepped back and looked around the ballroom. ‘I still cannot believe it.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Valencia Cagoni is an old friend from college. You needed a job in a hurry. I made the call. Happy now?’

‘No, I’m confused.’ Lottie blinked. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me that earlier and save yourself some grief? And Valencia never said a word. Not once in three years. She made me slave for that training post.’

‘I asked her not to tell you that I had called,’ Rob replied, and then dropped his shoulders back. ‘You know how chefs talk. It makes it feel a lot sweeter if you had to fight for what you want and get it on your own merit, instead of who you know in the business. You had to work, and work hard. What you achieved was down to you, not me.’

Then he flicked one hand in the air. ‘You know Valencia would never have taken you on unless she was convinced that you had talent. She is way tougher with her training than I am.’

‘You fired me, and then set up my replacement training position. Why? Why did you do that?’ Lottie asked, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘I would really like to know because right now my head is spinning.’

‘Because I knew Debra was never going to be a mentor to anyone with talent. You deserved a chance to show what you could do and Debra was not going to let another chef steal her star. Valencia needed someone who could step up. Okay?’

Lottie stared at Rob in stunned silence, her hands planted one on each hip, her gaze locked on to his eyes.

‘Has anyone ever told you,’ she breathed in a low voice ‘that you are the most infuriating man alive?’

‘Frequently.’ He grinned. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you are the prettiest and most persistent woman alive? Perhaps that is why I find you so intriguing.’

He glanced from side to side and then pushed out his elbow. ‘We’re done here. Might as well hit the road in style! How about it?’

Lottie glared at Rob’s elbow, then at his face and then back to his elbow, before sighing out loud and hooking her arm through his.

‘This has already been one crazy evening. Why not go the whole way? Because I really don’t know what to think about you any longer. First I think you are a complete...and then the whole image gets flipped over. It is so beyond annoying it’s not funny and it’s giving me a headache just thinking about it. I really don’t have a single clue who you are, Rob Beresford.’

‘Want to find out?’

SEVEN

‘Is this legal?’

‘Behave. I need to clear my head and the main entrance is too far away. Fancy a walk?’

Lottie stared at the wooden sign that read in large letters: ‘Keep Off the Grass’, inhaled sharply, pulled her arm tight towards Rob and stepped over the low wooden white fence that separated the London pavement from the grass in the public park.

It only took a minute to skip across the grass and onto the path but her heart was beating a little harder when they were back on tarmac.

‘You don’t like breaking the rules. Do you?’ Rob smirked.

He was observant, too. ‘Not something I do very often. But I suppose it is a lovely evening and my headache needs an airing. Why don’t we take a tour of the park? I haven’t been in there for years.’

And it was a lovely evening, and Rob Beresford looked hotter than fresh bread just out of the oven. He smelt just as good, too.

Her treacherous heart had not completely got used to the fact that she was strolling along the pavement arm in arm with this dazzling man as he casually chatted to her as though they were old friends out for the evening.

Occasionally Lottie had to fire a hot glance in Rob’s direction to make sure that she was not in fact hallucinating and this was the same man who breathed dragon fire at trainees and made grown men cry on TV.

The arrogance and attitude were gone and in their place was this astonishing man who she now knew was responsible for kicking off her career with the finest award-winning patisserie chef in London.

And the transformation knocked the feet out from under her.

‘Ian was telling me about your idea for a birthday cake book. I like it. Could be fun.’

‘I think so. My cake shop is right in the middle of the high street and these days a lot of mums and dads simply don’t have the time or, to be honest, the skill, to come up with that perfect birthday cake. So I get a lot of orders. And you would be surprised at how many are for old-style family cakes for grandparents and even great-grandparents.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ Rob asked with a lilt in his voice.

‘Nope. That’s one of the reasons why I started the Bake and Banter club. To teach adults how to bake a cake they can make at home which the family will love.’

She shifted closer to Rob to avoid a group of tourists who had their heads down, totally engrossed in their tablet computers and oblivious to other people on the walkway.

‘You really get a buzz out of the baking, don’t you?’

‘More than I ever expected,’ Lottie replied with a smile. ‘So far I have made eight versions of that cartoon–racing car cake you saw this morning for little boys aged four to eighty-four and they all love it. Everyone is so different. Take next week, for example. The baking club want me to demonstrate how to make a chocolate birthday cake for one of our regular customers. Ninety years young. She wants loads of soft gooey chocolate icing. And three layers of chocolate sponge in the middle. Eat with a spoon. Whipped cream on the side. Delish.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember what it was like to have my hands in sticky icing sugar and chocolate all day. Don’t miss it a bit. But let me tell you—’ he tilted his head closer to hers and half whispered ‘—for a working baker, you look fabulous.’

‘Thank you, kind sir. My pleasure. You clean up nicely yourself.’

Rob exaggeratedly tugged with one hand at the lapel of the same dinner jacket he had worn for the gallery opening, while dodging the other pedestrians on the busy west London pavements. ‘Oh, this old suit? Thought I had better make an effort as the star pupil.’

Lottie gave his arm an extra squeeze before snorting out loud. ‘Shameless! Make that one of the many star pupils! How is your mum’s cold?’

‘She’s feeling a lot better today and went to the gallery this afternoon before heading off to tea with her pals,’ Rob replied as he negotiated around some dog walkers. ‘So I am officially off duty for a couple of hours and, unless you are desperate to get home, I think this calls for a small delay! Look across the street. What do you see?’

He slipped his dinner jacket around her shoulders and held her within it for a few seconds, bringing up the collar so that he could flip the ultra-soft fabric around her smooth neck.

She pretended not to notice as his fingertips gently moved against her skin to flick the ends of her hair back over the collar.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled back in reply, conscious that the hard cheekbones of Rob’s face were highlighted too sharply by the streetlight outside the swish, glossy shopfronts. He was too lean, but she knew that he had eaten something from every tray of the buffet at the hotel.

Maybe she could do something about that, if he stayed around long enough.

He smiled and surprised her by sliding around behind her, so that his arms were wrapped around her waist, holding her tight against him. She felt the pressure of his head against the side of her face as he dropped his chin onto her shoulder, lifted his left arm, and pointed.

Lottie tore her eyes away from Rob, and stared across to a very familiar sunlit stone building. Then laughed out loud.

‘It’s the old grand entrance to the catering college. We’ve come around in a circle.’

Rob nodded and looked up into the high carved stone entrance to what had been a 1930s art deco school of architecture before it was taken over by the catering school.

‘The first time I walked through those doors I was seventeen, angry, bitter, and furious with the world and myself. I was a mess, Lottie. And maybe not someone you wanted to be around.’

There was something is his voice that compelled Lottie to look over her shoulder into his face. This was the young man, so full of hope and dreams.

‘Why do you think that you were such a disaster?’ Lottie replied with a smile, looking into his face. ‘From my experience, most seventeen-year-olds feel that way.’

‘Oh, girl, if you only knew the truth of it.’

Then something shifted in his eyes as though a darker memory had floated up to the surface.

And in that moment the mood changed. His brow was furrowed with anxiety, his mouth moved back to a straight line, and his body almost bristled with tension.

‘Then tell me. Tell me the truth about why you were such a mess, because I really want to know.’

‘That’s one hell of a long story.’

‘Then let’s sit down and look at the college and reminisce together.’ She looked around and spotted an old and not very clean wooden bench, which she covered with Rob’s expensive jacket, liner side up.

‘Ah. This is perfect.’ Lottie shuffled back on the hard seat and folded her hands neatly on her lap.

‘It is June. It’s a relatively warm evening and I am sitting on your jacket, so there is no possible escape. I suggest that you start at the beginning and go from there. That usually works.’

‘Are you sure that you’re not an art critic? Because you are being damn nosy.’

‘One of my terrible character flaws; nothing I can do about it. Once I take an interest in something I have to find out everything there is to know. So fire away. Because I am not going anywhere until I find out why you were so very angry with the world the first day you walked through those doors.’

‘A-ha. So you are interested in me. At last she admits it.’

‘I want to know what kind of family my best friend is getting herself into. So far Sean has been great, but are there skeletons in the Beresford family cupboard which will burst Dee’s bubble? Not going to happen.’

‘Skeletons? Lottie, there is a whole pirate ship of skeletons moored offshore all armed to the teeth and ready and able to cause mayhem at any minute they are released. The problem is most of them are about my side of the family. Not Sean’s.’

‘I don’t understand. Sean told me that your mum and dad get on just fine even though they’re divorced.’

‘They do. I am lucky. Tom Beresford met my mother when he opened up the first Beresford hotel in New York City. She was living a bohemian life in an artists’ colony in the Hamptons most of the year, and holding exhibitions of her work in the city when she needed funds. Well...’ Rob smiled. ‘You’ve seen my mother. Gorgeous, fun, and so talented it’s criminal. I don’t blame my dad for falling for her one little bit. She was even more stunning back then and she must have really adored him to settle in the city. In the end they had six great years in New York before we had to move back to London to open the flagship hotel here. That was when things started to change. It was my mum who decided that she could not tolerate living here.’

‘Did she hate London that much?’

‘Not particularly. It was the sudden change in her routine that she hated. Mum likes her day and her life all laid out, nice and simple and familiar. London was too much, too fast, and she couldn’t get used to it. In the end the only way she could work was to go back to the Hamptons for a couple of months at a time with frequent trips back to London to see me. I was only a toddler so I stayed here with my dad and got used to airports.’

‘That must have been tough. But there are people who lead their whole lives like that. My dad used to boast that one year he spent a grand total of fifteen days sleeping in his own bed. The price of modern life.’

‘It might have worked for your family but it didn’t work for mine. My dad made plans to move back to New York but then my grandparents in Suffolk needed him and Mum was staying away for longer and longer periods...and they simply drifted apart. I was way too young to understand what divorce was and nothing really changed in my life. Until my dad met Sean’s mum. Maria. And for the next ten years I found out what it was like to have a mother who was there every minute of the day when I needed her and who even gave me a brother.’

‘Sean. Of course. You loved Maria. Didn’t you?’

‘Adored her. Oh, I knew that I had a real mother. At birthdays and Christmas the house used to be full of Adele Forrester and her friends and extended family who used to descend like a whirlwind then disappear again for another six months leaving chaos behind them. But that was the way Maria and my dad liked it. Open house. Maria was a very special person and Sean was great. I had a family who were willing to put up with a very confused teenager and help him make some sense of his life and what he wanted to do with it. It was all good. It was too good.’

Rob flicked his arm out in a wide arc towards the trees.

‘And then it was all taken away from me. And I went off the rails. Big time.’

‘Maria. Of course. I am so sorry. Sean told Dee that she had died when he was young.’

‘Unfair. So very, very unfair. One day when Sean is a lot older you might want to ask him about his mother’s life as a refugee fleeing war and destruction. Only to die of cancer in a country where she thought she was safe with a family she loved and loved her right back in return. Because I can’t talk about it without wanting to hit something very hard.’

Rob reached out and nipped off a large leaf from the bush growing behind their heads and slowly tore it into segments with his long, clever fingers as he spoke.

‘You want to know about my skeletons? I was seventeen years old, I had plenty of money and a driving licence, and enough fury and anger in my belly to burn down most of London. And that is precisely what I tried to do. I had grown up in this city and knew precisely where to find trouble and distraction in any shape or form. Drink, girls, gambling, and the kind of people my dad would throw out of his hotel. The whole package. Sometimes I got away with it by being smarter and faster than the other guy. Sometimes I didn’t and I have a police record to prove it. And a few broken bones along the way. My nose was a different shape then.’

‘What did your dad do? He must have been frantic and scared for you.’

‘The best he could. He was grieving and lost. Sean was desolate. And I was out of control and heading downhill faster than he could apply the brakes.’

‘How did you pull back from that life to find your way to catering college?’

‘The hard way. I woke up one morning in the bed of a girl whose name I couldn’t even recall and I must have had twenty messages on my mobile phone. All asking me to get back to the house. My mum had got herself into a mess in Thailand. And I mean a mess. Three hours later I was on a plane to Bangkok.’

Rob exhaled long and slow. ‘I had heard the words nervous breakdown but nothing could have prepared me for the emotional wreck I found in a Bangkok psychiatric unit. Her latest lover had stolen everything she had and left her broke and alone in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t the first time that had happened but this was the worst. But she was lucky. One of the other artists on the retreat was worried about her and sent out a search party. They found her on the beach the next day. Crying. Distraught. Irrational and terrified of anyone touching her or coming near her. It was one of the worst twenty-four hours of my life.’

‘Oh, Rob. That’s horrific. For both of you.’

‘I made her a deal. It was very simple. I promised that if she came back to London with me and got some medical help for her problems, then I would take care of her. I would go to college and get the qualifications I needed to run the hotel kitchens. Sober and clean, a hardworking little drone. And that is what I did. I poured all of that bitter anger and fury at Maria’s death into my work.’

The shredded pieces of leaf fluttered through the air.

‘That’s why I am not surprised people found me scary. I was so desperate to prove that I could achieve something that I refused to allow anything or anyone get in my way. Relentless is actually not a bad description.’

‘Did she agree? I mean, did she come back from Thailand with you?’

‘My mum went into the best rehab unit money could buy and I already knew that she was going to be there a long time. My dad was going to see her when he could get away from the hotel business and Sean went along when the unit said that she was stable enough to cope. But apart from that it was just the two of us against the world. I thought that was going to be enough to get her through this dark time in her life and magically turn her back to the lovely mum I used to know and everything would be back to normal again.’

Rob shrugged. ‘I was so naïve about mental illness. So wrong. Badly wrong. Things have never been the same. Oh, she can go for a year or eighteen months without a major episode, and then she will fall for some hotshot man and life will be wonderful—until it isn’t. And I have to pick up the pieces and start all over again.’

Lottie hesitated before replying. ‘The other night at the gallery. Was that what you were worried about? That it was all too much for her and she would have a relapse?’

‘No. I was far more worried about what the killer combo of cold remedies and champagne would look like to the real critics who were standing outside with their cameras. A good news story about an artist who has come back after eight years with a wonderful inspirational show does not sell. But give them Rob Beresford’s rehab-refugee mother? Oh, yes. Let’s just say that I was tired of giving them what they want.’

Her fingers slid across the bench and found his. ‘Then Adele is very lucky to have a son like you to protect her.’

‘Is she? I haven’t always been there for her, Lottie. Not by a long way. I had replaced her in my life with Sean’s mother at the very time she needed me as a son. And that sort of guilt does not go away easily.’

‘But you kept that promise. That means a lot in my book.’

Her own eyes pricked with tears, and she laced her fingers between his, forcing apart his fingers, which had tightened into a ball.

Her touch acted like a catalyst, and he ripped his eyes away from the park and focused on her face as his fingers relaxed and squeezed hers back, leaving it to Lottie to break the silence.

Lottie stopped and turned so that she was facing Rob. ‘I have an idea. And you can tell me to mind my own business, but here goes.’

She took a breath. ‘I can see that you want to help your mum become the best she can be. I want to help. She is a remarkable artist and I adore her work. If you like, she can use my studio any time she wants when you are in London together. Room service, accommodation and as much lemon drizzle cake as she can eat, courtesy of the management.’

She clenched her teeth and pretended to duck. ‘What do you think?’

Rob looked into her face for a few seconds, before replying in a low intense voice.

‘You would do that? For us?’

‘In a heartbeat, yes.’

His reply was to take a firmer grip of her hand as he rose slowly to his feet.

‘Thank you, Lottie. Yes. I think that she would like that very much. Although I should warn you, for a skinny artist that woman can eat a hell of a lot of cake.’

Lottie looked up into Rob’s face and what she saw there was like a light in the darkness. He was not used to being shown kindness and was trying to bluff away the depth of his feeling.

Hell, she knew what that was like. She simply had not expected it in him.

And just like that the resentment she had held for the past three years and all of the imagined angst popped like a balloon. Gone. Finished. Over.

Time to start all over again with the Rob she was with right here and now.

Hesitantly at first, then more firmly, she grasped hold of both of Rob’s hands and slowly let him help her up from the bench and back on her feet.

And with that they walked casually, hand in hand, in silence, along the wide path as though it were something they did all of the time.

Rob could never know that her palms weren’t sweating due to the warm breeze, but the gentle way in which his fingertips stroked the tender skin. Her gaze moved over the happy groups of smiling, chatty couples who strolled across the park. Anywhere except Rob. She wanted to look at him so badly it was almost a physical pain.

Except that would mean giving in to the sigh of absolute pleasure that was bursting to escape.

This was what it would be like if she were Rob’s girlfriend. On a regular date.

Except, of course, this wasn’t a date, was it?

This was a kind gesture to his brother’s friend, who had been in the right place at the right time to help him out with somewhere for his mother to stay. That was all it could be. All it was ever going to be.

So, why not enjoy these precious moments and make the best of them while she could? These were the happy memories she would hold precious over the coming months when Rob and Adele had gone back to their exciting, busy lives, and she was merely a person they might see at social events with Dee and Sean.

In a few days she would be back in her normal, safe life. Which was just how she wanted it, wasn’t it?

Her brain was so distracted by the unfamiliar thoughts and feelings whirling around inside her head that she didn’t see the sudden break in the paving slab until the toe of her thin-soled evening sandal caught in the stone and she found herself falling forwards, hands outstretched. Into a pair of strong arms.

It was seconds before her brain connected with the fact that she was standing chest to chest with Rob with both of his arms wrapped around her body, her hands flat against his shirt front.

Just for a moment, Lottie closed her eyes and revelled in the warmth and the strength of his embrace. The exquisite aroma of aftershave, antiperspirant and clean pressed linen. Lemon, blended with the musky spice of light perspiration of the warm summer evening, and something else, something unique. Rob. His scent, his heat. And the strange magnetic pull that made her want to edge closer and closer to him every time they met. The pull that was going to make parting from him so very painful.

The overall effect was so totally intoxicating, that suddenly she felt light-headed and bent forward to rest her brow on his chest.

This was her dream, her fantasy. For a few precious seconds she could pretend that she was just like any other girl out for a stroll with her boyfriend. Pretend that this man cared about her, had chosen her, wanted to be with her.

A strong bicep flexed next to the thin fabric of her dress, and her eyes closed in pleasure. It had been so long since she had been held like this!

Drat Rob. Drat. She couldn’t do this. Why had she agreed to walk with him? He would be flying back to his real world, and she would be back to square one. On her own, holding it together.

‘Are you okay?’ Rob asked, with enough concern in his voice to bring a lump to her throat again.

His hands slid down as she pulled back and smiled up into his face, but instead of stepping away he simply linked his hands behind her back, holding her in place as she recovered.

‘Yes. I think so.’ She glanced down at her shoe. ‘How clumsy of me. Thanks for stopping me from falling flat on my face.’

Lottie leant back so that she could focus only to find him smiling down at her, his eyes scanning her face from side to side, as though looking for something before speaking.

His lips curved back into a wide, open-mouthed smile, so warm, so caring that she was blinded by it. The warm fingers of one hand slid up her back as he dropped his head forward and nuzzled his chin against her hair. ‘I’m pleased that I was here at the right time.’

Some part of her brain registered that she should make a response, and she forced herself to lift her chin.

Bad mistake.

Because at that precise moment Rob shifted his position and as she whispered, ‘Thank you,’ she felt the heat of his breath on her cheek. Lottie dared to slowly slide the palms of her hands up onto his chest. She could feel the hard planes and ridges of his body beneath her fingers. Emanating enough heat to warm deep inside her, melting away the last remnants of icy resistance that might have lingered there.

A young couple walked by, then a cyclist, but Lottie could hear nothing except the sound of Rob’s breathing as his lips pressed against her temple, and the stubble on his chin rasping against her cheek for a second before he released his grip on her waist and slowly, slowly, slid his hand up inside his jacket, and onto the bare skin of her back above her dress

The sensation was so unexpected, so delicious that she inhaled sharply, gasping in air.

It was as though she had given him a signal of approval.

As his fingertips stroked her skin his soft, sensuous mouth slid slowly and tenderly against her upper lip in the sweetest, most gentle of kisses. It was so brief that Lottie had only seconds to close her eyes and enjoy it before he pulled away from her, his fingers sliding down from the small of her back.

Leaving her feeling bereft.

‘Would you like some coffee? I know the perfect place.’

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