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‘Where do you live normally?’ she asked as she slid into the sumptuous leather interior of the limo. Ben slid in next to her, his thigh nudging hers before he sat back and left a good foot between them. Stupid to feel disappointed about that.
‘Nice.’
‘As in France?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘You know, until that stupid thing in the newspaper, I didn’t realise you were a celebrity chef.’
He made a face. ‘I hate that term.’
‘But you are,’ Olivia persisted with a teasing smile. ‘Ben’s Bistro is big stuff. I tried to get into the one in London once and the waiting list was a mile long.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You should be glad of your success,’ she told him. Ambition was something she understood.
‘I am.’
‘So, a chef.’ She shook her head slowly as he arched an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a slow, surprising and oh-so-sexy smile. She realised he didn’t smile a lot. She liked it when he did.
‘You’re surprised?’ he asked.
‘I have to admit I had you pegged as a corporate type.’ Although she supposed she shouldn’t have, not with that wildness running through him. That leashed energy still fascinated her, still made her see Ben as dangerous and thrilling and far too much of a temptation.
‘No way.’ He stretched his legs out as he shook his head. ‘Two weeks managing a hotel is bad enough.’
‘Why did you agree, then?’
The smile left his face and he turned to look out the window. ‘It was a favour to my brother.’
‘Which one?’
‘Spencer.’
‘And why can’t he be here?’
‘I think he had a little business to attend to in New York.’
‘You mean The Harrington.’ She should have realised that a long time ago.
He turned to look at her, his mouth quirking in something not quite a smile. ‘You’re not involved in the family business?’
‘You’re not either,’ she shot back before she could think better of it. Ben just raised his eyebrows and she realised how prickly and defensive she’d sounded. ‘No, I never have been,’ she admitted, her tone thankfully more even. ‘It was always Isabelle and John’s thing. Eleanore’s too, I suppose.’
‘Your siblings.’
‘Yes. John and Isabelle do the managing and Eleanore’s into design.’
‘And you?’ Ben asked quietly, with just a little too much perception.
‘I act.’ And had been acting since she was twelve years old, when she realised she didn’t like who she really was. Escaping into someone else was so much easier, and it was something that, strangely perhaps, made her feel closer to her mother. Closer, sadly, than when she’d just been herself.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘How come you haven’t been involved in The Chatsfield?’
His mouth tightened and one hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. ‘It was never my thing.’
‘But you started your own restaurants? Surely that could go hand in hand with the hotelier business?’
‘Could,’ he agreed evenly. He looked out through the sleet that was now coming down horizontally. ‘It’s nasty out. But we’re almost there.’
‘Okay.’ Nerves fluttered in her stomach. How this film was received, how she was received, could make or break her.
Ben shot her a surprisingly sympathetic look. ‘You don’t need to be nervous. You really do look great.’
Olivia pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just that so much rides on this evening.’
‘This other film you’re hoping to be in, right?’
‘Yes. I’ve been waiting years for an opportunity like this one, and I really don’t want to blow it.’ She heard the anxiety as well as the eagerness in her voice and inwardly winced. She sounded so pathetic.
Ben met her gaze steadily. ‘You won’t.’
He sounded so certain that Olivia actually felt her nervousness ease slightly. She smiled at him, grateful for his faith in her, unlikely as it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, meaning it more than she could articulate, and then the limo pulled over to the kerb and one of the theatre’s staff opened the door, holding an umbrella aloft. With a last, fleeting smile for Ben, Olivia shrugged out of her parka and slipped out of the car.
* * *
Ben slid out of the limo, watching as Olivia waved to the fans lining the roped-off red carpet. Flashbulbs popped and paparazzi started calling out—or rather, shrieking—questions.
‘When did you start dating Ben Chatsfield?’
