British Bachelors: Fabulous and Famous: The Secret Ingredient / How to Get Over Your Ex / Behind the Film Star's Smile

‘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 (#ulink_8350a6ce-04da-57dd-a33a-02c025f46d22)

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.’