‘The dress is fine. You look charming.’ Dante forced himself to speak. But as soon as the words were out and he saw the little flash of disappointment on her face he cursed himself that his tone had been unnecessarily brusque. He walked over to her, smiling with the careless charm that came so easily to him, but the delicate rose scent of her perfume filled his senses and it took all his willpower to resist the urge to run his fingers through her long satiny hair.
Flicking back the cuff of his jacket to check his watch gave him something to do with his hands. ‘We should go,’ he murmured. ‘The traffic is usually hellish along Shaftesbury Avenue.’
With a nod of her head she spun round and preceded him out of the sitting room. Dante could not prevent his eyes from following the gentle sway of her bottom beneath its covering of shimmering silk, and as they walked down the hall to the front door he glanced towards the stairs and almost gave in to the fierce urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her up to his bedroom. He had been looking forward to the evening, but now he felt tense and frustrated and not in the mood to act the role of urbane playboy that was the façade he presented to the world.
THE show was spectacular—an extravaganza of music, dancing and amazing costumes that earned the cast and director a standing ovation when the curtain fell. Rebekah had enjoyed every moment of it, especially as she’d had an excellent view of the stage from the private box she had shared with Dante.
In the car on the way to the theatre she had sternly told herself to stop being stupid about his lukewarm reaction to seeing her dressed up. He quite clearly wasn’t interested in her, and the sooner she accepted that fact the better. Following her silent pep talk she had been determined to make the most of the evening. She had never been to a top London show and she knew her grandmother would want to hear all the details.
And so when she had taken her seat next to Dante at the theatre she had willed herself to ignore the fierce tug on her senses as she breathed in the spicy tang of his aftershave. In the twenty minutes before the lights dimmed she studied the programme with him and peered over the balcony to spot the celebrities in the audience, many of whom Dante knew personally and a few he had represented in their divorce petitions.
‘I hear the game show host Mike Channing has recently married for the third time,’ he told her, directing her gaze to a man with an alarming orange tan. ‘Against my advice, he didn’t bother with a pre-nup. That’s going to be expensive when his new wife decides to become the next ex-Mrs Channing.’
Rebekah shook her head. ‘I feel sorry for you that you are so cynical.’
‘I prefer realistic,’ he replied with an amused smile. ‘And you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’d rather be a cynic than a sucker. It’s a fact of life that some women make a career out of divorcing rich husbands.’
There had been an edge of bitterness in Dante’s voice that had puzzled her, Rebekah recalled later, when they were at the after-show party. Why would a self-confessed serial playboy have such a scathing view about marriage?
Perhaps he had been badly affected by his parents’ divorce when he had been a child, she mused. From across the room she watched him chatting to an attractive blonde in a skimpy gold dress and thought wryly that his determination to avoid commitment did not stop women flocking to him. But, in a room packed with A-list celebrities and London’s social elite, his stunning looks and virile sex appeal made all other men fade in comparison.
From the moment she had seen him dressed in a tuxedo she had been blown away by his sexy charm and had longed to trace his chiselled jaw and run her fingers through the lock of dark hair that fell across his brow. Her infatuation with him was becoming a serious threat to her peace of mind and her common sense told her that the only way to end her fascination with him would be to look for another job.
At that moment he glanced over at her and she hastily turned her head, hoping he had not been aware of her staring at him. A waiter paused in front of her to offer her a drink. She briefly contemplated risking one glass of champagne, but she knew it would give her a headache and instead she chose the fruit punch that she had already discovered was deliciously refreshing, with a zing to it that she thought might be sherbet.
‘Rebekah.’ Dante appeared at her side. He gave her an intent look. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? I noticed you’ve been chatting to a few people.’
‘I’m having a great time,’ she assured him brightly. ‘Please don’t feel you have to stay with me all evening. You’re highly in demand,’ she added drily, aware, as she was sure he must be, of the numerous predatory female glances directed his way.
‘Someone would like to meet you,’ he explained. He turned to the lean-faced, silver-haired man who had just joined them. ‘This is Gaspard Clavier.’
‘Yes … I know,’ Rebekah said faintly. She knew she was gaping, but she could not help it. The world-famous French chef was an iconic figure and her personal hero. She couldn’t believe he had asked to be introduced to her but, to her astonishment, the Frenchman lifted her hand to his lips with a Gallic flourish.
‘So this is the Rebekah Evans I have heard so much about.’
‘Have you?’ she said blankly.
‘Certainly. I believe you prepared the wedding lunch for Earl Lansford’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Rebekah remembered cooking the four-course lunch for three hundred guests at the Earl’s manor house in Hampstead when she had worked for the catering company. It had been manic in the kitchen but, to her relief, everything had gone to plan and she had been proud of the menu she had created.
‘Dante!’
At the sound of his name Dante looked round and waved to someone across the room. ‘I’ll leave you and Gaspard to chat,’ he murmured to Rebekah. ‘Please excuse me.’
She watched him walk over to a statuesque blonde and stifled a sigh, before resuming her conversation with Gaspard Clavier.
‘I was a guest at the wedding,’ Gaspard told her. ‘The food was a triumph. Every dish was divine. You can really cook, ma chérie, and that is not something I say lightly. You understand flavours, and your passion for food is evident in the dishes you create.’
Rebekah’s cheeks flooded with colour at the Frenchman’s fulsome praise. Earning Gaspard Clavier’s approval was the highest accolade she could have dreamed of.
‘Thank you,’ she said shyly.
‘You have heard, perhaps, of my restaurant, La Petite Maison, in Knightsbridge?’
‘Oh, yes, I visited it once when I first began my training and I was inspired by your food, Monsieur Clavier. It confirmed for me that I definitely wanted a career as a chef.’
‘After tasting your wonderful food at Olivia Lansford’s wedding, I decided that I would like you to work for me.’
For a few seconds Rebekah was speechless. ‘Cook at your restaurant, you mean?’
‘Oui. Not at La Petite Maison, but at my new restaurant that I hope to open soon in St Lucia.’
Once again Rebekah was lost for words. ‘St Lucia is in the Caribbean,’ she said slowly, and then blushed when she realised she had spoken out loud.
Gaspard looked amused. ‘It is indeed. My restaurant is on the beach. Imagine miles of white sand, turquoise sea and palm trees. How would you like to work in paradise, Rebekah?’
‘I don’t know … I mean, it sounds wonderful.’ She pressed her hands to her hot face. ‘It’s just a shock. And I already have a job here in England.’
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