Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera. Jennifer Bohnet

      ‘Meet Miranda, my PA,’ Seb said. ‘She’s getting Saturday’s opening bash organised. Remind me to give you your invite before you go.’

      ‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve got reservations for Saturday evening.’

      ‘It’s from eight till late so come over when you finish,’ Seb said. ‘I’ll make sure there’s a bottle of champers left for you.’

      He was clearly a guy who didn’t accept a no easily – a bit like Charlie in that respect. Rosie decided it would be churlish to argue so she just shrugged and muttered, ‘Okay – if I’m not too tired.’

      Sitting there, eating his delicious pastries and drinking coffee that was way too strong for her taste if she were honest, she began to feel an obligation to be polite to Seb. She needed to stop feeling awkward at being caught snooping around the place and at least make an effort to socialise politely. The guy had rescued her, after all, arriving like some gallant knight with candles. He didn’t deserve her cold-shouldering him – even if he was an annoying mix of sexy charm and arrogance.

      She took another pastry. They really were divine.

      ‘Is this your first stab at running a hotel? Or have you done this kind of thing before?’ Rosie asked.

      ‘It’s my first time. I’ve been in the restaurant business for years but I fancied the challenge of a place of my own. And what about you – fed up with the yachts, I gather?’

      Rosie looked at him. How did he know that?

      ‘I love cooking and having my own beach restaurant has been my dream for years. Besides, I couldn’t live the nomad life for ever.’

      ‘Like the name Café Fleur, by the way,’ Seb said. ‘Good idea to change it – sends a message to the locals that this summer it’s not the place it was.’

      ‘What d’you mean?’

      Seb shrugged. ‘The local gendarmes took exception last year to drugs being dealt on their patch.’

      Rosie gazed at him appalled. ‘Drugs?’ No wonder there were all those locks on the door.

      ‘Don’t worry about it. The people involved are enjoying a holiday in Marseille courtesy of the Republic. The gendarmes will be keeping an eye on you.’

      ‘I hope you’re right.’

      ‘I’ll get your invitation for Saturday,’ Seb said before walking over to Miranda.

      The embossed card he handed Rosie was impressive.

      ‘Thank you. Will your chef be here in time for Saturday?’

      Seb nodded. ‘He’s here already. He made those pastries you evidently like,’ he said, glancing, amused, at the plate.

      Rosie pushed the plate, with its single remaining patisserie, towards him. Moreish didn’t begin to describe how delicious she’d found them.

      ‘So is your chef somebody I’m likely to have heard of? My biggest fear is that you’ve managed to entice Jean-Christophe Novelli back to the land of his birth to work for you. If you have, I’ll just give up now. I mean, there’s competition and then there’s Jean-Christophe.’ Rosie laughed as she said it, but deep down she was serious – and worried about his answer.

      Seb shook his head. ‘You can stop worrying. It’s not him. But do you seriously think your little beach restaurant is going to compete with this place and the chef’s reputation?’

      ‘My cooking is as good as any chef,’ Rosie said, standing up. He’d put her biggest fear into words and she didn’t really want to hear what else he had to say. ‘Thank you for the coffee and pastries. I’d better go now.’

      ‘Have you heard of The Recluse restaurant? Head chef Sebastian Groc. He earned two stars for that place within four years.’

      ‘The Recluse in Monaco?’

      Charlie had taken her there last year as a birthday treat. It was certainly a special place and the food had been superb. These days, though, Rosie tried not to think about the evening they’d spent there and the way it had ended.

      Seb nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

      ‘Hang on a minute – what’s your surname? You’re not Sebastian Groc, are you?’ Rosie’s voice trailed away as Seb nodded.

      Oh, brilliant. Not just one but two bloody Michelin stars in his last restaurant. And now he was next door to her and the Café Fleur. So much for not worrying about the competition.

CHAPTER SIX

      The bord de mer was busy with traffic despite the early hour as Rosie made her way to the local market for her fresh vegetables. She’d planned her plat du jour menus for the week and now she quickly picked up the potatoes, onions and fresh garlic that were basic to so many of her recipes.

      She hesitated over bunches of new season asparagus. Her favourite – gently steamed and served with Hollandaise sauce. Expensive stuff to waste but she could always make soup, she decided, placing five bunches in the basket before moving on to the cheese counter.

      Back at the café she switched on the espresso machine and opened the shutters. The beach was deserted. Things were quieter over at the hotel, too. No hordes of workmen rushing in and out. Just the occasional glimpse through a window of chambermaids moving from one room to another, preparing the newly decorated bedrooms for their first guests of the season.

      Tansy, when she arrived, looked at the party invite Rosie had pinned to the noticeboard in the kitchen.

      ‘You going?’

      Rosie shook her head. ‘Planning on being too tired.’

      ‘Might be fun?’

      ‘You can have the invite if you like.’

      ‘Any other Saturday night, I’d love it,’ Tansy said. ‘But Rob’s taking me clubbing when we finish here.’

      The café phone rang and Tansy moved across to answer it.

      ‘Hi, Antoine. Table for two tomorrow? Fine. You’ll probably have the place to yourselves as it’s still quiet. See you at seven-thirty then.’

      ‘Who’s he bringing?’ Rosie mouthed at Tansy.

      ‘Antoine, who… sorry, he’s hung up,’ Tansy said, looking at Rosie apologetically.

      ‘It had better not be Charlie, that’s all,’ Rosie muttered, savaging the potato she was supposedly peeling.

      As a busy morning turned into lunchtime, Rosie was pleased to serve half a dozen plates of daube provençale, her plat du jour, to a group of walkers on their way to the Cap d’Antibes.

      Tansy left at three o’clock. ‘I’ll be back about six-thirty. Make sure you have a rest this afternoon. Go for a walk on the beach or something. We’re all organised for this evening.’

      ‘I want to check upstairs first. See if there is any way we can make use of the place,’ Rosie said. ‘See you later.’

      Locking the door behind Tansy and turning the sign to Closed, Rosie turned the key in the door by the bar and began to climb the stairs. Steep and clad in threadbare carpet, they weren’t the easiest to negotiate and Rosie was glad when she reached the room.

      It was larger than she remembered. There was even a walk-in shower in one corner. A halfway decent sofa bed covered in boxes was against one wall and there was a kettle on a wooden table. The whole set-up reminded Rosie of her very first bedsit at college.

      The windows were curtainless and, through the back one, she looked directly into the conservatory sitting room of the hotel. Lloyd Loom chairs and matching small coffee tables were dotted around, palm trees in pots and Seb working on a laptop. Rosie