but slowly, slowly, lifted to his face. ‘Just arrogant chefs with egos to match the size of their name on the menu.’
Lottie gave a small shoulder-shrug. ‘Any girl who dates a chef who likes to have his name in the gossip columns knows what she is taking on and I am not just talking about the long hours and bad tempers.’
‘Harsh. You could say that about any type of successful person, the kind that has earned that reputation through sweat and puts the work in for that success. Publicity is not a bad thing. Not when restaurants are closing every week. The press love me just as long as I give them something to write about. It’s part of the job.’
‘Ah. Well, there you have it. You can glory in the glare of publicity for the charity and we lesser mortals shall scurry around in the background making sure that everything is working. Win-win. I can hardly wait. It promises to be a very interesting evening.’
It was like going back in time.
Rob Beresford stood at the entrance to the park across the street from the West London Catering College where he had spent two of the most gruelling years of his life learning how to cook at a professional level.
The building might look a little cleaner and they had added more glass and pale colours to the entrance to make it look less like a prison, but otherwise it was just the same.
Somewhere in a storage unit in London there was a box stuffed with his diplomas and degree certificates for what the college liked to call the culinary arts and professional cooking.
From what he remembered it was mostly culinary sweat and manic activity fuelled by industrial quantities of cheap coffee and cheaper carbohydrates.
He had grown up in London and spent the first nineteen years of his life here. It would always feel like home.
And now he was going to a Beresford hotel to raise funds so that some other youngster with nothing but a fire in his belly could have a chance to show what they could do.
How ironic was that?
With a low chuckle he shook his head and strode out along the sunlit pavements and turned the corner, away from the college and into the world he lived in now. Sean had done a great job refurbishing the Beresford Richmond and Rob waved to the reception staff as he jogged up the staircase to the main conference room and flung open the doors to the cocktail bar.
He scanned the room looking for Sean or Lottie and walked slowly between the drinks tables, waving and saying a brief hello to familiar faces from the hotel and food world, flashguns lighting up his back as he tugged at the cuffs of his evening shirt.
He was a Beresford working the crowd in a Beresford hotel.
This was the one time he was willing to put his handmade tux on show for the press and wear his heart on his sleeve.
His father, Tom Beresford, had founded the Beresford hotel chain from nothing and worked hard to create a line of luxury hotels in cities around the world. But Rob admired him for a lot more than that. No matter where his mum had gone to find artistic inspiration, his dad had made sure that Rob had his own room and a stable home and school life. It had been a shock when his dad had announced that he was going to marry again. Until then it had only been the two of them. But she was so lovely. And as a bonus—he got a new brother.
And there he was. Sean Beresford. Hotel troubleshooter and the current manager of the hotel he was standing in, greeting the sixty or so especially invited guests in person, same as always. Charming but professional.
Rob took the initiative by thumping Sean on the back in a half hug. ‘Heard that there was a charity auction tonight and thought I might pick up a few bargains. How about you?’
He was rewarded by a short snort. ‘Dee is in China. Again. But somehow Dee and Lottie persuaded me to host their fundraiser here. I even agreed to be the master of ceremonies. So behave.’
‘I am behaving! And well done on the refurbishment. This is a fabulous venue.’
‘Thanks. Hard work but worth it. VIP events like this are a perfect way to get word-of-mouth publicity. Gold dust. I had no idea that Lottie knew so many people in high places.’
His brows came together. ‘Lottie Rosemount?’
‘Absolutely. That girl has a contact list to die for. If anyone deserves praise for making this benefit a sell-out it’s Lottie. Oh, have to go. Enjoy the party! And I hope you like the food. We’re trying that new event menu from the Beresford Paris which has been so popular.’
‘Wait up. What are you serving? Surprise me.’
‘Canapés followed by plated cold starters, three choices of hot buffet, salad and cheese. And I know you are going to sample some of everything because you always do before the desserts arrive.’
Sean gestured with his head towards the swing doors that led to the kitchen. Waiters were clearing away what little was left of the patisserie.
‘I have a head chef in there who has been screaming at her brigade all night that Rob Beresford is in the room and they had better cook as though their jobs depended on it. Forget the other city chefs. You are the one my team want to impress. They are nervous wrecks in there! So don’t worry about the food. Your job is to do the celeb thing. And good luck with that. See you later.’ And with that Sean strode over to greet the cluster of new arrivals who had packed the reception area behind him.
Rob stepped to one side, and tried to bring his breathing back down to a level where he could control it.
What the hell was the new event menu from Paris?
He was supposed to be responsible for the entire food-and-drinks range across all of the Beresford hotel chain.
His mother’s exhibition and the filming of the TV show had sucked every second of his life for the past few months but surely he would have heard about a new menu?
Why had no one told him about it? Or worse. They had told him but the message had got lost in the hundreds of emails he received every day.
Of course he had to trust the hotel chefs. He had personally picked them, got drunk with them and slayed them with cooking better than them. But as for trusting other people to create an entirely new menu? Forget it.
He needed to get to the hotel kitchens and find out exactly what they intended to serve at this function.
He glanced around the gilt high-ceiling dining room. Top hoteliers, company directors in designer suits, food journalists and, if he was not mistaken, several of the college lecturers who were responsible for what skills he had. So overall pretty much everyone in London with an interest in developing amazing new chef talent.
Brilliant for the charity. And a nightmare waiting to happen if this new menu was not totally spectacular.
And walking towards him around the edge of the room, one very, very pretty girl.
Lottie Rosemount. Only not the hard-working baker version of Lottie he had spent most of the day with.
This Lottie was dressed in a pale lilac cocktail dress that fitted her perfectly, the fabric draped close to her waist then flaring out over the slim hips to just above the knees. Then long, slim but muscular legs and high heels.
Tonight Lottie Rosemount was every bit the young female corporate mover and shaker he had seen at parties all over the world. Efficient. Brilliant. Organised.
Only he knew the real Lottie. The woman who had taken a high-street bakery and transformed it into something spectacular. Doing what she loved to do, her passion. On her own terms.
When had he last met a woman like that? Not often. Oh, he had met plenty of glossy-haired girls with high IQs who had claimed they were doing what they truly loved, and plenty of lady bakers had studied business, but so few people were able to combine the two skills to create a successful bakery.
Lottie