Focused. ‘We made a trade last evening. One personal appearance in exchange for bed and breakfast. I need to know that we still have a deal this morning and you are not going to walk out on us.’
Rob stared at the food, then looked up into those sparkling green eyes, and took her hand.
It was warm, small, and sticky and calloused, with long, strong fingers that clamped around his. This was no limp, girly handshake. This was the hand of a woman who cooked her own food, kneaded her own bread, and washed her own dishes. The sinews and muscles in her wrists and forearms were strong and toned.
He was accustomed to shaking hands with men and women from all sides of the building trade every day of the week in his job, but this was different. A frisson of energy, a connection, sparked through that simple contact of skin on skin.
‘I gave you my word. I’ll be there.’
Her fingers gripped his for a second longer than necessary before releasing him, her eyes darting to his. The crease in her forehead told him that he was not the only one to have felt it. But to her credit Lottie nodded towards his plate. ‘Good. Now that’s cleared up, why don’t you enjoy your tart? You still look as though you need it. Tough morning?’
He paused before replying. ‘Yes, actually, it has been a tiring morning, and I’m sure it’s delicious but I don’t eat cake.’
Lottie sniffed and tilted her head. ‘Well, that’s a shame. Luckily I am confident that with your extensive culinary expertise you will have observed that this is not cake. This is a tart, which I made today, in this kitchen. At some silly time of the morning.’
Lottie gave her ovens a finger wave, and then moved to sit down on the corner of the table, her arms folded. ‘Speciality of the house. And nobody leaves this kitchen without trying my baking. Including you, Rob Beresford.’
Her eyes ratcheted down to the pastry, then slowly, slowly, came back up to his face. ‘I have heard the words and shaken on it, but now I want to see the proof that you want to cooperate with me. The success of the evening all depends on what you do in the next five minutes. So, what’s it going to be, Rob?’
What Lottie had not expected was for Rob to reach out towards her. She forced herself not to back away as Rob picked up her left hand and kissed the backs of her knuckles before releasing it with a grin.
‘We came to an arrangement. And a Beresford man always keeps his promises.’
Lottie uncrossed her arms and wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup as Rob glared at her for a second before picking up his fork and breaking off a piece of warm, fragrant tart.
Lottie Rosemount had no intention of letting the scholarship students down when it came to the simple matter of organising a fundraising event.
The last thing she needed was a celebrity chef turning up and questioning her abilities.
Even if that chef smelt of warm spice and looked as if he had stepped down from a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. She had never met anyone who could totally rock designer denim jeans and a white shirt.
Her eyes could not move from his wide, full lips wrapping around the cake fork.
She had to see his reaction when he tasted the combination of sweet almonds and warm spice with the aromatic juicy fruit of the ripe pear, which she had poached gently in spiced pear juice syrup until it was almost falling apart.
It had taken six trial batches before she was happy with the variety of pear and the cooking time.
Ah. There it was.
Rob’s eyes fluttered closed for just a fraction of a second and then he chewed a little faster so that he could break off a huge piece of tart with his fork and pick it up with his fingers.
Oh, yes. He had got it. He liked it!
He was staring into her eyes now, the corners of his mouth turned up with a flicker of something that could have been amusement, interest, or more likely frustration that she had forced him into agreeing to come to the fundraiser.
A slight twinge of guilt flickered through her mind. She had been quite shameless. One overnight stay for a distressed artist in exchange for an hour shaking hands and supporting the charity. That was not too terrible. Was it?
‘Mmm,’ he murmured and drained the last of his coffee. ‘Not bad. In fact, seriously good. Where did you say you trained?’
‘Here and there. I finished my apprenticeship with Valencia Cagoni when you fired me. You can check the rest on my website later.’
The creases in the corners of his eyes deepened as Lottie inhaled a powerful aroma of spicy masculine sweat, which was sweet even against the perfume of the fruit and nuts in her food.
His gaze hovered over her ring finger, then flicked back to her face, eyebrows high.
‘Not married? Or are you too rebellious to wear a ring?’
Lottie almost choked on a piece of pastry from her tart and quickly swallowed down a slurp of coffee before wheezing out a reply.
‘Not married, engaged, dating, or anything else. Where would I find the time for that?’
‘If you wanted it enough you would find the time.’ His eyes flashed a challenge that was definitely hot enough to warm the coolest of breezes.
Wanted it? Oh, she wanted it. But it had to be the right man who wanted the same things. And so far they were thin on the ground.
‘Not very high on my priority list at the moment,’ she lied, but not very convincingly because that smile on Rob’s face lifted into a knowing smirk of deep self-satisfaction.
Damn. She had fallen straight into his trap.
‘So it’s all work and no play for the lovely Miss Rosemount. That doesn’t sound like much fun.’
‘And your life is one great circus of constant amusement because your business runs itself. Is that right?’
Damn him for making her snappy.
‘I never said that,’ he replied with a twist of his head towards the door where a young couple was staggering in with a baby buggy and shopping bags.
She couldn’t move. There was something electric in the few inches of air between them, as though powerful magnets were pulling them together.
At this distance, she could feel that frisson of energy and strength of the man whose whole professional life had been spent under the glare of public scrutiny—by choice.
This was the kind of bloke who was accustomed to walking into a cocktail bar or restaurant and having head waiters fawn over themselves to find him the best table.
Well, not this time, handsome!
She could stick this out longer than he could.
It was Gloria who saved him. Her friend came galloping down the stairs from the bedroom and third-floor studio and instantly twisted her mouth into a smile.
‘Well, hello! You have to be Rob. You mum has been telling
