He had ambition, of a kind.

"I don't just want to be a cook,"there are plenty of them," he explained. "I want to be the cook, so I had to find something that would make me stand out from the others. I scraped together all the money I could and came to Europe, to work in some of the great hotels. I did six months in the Danieli in Venice, six in the George V in Paris, and now I'm doing the London Ritz. When my work permit's up I'll go back to Los Angeles as Luke of the Ritz. Hey, have you swallowed something the wrong way?" For Pippa was doubled up and apparently choking.

"You can't do that," she spluttered when she could speak. "Luke of the Ritz? Nobody will be able to eat for laughing."

"Oh!" he said, deflated. "You don't think they'll be impressed?"

"I think they'll chuck tomatoes at you."

The awful truth of this hit him suddenly and he began to laugh, too. The more he laughed, the more she laughed, and it became funnier and funnier.

If this were a romantic comedy, she thought, they would laugh until they fell into each other's arms. She found herself tingling with anticipation.

But Luke pulled himself together and said in a choking sort of voice, "It's late. I ought to be getting you home."

"It's not that late," she protested.

"It is when I have a 6 a.m. start. Come on."

He borrowed a battered old car from one of the other residents, and drove the couple of miles to the hostel where she lived. As he pulled up, Pippa waited for his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, his lips on hers…