The Secret Ingredient (4 page)

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.’