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.
‘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
