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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 (#ulink_85e62c88-23b1-50c6-86cd-d85e39e7affe)
‘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?’
