‘I do hope that you enjoy it. The gallery gave me strict instructions that Adele Forrester had specifically requested two desserts. Individual dark chocolate tarts and lemon drizzle cakes. A special order from a fine artist. Now that, Mr Beresford, I could not fake. Dig in.’
His lips closed around the forkful of cake and her gaze locked on to those lips.
She had never seen such sensual lips on any man before and, oh, boy, they looked good enough to eat. The tip of his tongue flicked out tantalisingly and wiped away a smear of lemon sauce.
A flash of raw and unadulterated attraction hit her hard. Unexpected and entirely inappropriate. Strange how it felt seriously good.
Do that again. Please.
Lottie didn’t realise that she had stopped breathing until a very loud ringtone smashed through her foodie trance and she instantly whipped the other cakes onto the platters and arranged them artistically on the buffet table so that the guests could help themselves.
Saved by the bell.
Rob put down his plate and casually fished the mobile phone out of his pocket, checked the caller identity. And flicked the phone closed with a crisp clip.
‘Interesting cake. But I have to go and meet another lovely lady. I’ll be seeing you around.’ He smiled at Lottie, then gave her an outrageously over-the-top wink. ‘You can bet on it.’
* * *
See you around?
Of course Rob was going to see her around.
His half-brother, Sean Beresford, was totally in love with her best friend and business partner, Dee, and unless she had totally misread the signs, there would be engagement parties and wedding planning before the end of the year. And right there next to Sean would be his best pal, Rob.
She was going to have to put up with Rob for Dee’s sake. But really? Trying to flirt with her in an art gallery? Sheesh. And why did he have to be so...so...him?
So who was this lovely lady anyway? Some A-list celebrity? Or that supermodel Dee had told her he was seeing?
Lottie casually turned her head so that she could see Rob’s back.
He was making a beeline for the tall, elegant, very slender older woman who was walking on air through the doors leading into the gallery. One hand was high in the air, the other waving from side to side from the wrist in flamboyant over-the-top gestures.
The moment she saw Rob she gave a quick squeal, flung her arms forward and gave him such a warm and sweet hug that Lottie knew that they cared about one another. He seemed perfectly happy to hook her arm over his and escort her into the room, lighting their way with the kind of beaming smile that should be licensed to power companies.
But it was only when she stepped closer under the exhibition spotlights that Lottie realised she was looking at Adele Forrester. She recognised the characteristic high cheekbones and profile from the posters and exhibition catalogues that her friend Ian had created.
And it totally floored her.
Adele was lovely, happy, laughing and enjoying herself.
Well, that was one more illusion shattered! So much for the tortured artist who had painted that wonderful landscape of the woman on the shore looking for a last chance. She had clearly found her mojo because right at that moment Adele Forrester was the star of the show, Rob Beresford was her escort and they were both having a great time.
Rob Beresford and Adele Forrester.
This evening was certainly turning out to be full of surprises. Little wonder that he was a walking expert on the artist’s work when they were clearly such great pals. Not lovers. She could see that. No. There was none of that awkward first touch. They seemed closer. Almost like best friends or family.
Curious. She had not expected that. Perhaps she should call Dee and find out if Sean had mentioned anything about how Rob knew an artist like Adele Forrester.
Instantly the gallery owner and several of the guests surged forwards to shake Adele’s hand, smiling and laughing and crowding in to get attention from the star of the show.
Lottie tried to peer over their heads but it was no good. Adele was swamped.
And right on time the first batch of art-student waiting staff emerged from the kitchen carrying platters of hot canapés straight from the oven.
It was show time!
* * *
He had known that this was going to happen.
Worse. It was entirely his own fault.
He should never have left his mum alone at the hotel with the champagne that the gallery had sent around and several packs of cold medicine.
He had taken his eyes off the ball and indulged in a little free time with a lovely blonde who had turned out to be the opposite of what he’d expected.
And now his lovely mother was as high as a kite.
Flying over everyone’s heads but coming down to earth just long enough to make polite and quite sensible conversation with the very people who had the power to make her life miserable if she imploded.
He had let her down.
There was no other way of describing it. The most important exhibition of her career and Adele Forrester had just described her signature style to the art critic of the largest broadsheet newspaper in London as Californian rain.
The real problem was that she adored chatting about her art so much. This was her world and she was amazing. Truly. Grabbing her arm and dragging her away would not only be creepy, but annoying.
That wouldn’t work. So he had switched to plan B. The oldest technique in the world. Distraction and diversion.
Now. How many lovely lady art critics could he charm just long enough for them not to notice that the artist they had come to chat to was totally sozzled? Time to find out.
* * *
‘Lemon drizzle cake! Oh, how did you know that was my absolute favourite? You are a complete genius and I don’t even know your name. How embarrassing. My son never makes me lemon drizzle, no matter how often I plead with him.’
Lottie grinned and loaded a plate with three squares of moist cake. ‘Lottie Rosemount. And I am told that your agent made a special request, Miss Forrester.’
‘Oh, one more reason why I love Sally so much. And please call me Adele.’
Lottie watched Adele dive into her bag and sneeze onto a lovely hand-embroidered hankie, which was now sodden. She squeezed her eyes together, then blinked a couple of times.
‘Can you believe it? I wait eight years for an exhibition and I have to come down with a horrible head cold. Almost through it, but my head! It feels as though it is totally full of cotton wool. Excuse me, darling. Time for another of these cold tablets I bought this morning. They really are the perfect pick-me-up.’
Adele
