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
