The Secret Ingredient

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.’