The Secret Ingredient. Nina Harrington

and wiped her cheek with the back of her finger. Time to repair the damage to this make-up and get ready to rock and roll. She had two hundred portions of canapés to plate out.

      Busy, busy.

      Yes, she should really make a move now. Oops. Too late.

      Lottie sensed rather than heard someone stroll closer and stand next to her, so that they were both looking at the canvas in silence for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.

      ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ Lottie sniffed as yet another tear ran down her cheek, preventing her from turning around and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger.

      ‘Absolutely perfect. How does she do it?’ Lottie asked. ‘How does Adele capture so much feeling in a flat image? It’s incredible.’

      ‘Talent. And a deep feeling for the place. Adele knows that beach at all times of day and season. Look at the way she blends the ocean and the sky. That can only come from seeing it happen over and over again.’

      Lottie blinked again, but this time in surprise.

      He understood. This man, because it was a man’s voice and definitely a manly pair of designer trousers, was echoing the exact same thoughts that were going through her head.

      How did he do that? The tremor in his voice was instantly calming and restorative. Someone else saw the same things in this work that she had. How was that possible?

      It was unnerving that he knew what this painting was all about and could talk about it with such passion.

      And then the harsh reality of where she was struck home and she felt like a fool. Ian had told her that this was a preview show for art 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.

      TWO

      ‘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