скачать книгу бесплатно
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 (#ulink_9cc723ac-7365-5f60-8d2f-bf9a08dee490)
‘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.
