Kate Hardy - British Bachelors - Fabulous and Famous

British Bachelors: Fabulous & Famous

The Secret Ingredient

Nina Harrington

How to Get Over Your Ex

Nikki Logan

Behind the Film Star’s Smile

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page British Bachelors: Fabulous & Famous The Secret Ingredient Nina Harrington How to Get Over Your Ex Nikki Logan Behind the Film Star’s Smile Kate Hardy www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Secret Ingredient The Secret Ingredient Nina Harrington

About the Author NINA HARRINGTON grew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

How to Get Over Your Ex

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

Behind the Film Star’s Smile

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

The Secret Ingredient

Nina Harrington

NINA HARRINGTONgrew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian—because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.

ONE

Rob Beresford stepped out of the black stretch limo onto the red carpet outside London’s newest and most prestigious art gallery, slowly rolled back his shoulders, and stretched out to his full height.

Rob ran the fingers of his right hand through his mane of collar-length dark wavy hair in a move he had perfected to draw attention to what, according to the Beresford hotel group marketing department, was his best feature.

‘Make sure that your fans see that fantastic head and shoulders shot,’ his agent, Sally, kept telling him. ‘That’s what your millions of lady followers will be looking for. Make the most of it while you can!’

Ah. The joys of self-promotion.

After twenty years in the hotel business Rob knew the drill inside out.

He gave the press what they wanted and they loved him for it. They had seen him on good and bad nights and both sides played the game when it suited them.

It was a pity that the paparazzi made more money when he was playing the bad-boy celebrity chef than on all of the other countless occasions when he was working in the kitchens creating the award-winning recipes for the Beresford hotel restaurants.

They wanted him to misbehave and throw a tantrum and grab a camera. Punch someone out because of a careless remark or lose his temper over an insult to his family or food.

The Rob Beresford they wanted to see was the young chef who had become notorious after he physically lifted the most famous restaurant critic in Chicago out of his chair and threw him out of the Beresford hotel restaurant when he dared to criticise the way his steak had been cooked.

And sometimes he was tired enough or bored enough to let them goad him and provoke him into a stupid response, which he instantly regretted.

Press the red button and watch the fireworks. Oh, yes!

But not tonight.

For once he was not here to celebrate the Beresford name or promote his TV show or best-selling cookery books. Tonight was all about someone else’s success. Not his. And if that meant that he had to act out his part in public yet again, then so be it.

He was wearing the costume; he had rehearsed his script. Now it was time to act out his part until the star of the show arrived.

Tonight he needed the crowd to love him and play up the success of the art gallery. And the artist whose work had been chosen to be exhibited for their prestigious grand opening event. Adele Forrester. Fine Art Painter. And his mother.

But inside his designer clothing? Inside, he was a wreck.

Even the photographers in the front row only a few feet away could not see the prickle of sweat on his brow on this cool June evening and he quickly covered up the tenseness in his mouth with a broad smile so that no one would ever know that, for once, Rob Beresford was more than just nervous.

He was dreading every second of the next few hours and would only be able to relax when he was safe back in the hotel room with his mother, congratulating her on a stunning exhibition that was bound to sell out fast.

The plan had been simple. They would arrive together, his mother would smile and wave a couple of times and Rob would escort her sedately into the exhibition to the sound of applause from her faithful fans and art lovers. Proud son. Star mother. Winner all the way.

So much for that plan.

The past week had been a blur of rushed last-minute arrangements and then a twenty-four-hour cold virus, which had been going the rounds in California, had knocked her out for most of the day. Followed by a serious attack of first-night nerves.

Until an hour ago he’d thought that he had succeeded and his mother was dressed, made up and ready to go, smiling and happy that after eight years of preparation her work was going to be shown in public.

But then she had made the mistake of peeking out of the hotel front entrance, seen the press pack and scurried back into the room, white-faced and breathing hard. Trying to control her panic while pretending that it was about time that she walked down the red carpet on her own. After all, this was her special night. No need to wait. She would make her own grand entrance. Why did she need her handsome son stealing her spotlight?

Right. She was forgetting that he knew her. Only too well.

So the limo had driven around the corner with him inside alone. While she cowered inside her hotel room, going through the relaxation exercises one more time. Afraid to come out and walk a few steps down a carpet and have her photo taken.