Summer Desserts
Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Could a cordon bleu chef be a junk-food addict? The more Blake Cocharan learned about Summer Lyndon, dessert chef extraordinaire, the more intrigued he became—and the more determined he was to hire her. Blake wanted the Best, and Summer looked extremely good to him. Her superb credentials were icing on the cake.

Summer was accustomed to traveling around the world, creating the perfect ending to perfect meals. But Blake had a unique appeal. Summer found herself responding to the challenge, both professionally…and personally… For the first time, Summer was planning a meal from start to finish—and creating a perfect ending all her own.

To Marianne Shock,

for the cheerful and clever last-minute help.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

Her name was Summer. It was a name that conjured visions of hot petaled flowers, sudden storms and long, restless nights. It also brought images of sun-warmed meadows and naps in the shade. It suited her.

As she stood, hands poised, body tensed, eyes alert, there wasn’t a sound in the room. No one, absolutely no one, took their eyes off her. She might move slowly, but there wasn’t a person there who wanted to chance missing a gesture, a motion. All attention, all concentration, was riveted upon that one slim, solitary figure. Strains of Chopin floated romantically through the air. The light slanted and shot through her neatly bound hair—rich, warm brown with hints and tints of gold. Two emerald studs winked at her ears.

Her skin was a bit flushed so that a rose tinge accented already prominent cheekbones and the elegant bone structure that comes only from breeding. Excitement, intense concentration, deepened the amber flecks that were sprinkled in the hazel of her eyes. The same excitement and concentration had her soft, molded lips forming a pout.

She was all in white, plain, unadorned white, but she drew the eye as irresistibly as a butterfly in full, dazzling flight. She wouldn’t speak, yet everyone in the room strained forward as if to catch the slightest sound.

The room was warm, the smells exotic, the atmosphere taut with anticipation.

Summer might have been alone for all the attention she paid to those around her. There was only one goal, one end. Perfection. She’d never settled for less.

With infinite care she lifted the final diamond-shape and pressed the angelica onto the Savarin to complete the design she’d created. The hours she’d already spent preparing and baking the huge, elaborate dessert were forgotten, as was the heat, the tired leg muscles, the aching arms. The final touch, the appearance of a Summer Lyndon creation, was of the utmost importance. Yes, it would taste perfect, smell perfect, even slice perfectly. But if it didn’t look perfect, none of that mattered.

With the care of an artist completing a masterpiece, she lifted her brush to give the fruits and almonds a light, delicate coating of apricot glaze.

Still, no one spoke.

Asking no assistance—indeed, she wouldn’t have tolerated any—Summer began to fill the center of the Savarin with the rich cream whose recipe she guarded jealously.

Hands steady, head erect, Summer stepped back to give her creation one last critical study. This was the ultimate test, for her eye was keener than any other’s when it came to her own work. She folded her arms across her body. Her face was without expression. In the huge kitchen, the ping of a pin dropped on the tile would have reverberated like a gunshot.

Slowly her lips curved, her eyes glittered. Success. Summer lifted one arm and gestured rather dramatically. “Take it away,” she ordered.

As two assistants began to roll the glittering concoction from the room, applause broke out.

Summer accepted the accolade as her due. There was a place for modesty, she knew, and she knew it didn’t apply to her Savarin. It was, to put it mildly, magnificent. Magnificence was what the Italian duke had wanted for his daughter’s engagement party, and magnificence was what he’d paid for. Summer had simply delivered.

“Mademoiselle.” Foulfount, the Frenchman whose specialty was shellfish took Summer by both shoulders. His eyes were round and damp with appreciation. “Incroyable.” Enthusiastically, he kissed both her cheeks while his thick, clever fingers squeezed her skin as they might a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Summer broke out in her first grin in hours.

“Merci.” Someone had opened a celebratory bottle of wine. Summer took two glasses, handing one to the French chef. “To the next time we work together, mon ami.”

She tossed back the wine, took off her chef’s hat, then breezed out of the kitchen. In the enormous marble-floored, chandeliered dining room, her Savarin was even now being served and admired. Her last thought before leaving was—thank God someone else had to clean up the mess.

Two hours later, she had her shoes off and her eyes closed. A gruesome murder mystery lay open on her lap as her plane cruised over the Atlantic. She was going home. She’d spent almost three full days in Milan for the sole purpose of creating that one dish. It wasn’t an unusual experience for her. Summer had baked Charlotte Malakoff in Madrid, flamed Crêpes Fourée in Athens and molded île Flottante in Istanbul. For her expenses, and a stunning fee, Summer Lyndon would create a dessert that would live in the memory long after the last bite, drop or crumb was consumed.

Have wisk, will travel, she thought vaguely and smiled through a yawn.

She considered herself a specialist, not unlike a skilled surgeon. Indeed, she’d studied, apprenticed and practiced as long as many respected members of the medical profession. Five years after passing the stringent requirements to become a cordon bleu chef in Paris, the city where cooking is its own art, Summer had a reputation for being as temperamental as any artist, for having the mind of a computer when it came to remembering recipes and for having the hands of an angel.

Summer half dozed in her first-class seat and fought off a desperate craving for a slice of pepperoni pizza.

She knew the flight time would go faster if she could read or sleep her way through it. She decided to mix the two, taking the light nap first. Summer was a woman who prized her sleep almost as highly as she prized her recipe for chocolate mousse.

On her return to Philadelphia, her schedule would be hectic at best. There was the bombe to prepare for the governor’s charity banquet, the annual meeting of the Gourmet Society, the demonstration she’d agreed to do for public television…and that meeting, she remembered drowsily.

What had that bird-voiced woman said over the phone? Summer wondered. Drake—no, Blake—Cocharan. Blake Cocharan, III of the Cocharan hotel chain. Excellent hotels, Summer thought without any real interest. She’d patronized a number of them in various corners of the world. Mr. Cocharan the Third had a business proposition for her.

Summer assumed that he wanted her to create some special dessert exclusively for his chain of hotels, something they could attach the Cocharan name to. She wasn’t averse to the notion—under the proper circumstances. And for the proper fee. Naturally she’d have to investigate the entire Cocharan enterprise carefully before she agreed to involve her skill or her name with it. If any one of their hotels was of inferior quality…

With a yawn, Summer decided to think about it later—after she’d met with The Third personality. Blake Cocharan, III, she thought again with a sleepily amused smile. Plump, balding, probably dyspeptic. Italian shoes, Swiss watch, French shirts, German car—and no doubt he’d consider himself unflaggingly American. The image she created hung in her mind a moment, and bored with it, she yawned again—then sighed as the idea of pizza once again invaded her thoughts. Summer tilted her seat back farther and determinedly willed herself to sleep.

Blake Cocharan, III sat in the plush rear seat of the gunmetal-gray limo and meticulously went over the report on the newest Cocharan House being constructed in Saint Croix. He was a man who could scoop us a mess of scattered details and align them in perfect, systematic order. Chaos was simply a form of order waiting to be unjumbled with logic. Blake was a very logical man. Point A invariably led to point B, and from there to C. No matter how confused the maze, with patience and logic, one could find the route.

Because of his talent for doing just that, Blake, at thirty-five, had almost complete control of the Cocharan empire. He’d inherited his wealth and, as a result, rarely thought of it. But he’d earned his position, and valued it. Quality was a Cocharan tradition. Nothing but the finest would do for any Cocharan House, from the linen on the beds to the mortar in the foundations.

His report on Summer Lyndon told him she was the best.

Setting aside the Saint Croix packet, Blake slipped another file from the slim briefcase by his feet. A single ring, oval-faced, gold and scrolled, gleamed dully on his hand. Summer Lyndon, he mused, flipping the file open….

Twenty-eight, graduate Sorbonne, certified cordon bleu chef. Father, Rothschild Lyndon, respected member of British Parliament. Mother, Monique Dubois Lyndon, former star of the French cinema. Parents amicably divorced for twenty-three years. Summer Lyndon had spent her formative years between London and Paris before her mother had married an American hardware tycoon, based in Philadelphia. Summer had then returned to Paris to complete her education and currently had living quarters both there and in Philadelphia. Her mother had since married a third time, a paper baron on this round, and her father was separated from his second wife, a successful barrister.

All of Blake’s probing had produced the same basic answer. Summer Lyndon was the best dessert chef on either side of the Atlantic. She was also a superb all-around chef with an instinctive knowledge of quality, a flair for creativity and the ability to improvise in a crisis. On the other hand, she was reputed to be dictatorial, temperamental and brutally frank. These qualities, however, hadn’t alienated her from heads of state, aristocracy or celebrities.

She might insist on having Chopin piped into the kitchen while she cooked, or summarily refuse to work at all if the lighting wasn’t to her liking, but her mousse alone was enough to make a strong man beg to grant her slightest wish.

Blake wasn’t a man to beg for anything…but he wanted Summer Lyndon for Cocharan House. He never doubted he could persuade her to agree to precisely what he had in mind.

A formidable woman, he imagined, respecting that. He had no patience with weak wills or soft brains—particularly in people who worked for him. Not many women had risen to the position, or the reputation, that Summer Lyndon held. Women might traditionally be cooks, but men were traditionally chefs.

He imagined her thick waisted from sampling her own creations. Strong hands, he thought idly. Her skin was probably a bit pasty from all those hours indoors in kitchens. A no-nonsense woman, he was sure, with an uncompromising view on what was edible and why. Organized, logical and cultured—perhaps a bit plain due to her preoccupation with food rather than fashion. Blake imagined that they would deal with each other very well. With a glance at his watch, Blake noted with satisfaction that he was right on time for the meeting.

The limo cruised to a halt beside the curb. “I’ll be no more than an hour,” Blake told the driver as he climbed out.

“Yes, sir.” The driver checked his watch. When Mr. Cocharan said an hour, you could depend on it.

Blake glanced up at the fourth floor as he crossed to the well-kept old building. The windows were open, he noted. Warm spring air poured in, while music—a melody he couldn’t quite catch over the sounds of traffic—poured out. When Blake went in, he learned that the single elevator was out of order. He walked up four flights.

After Blake knocked, the door was opened by a small woman with a stunning face who was dressed in a T-shirt and slim black jeans. The maid on her way out for a day off? Blake wondered idly. She didn’t look strong enough to scrub a floor. And if she was going out, she was going out without her shoes.

After the brief, objective glance, his gaze was drawn irresistibly back to her face. Classic, naked and undeniably sensuous. The mouth alone would make a man’s blood move. Blake ignored what he considered an automatic sexual pull.

“Blake Cocharan to see Ms. Lyndon.”

Summer’s left brow rose—a sign of surprise. Then her lips curved slightly—a sign of pleasure.

Plump, he wasn’t, she observed. Hard and lean—racketball, tennis, swimming. He was obviously a man more prone to these than lingering over executive lunches. Balding, no. His hair was rich black and thick. It was styled well, with slight natural waves that added to the attractiveness of a cool, sensual face. A sweep of cheekbones, a firm line of chin. She liked the look of the former that spoke of strength, and the latter, just barely cleft, that spoke of charm. Black brows were almost straight over clear, water-blue eyes. His mouth was a bit long but beautifully shaped. His nose was very straight—the sort she’d always thought was made to be looked down. Perhaps she’d been right about the outward trimmings—the Italian shoes, and so forth—but, Summer admitted, she’d been off the mark with the man.

The assessment didn’t take her long—three, perhaps four, seconds. But her mouth curved more. Blake couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was a mouth a man, if he breathed, wanted to taste. “Please come in, Mr. Cocharan.” Summer stepped back, swinging the door wider in invitation. “It’s very considerate of you to agree to meet here. Please have a seat. I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something in the kitchen.” She smiled, gestured and disappeared.

Blake opened his mouth—he wasn’t used to being brushed off by servants—then closed it again. He had enough time to be tolerant. As he set down his briefcase he glanced around the room. There were fringed lamps, a curved sofa in plush blue velvet, a fussily carved cherrywood table. Aubusson carpets—two—softly faded in blues and grays—were spread over the floors. A Ming vase. Potpourri in what was certainly a Dresden compote.

The room had no order; it was a mix of European periods and styles that should never have suited, but was instantly attractive. He saw that a pedestal table at the far end of the room was covered with jumbled typewritten pages and handwritten notes. Street sounds drifted in through the window. Chopin floated from the stereo.

As he stood there, drawing it in, he was abruptly certain there was no one in the apartment but himself and the woman who had opened the door. Summer Lyndon? Fascinated with the idea, and with the aroma creeping from the kitchen, Blake crossed the room.

Six pastry shells, just touched with gold and moisture, sat on a rack. One by one Summer filled them to overflowing with what appeared to be some rich white cream. When Blake glanced at her face he saw the concentration, the seriousness and intensity he might have associated with a brain surgeon. It should have amused him. Yet somehow, with the strains of Chopin pouring through the kitchen speakers, with those delicate, slim-fingered hands arranging the cream in mounds, he was fascinated.

She dipped a fork in a pan and dribbled what he guessed was warmed caramel over the cream. It ran lavishly down the sides and gelled. He doubted that it was humanly possible not to lust after just one taste. Again, one by one, she scooped up the tarts and placed them on a plate lined with a lacy paper doily. When the last one was arranged, she looked up at Blake.

“Would you like some coffee?” She smiled and the line of concentration between her brows disappeared. The intensity that had seemed to darken her irises lightened.

Blake glanced at the dessert plate and wondered how her waist could be hand-spannable. “Yes, I would.”

“It’s hot,” she told him as she lifted the plate. “Help yourself. I have to run these next door.” She was past him and to the doorway of the kitchen before she turned around. “Oh, there’re some cookies in the jar, if you like. I’ll be right back.”

She was gone, and the pastries with her. With a shrug, he turned back to the kitchen, which was a shambles. Summer Lyndon might be a great cook, but she was obviously not a neat one. Still if the scent and look of the pastries had been any indication…

He started to root in the cupboards for a cup, then gave in to temptation. Standing in his Saville Row suit, Blake ran his finger along the edge of the bowl that had held the cream. He laid it on his tongue. With a sigh, his eyes closed. Rich, thick and very French.

He’d dined in the most exclusive restaurants, in some of the wealthiest homes, in dozens of countries all over the world. Logically, practically, honestly, he couldn’t say he’d ever tasted better than what he now scooped from the bowl in this woman’s kitchen. In deciding to specialize in desserts and pastries, Summer Lyndon had chosen well, he concluded. He felt a momentary regret that she’d taken those rich, fat tarts to someone else. This time when Blake started his search for a cup, he spotted the ceramic cookie jar shaped like a panda.

Normally he wouldn’t have been interested. He wasn’t a man with a particularly active sweet tooth. But the flavor of the cream lingered on his tongue. What sort of cookie did a woman who created the finest of haute cuisine make? With a cup of English bone china in one hand, Blake lifted off the top of the panda’s head. Setting it down, he pulled out a cookie and stared in simple wonder.

No American could mistake that particular munchie. A classic? he mused. A tradition? An Oreo. Blake continued to stare at the chocolate sandwich cookie with its double dose of white center. He turned it over in his hand. The brand was unmistakably stamped into both sides. This from a woman who baked and whipped and glazed for royalty?

A laugh broke from him as he dropped the Oreo back into the panda. Throughout his career he’d had to deal with more than his share of eccentrics. Running a chain of hotels wasn’t just a matter of who checked in and who checked out. There were designers, artists, architects, decorators, chefs, musicians, union representatives. Blake considered himself knowledgeable of people. It wouldn’t take him long to learn what made Summer tick.

She dashed back into the kitchen just as he was finally pouring the coffee. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Cocharan. I know it was rude.” She smiled, as if she had no doubt she’d be forgiven, as she poured her own coffee. “I had to get those pastries finished for my neighbor. She’s having a small engagement tea this afternoon—with prospective in-laws.” Her smile turned to a grin, and sipping her black coffee, she plucked the top from the panda. “Did you want a cookie?”

“No. Please, you go ahead.”

Taking him at his word, Summer chose one and nibbled. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “these are uniformly excellent for their kind.” She gestured with the half cookie she had left. “Shall we go sit down and discuss your proposition?”

She moved fast, he mused with approval. Perhaps he’d at least been on the mark about the no-nonsense attitude. With a nod of acknowledgment, Blake followed her. He was successful in his profession, not because he was a third-generation Cocharan, but because he had a quick and analytical mind. Problems were systematically solved. At the moment, he had to decide just how to approach a woman like Summer Lyndon.

She had a face that belonged in the shade of a tree on the Bois de Boulogne. Very French, very elegant. Her voice had the round, clear tones that spoke unmistakably of European education and upbringing—a wisp of France again but with the discipline of Britain. Her hair was pinned up, a concession to the heat and humidity, he imagined—though she had the windows open, ignoring the available air-conditioning. The studs in her ears were emeralds, round and flawless. There was a good-sized tear in the sleeve of her T-shirt.

Sitting on the couch, she folded her legs under her. Her bare toes were painted with a wild rose enamel, but her fingernails were short and unvarnished. He caught the allure of her scent—a touch of the caramel from the pastries, but under it something unmistakably French, unapologetically sexual.

How did one approach such a woman? Blake reflected. Did he use charm, flattery or figures? She was reputed to be a perfectionist and occasionally a firebrand. She’d refused to cook for an important political figure because he wouldn’t fly her personal kitchen equipment to his country. She’d charged a Hollywood celebrity a small fortune to create a twenty-tiered wedding cake extravaganza. And she’d just hand-baked and hand-delivered a plate of pastries to a neighbor for a tea. Blake would much prefer to have the key to her before he made his offer. He knew the advantages of taking a circular route. Indeed some might call it stalking.

“I’m acquainted with your mother,” Blake began easily as he continued to gauge the woman beside him.

“Really?” He caught both amusement and affection in the word. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said as she nibbled on the cookie again. “My mother always patronized a Cocharan House when we traveled. I believe I had dinner with your grandfather when I was six or seven.” The amusement didn’t fade as she sipped at her coffee. “Small world.”

An excellent suit, Summer decided, relaxing against the back of the sofa. It was well cut and conservative enough to have gained her father’s approval. The form it was molded to was well built and lean enough to have gained her mother’s. It was perhaps the combination of the two that drew her interest.

Good God, he is attractive, she thought as she took another considering survey of his face. Not quite smooth, not quite rugged, his power sat well on him. That was something she recognized—in herself and in others. She respected someone who sought and got his own way, as she judged Blake did. She respected herself for the same reason. Attractive, she thought again—but she felt that a man like Blake would be so, regardless of physical appearance.

Her mother would have called him séduisant, and accurately so. Summer would have called him dangerous. A difficult combination to resist. She shifted, perhaps unconsciously to put more distance between them. Business, after all, was business.

“You’re familiar then with the standards of a Cocharan House,” Blake began. Quite suddenly he wished her scent weren’t so alluring or her mouth so tempting. He didn’t care to have business muddled with attraction, no matter how pleasant.

“Of course.” Summer set down her coffee because drinking it only seemed to accentuate the odd little flutter in her stomach. “I invariably stay at them myself.”

“I’ve been told your standards of quality are equally high.”

This time when Summer smiled there was a hint of arrogance to it. “I’m the very best at what I do because I have no intention of being otherwise.”

The first key, Blake decided with satisfaction. Professional vanity. “So my information tells me, Ms. Lyndon. The very best is all that interests me.”

“So.” Summer propped an elbow on the back of the sofa then rested her head on the palm. “How exactly do I interest you, Mr. Cocharan?” She knew the question was loaded, but couldn’t resist. When a woman was constantly taking risks and making experiments in her professional life, the habit often leaked through.

Six separate answers skimmed through his mind, none of which had any bearing on his purpose for being there. Blake set down his coffee. “The restaurants at the Cocharan Houses are renowned for their quality and service. However, recently the restaurant here in our Philadelphia complex seems to be suffering from a lack of both. Frankly, Ms. Lyndon, it’s my opinion that the food has become too pedestrian—too boring. I plan to do some remodeling, both in physical structure and in staff.”

“Wise. Restaurants, like people, often become too complacent.”

“I want the best head chef available.” He aimed a level look. “My research tells me that’s you.”

Summer lifted a brow, not in surprise this time but in consideration. “That’s flattering, but I freelance, Mr. Cocharan. And I specialize.”

“Specialize, yes, but you do have both experience and knowledge in all areas of haute cuisine. As for the freelancing, you’d be free to continue that to a large extent, at least after the first few months. You’d need to establish your own staff and create your own menu. I don’t believe in hiring an expert, then interfering.”

She was frowning again—concentration not annoyance. It was tempting, very tempting. Perhaps it was just the travel weariness from her trip back from Italy, but she’d begun to grow a bit tired—bored?—with the constant demands of flying to any given country to make that one dish. It seemed he’d hit her at the right moment to stir her interest in concentrating on one place, and one kitchen, for a span of time.

It would be interesting work—if he were being truthful about the free hand she’d have—redoing a kitchen and the menu in an old, established and respected hotel. It would take her perhaps six months of intense effort, and then… It was the “and then” that made her hesitate again. If she gave that much time and effort to a full-time job, would she still retain her flair for the spectacular? That, too, was something to consider.

She’d always had a firm policy against committing herself to any one establishment—a wariness of commitments ribboned through all areas of her life. If you locked yourself into something, to someone, you opened yourself to all manner of complications.

Besides, Summer reasoned, if she wanted to affiliate herself with a restaurant, she could open and run her own. She hadn’t done it yet because it would tie her too long to one place, attach her too closely to one project. She preferred traveling, creating one superb dish at a time, then moving on. The next country, the next dish. That was her style. Why should she consider altering it now?

“A very flattering offer, Mr. Cocharan—”

“A mutually advantageous one,” he interrupted, perceptive enough to catch the beginning of a refusal. With deliberate ease, he tossed out a six-digit annual salary that rendered Summer momentarily speechless—not a simple task.

“And generous,” she said when she found her voice again.

“One doesn’t get the best unless one’s willing to pay for it. I’d like you to think about this, Ms. Lyndon.” He reached in his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “This is a draft of an agreement. You might like to have your attorney look it over, and of course, points can be negotiated.”

She didn’t want to look at the damn contract because she could feel, quite tangibly, that she was being maneuvered into a corner—a very plush one. “Mr. Cocharan, I do appreciate your interest, but—”

“After you’ve thought it over, I’d like to discuss it with you again, perhaps over dinner. Say, Friday?”

Summer narrowed her eyes. The man was a steamroller, she decided. A very attractive, very sleek steamroller. No matter how elegant the machinery, you still got flattened if you were in the path. Haughtiness emanated from her. “I’m sorry, I’m working Friday evening—the governor’s charity affair.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled, though his stomach had tightened. He had a suddenly vivid, completely wild image of making love to her on the ground of some moist, shadowy forest. That alone nearly made him consider accepting her refusal. And that alone made him all the more determined not to. “I can pick you up there. We can have a late supper.”

“Mr. Cocharan,” Summer said in a frigid voice, “you’re going to have to learn to take no for an answer.”

Like hell, he thought grimly, but gave her a rather rueful, rather charming smile. “My apologies, Ms. Lyndon, if I seem to be pressuring you. You were my first choice, you see, and I tend to go with my instincts. However…” Seemingly reluctant, he rose. The knot of tension and anger in Summer’s stomach began to loosen. “If your mind’s made up…” He plucked the contract from the table and started to slip it into his briefcase. “Perhaps you can give me your opinion on Louis LaPointe.”

“LaPointe?” The word whispered through Summer’s lips like venom. Very slowly she uncurled from the sofa, then rose, her whole body stiff. “You ask me of LaPointe?” In anger, her French ancestry became more pronounced in her speech.

“I’d appreciate anything you could tell me,” Blake went on amiably, knowing full well he’d scored his first real point off her. “Seeing that you and he are associates and—”

With a toss of her head, Summer said something short, rude and to the point in her mother’s tongue. The gold flecks in her eyes glimmered. Sherlock Holmes had Professor Moriarty. Superman had Lex Luthor. Summer Lyndon had Louis LaPointe.

“Slimy pig,” she grated, reverting to English. “He has the mind of a peanut and the hands of a lumberjack. You want to know about LaPointe?” She snatched a cigarette from the case on the table, lighting it as she did only when extremely agitated. “He’s a peasant. What else is there to know?”

“According to my information, he’s one of the five top chefs in Paris.” Blake pressed because a good pressure point was an invaluable weapon. “His Canard en Croûte is said to be unsurpassable.”

“Shoe leather.” She all but spat out the words, and Blake had to school every facial muscle to prevent the grin. Professional vanity, he thought again. She had her share. Then as she drew in a deep breath, he had to school the rest of his muscles to hold off a fierce surge of desire. Sensuality—perhaps she had more than her share. “Why are you asking me about LaPointe?”

“I’m flying to Paris next week to meet with him. Since you’re refusing my offer—”

“You’ll offer this—” she wagged a finger at the contract still in Blake’s hand “—to him?”

“Admittedly he’s my second choice, but there are those on the board who feel Louis LaPointe is more qualified for the position.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes were slits now behind a screen of smoke. She plucked the contract from his hand, then dropped it beside her cooling coffee. “The members of your board are perhaps ignorant?”

“They are,” he managed, “perhaps mistaken.”

“Indeed.” Summer took a drag of her cigarette, then released smoke in a quick stream. She detested the taste. “You can pick me up at nine o’clock on Friday at the governor’s kitchen, Mr. Cocharan. We’ll discuss this matter further.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Lyndon.” He inclined his head, careful to keep his face expressionless until he’d closed the front door behind him. He laughed his way down four flights of steps.

Chapter Two

Making a good dessert from scratch isn’t a simple matter. Creating a masterpiece from flour, eggs and sugar is something else again. Whenever Summer picked up a bowl or a whisk or beater, she felt it her duty to create a masterpiece. Adequate, as an adjective in conjunction with her work, was the ultimate insult. Adequate, to Summer, was the result achieved by a newlywed with a cookbook first opened the day after the honeymoon. She didn’t simply bake, mix or freeze—she conceived, developed and achieved. An architect, an engineer, a scientist did no more, no less. When she’d chosen to study the art of haute cuisine, she hadn’t done so lightly, and she hadn’t done so without the goal of perfection in mind. Perfection was still what she sought whenever she lifted a spoon.

She’d already spent the better part of her day in the kitchen of the governor’s mansion. Other chefs fussed with soups and sauces—or each other. All of Summer’s talent was focused on the creation of the finale, the exquisite mix of tastes and textures, the overall aesthetic beauty of the bombe.

The mold was already lined with the moist cake she’d baked, then systematically sliced into a pattern. This had been done with templates as meticulously as when an engineer designs a bridge. The mousse, a paradise of chocolate and cream, was already inside the dessert’s dome. This deceptively simple element had been chilling since early morning. Between the preparations, the mixing, making and building, Summer had been on her feet essentially that long.

Now, she had the beginnings of her bombe on a waist-high table, with a large stainless steel bowl of crushed berries at her elbow. At her firm instructions, Chopin drifted through the kitchen speakers. The first course was already being enjoyed in the dining room. She could ignore the confusion reigning around her. She could shrug off the pressure of having her part of the meal complete and perfect at precisely the right moment. That was all routine. But as she stood there, prepared to begin the next step, her concentration was scattered.

LaPointe, she thought with gritted teeth. Naturally it was anger that had kept her attention from being fully focused all day, the idea of having Louis LaPointe tossed in her face. It hadn’t taken Summer long to realize that Blake Cocharan had used the name on purpose. Knowing it, however, didn’t make the least bit of difference to her reaction…except perhaps that her venom was spread over two men rather than one.

Oh, he thinks he’s very clever, Summer decided, thinking of Blake—as she had too often that week. She took three cleansing breaths as she studied the golden dome in front of her. Asking me, me, to give LaPointe a reference. Despicable French swine, she muttered silently, referring to LaPointe. As she scooped up the first berries she decided that Blake must be an equal swine even to be considering dealing with the Frenchman.

She could remember every frustrating, annoying contact she’d had with the beady-eyed, undersized LaPointe. As she carefully coated the outside of the cake with crushed berries, Summer considered giving him a glowing recommendation. It would teach that sneaky American a lesson to find himself stuck with a pompous ass like LaPointe. While her thoughts raged, her hands were delicately smoothing the berries, rounding out and firming the shape.

Behind her one of the assistants dropped a pan with a clatter and a bang and suffered a torrent of abuse. Neither Summer’s thoughts nor her hands faltered.

Smug, self-assured jerk, she thought grimly of Blake. In a steady flow, she began layering rich French cream over the berries. Her face, though set in concentration, betrayed anger in the flash in her eyes. A man like him delighted in maneuvering and outmaneuvering. It showed, she thought, in that oh-so-smooth delivery, in that gloss of sophistication. She gave a disdainful little snort as she began to smooth out the cream.

She’d rather have a man with a few rough edges than one so polished that he gleamed. She’d rather have a man who knew how to sweat and bend his back than one with manicured nails and five-hundred-dollar suits. She’d rather have a man who…

Summer stopped smoothing the cream while her thoughts caught up with her consciousness. Since when had she considered having any man, and why, for God’s sake, was she using Blake for comparisons? Ridiculous.

The bombe was now a smooth white dome waiting for its coating of rich chocolate. Summer frowned at it as an assistant whisked empty bowls out of her way. She began to blend the frosting in a large mixer as two cooks argued over the thickness of the sauce for the entree.

For that matter, her thoughts ran on, it was ridiculous how often she’d thought of him the past few days, remembering foolish details…. His eyes were almost precisely the shade of the water in the lake on her grandfather’s estate in Devon. How pleasant his voice was, deep, with that faint but unmistakable inflection of the American Northeast. How his mouth curved in one fashion when he was amused, and another when he smiled politely.

It was difficult to explain why she’d noticed those things, much less why she’d continued to think of them days afterward. As a rule, she didn’t think of a man unless she was with him—and even then she only allowed him a carefully regulated portion of her concentration.

Now, Summer reminded herself as she began to layer on frosting, wasn’t the time to think of anything but the bombe. She’d think of Blake when her job was finished, and she’d deal with him over the late supper she’d agreed to. Oh, yes—her mouth set—she’d deal with him.

Blake arrived early deliberately. He wanted to see her work. That was reasonable, even logical. After all, if he were to contract Summer to Cocharan House for a year, he should see firsthand what she was capable of, and how she went about it. It wasn’t at all unusual for him to check out potential employees or associates on their own turf. If anything, it was characteristic of him. Good business sense.

He continued to tell himself so, over and over, because there was a lingering doubt as to his own motivations. Perhaps he had left her apartment in high good spirits knowing he’d outmaneuvered her in the first round. Her face, at the mention of her rival LaPointe, had been priceless. And it was her face that he hadn’t been able to push out of his mind for nearly a week.

Uncomfortable, he decided as he stepped into the huge, echoing kitchen. The woman made him uncomfortable. He’d like to know the reason why. Knowing the reasons and motivations was essential to him. With them neatly listed, the answer to any problem would eventually follow.

He appreciated beauty—in art, in architecture and certainly in the female form. Summer Lyndon was beautiful. That shouldn’t have made him uncomfortable. Intelligence was something he not only appreciated but invariably demanded in anyone he associated with. She was undoubtedly intelligent. No reason for discomfort there. Style was something else he looked for—he’d certainly found it in her.

What was it about her…the eyes? he wondered as he passed two cooks in a heated argument over pressed duck. That odd hazel that wasn’t precisely a definable color—those gold flecks that deepended or lightened according to her mood. Very direct, very frank eyes, he mused. Blake respected that. Yet the contrast of moody color that wasn’t really a color intrigued him. Perhaps too much.

Sexuality? It was a foolish man who was wary because of a natural feminine sexuality and he’d never considered himself a foolish man. Nor a particularly susceptible one. Yet the first time he’d seen her he’d felt that instant curl of desire, that immediate pull of man for woman. Unusual, he thought dispassionately. Something he’d have to consider carefully—then dispose of. There wasn’t room for desire between business associates.

And they would be that, he thought as his lips curved. Blake counted on his own powers of persuasion, and his casual mention of LaPointe to turn Summer Lyndon his way. She was already turning that way, and after tonight, he reflected, then stopped dead. For a moment it felt as though someone had delivered him a very quick, very stunning blow to the base of the spine. He’d only had to look at her.

She was half-hidden by the dessert she worked on. Her face was set, intent. He saw the faint line that might’ve been temper or concentration run down between her brows. Her eyes were narrowed, the lashes swept down so that the expression was unreadable. Her mouth, that soft, molded mouth that she seemed never to paint, was forming a pout. It was utterly kissable.

She should have looked plain and efficient, all in white. The chef’s hat over her neatly bound hair could have given an almost comic touch. Instead she looked outrageously beautiful. Standing there, Blake could hear the Chopin that was her trademark, smell the exotic pungent scents of cooking, feel the tension in the air as temperamental cooks fussed and labored over their creations. All he could think, and think quite clearly, was how she would look naked, in his bed, with only candles to vie with the dark.

Catching himself, Blake shook his head. Stop it, he thought with grim amusement. When you mix business and pleasure, one or both suffers. That was something Blake invariably avoided without effort. He held the position he did because he could recognize, weigh and dismiss errors before they were ever made. And he could do so with a cold-blooded ruthlessness that was as clean as his looks.

The woman might be as delectable as the concoction she was creating, but that wasn’t what he wanted—correction, what he could afford to want—from her. He needed her skill, her name and her brain. That was all. For now, he comforted himself with that thought as he fought back waves of a more insistent and much more basic need.

As he stood, as far outside of the melee as possible, Blake watched her patiently, methodically apply and smooth on layer after layer. There was no hesitation in her hands—something he noticed with approval even as he noted the fine-boned elegant shape of them. There was no lack of confidence in her stance. Looking on, Blake realized that she might have been alone for all the noise and confusion around her mattered.

The woman, he decided, could build her spectacular bombe on the Ben Franklin Parkway at rush hour and never miss a step. Good. He couldn’t use some hysterical female who folded under pressure.

Patiently he waited as she completed her work. By the time Summer had the pastry bag filled with white icing and had begun the final decorating, most of the kitchen staff were on hand to watch. The rest of the meal was a fait accompli. There was only the finale now.

On the last swirl, she stepped back. There was a communal sigh of appreciation. Still, she didn’t smile as she walked completely around the bombe, checking, rechecking. Perfection. Nothing less was acceptable.

Then Blake saw her eyes clear, her lips curve. At the scattered applause, she grinned and was more than beautiful—she was approachable. He found that disturbed him even more.

“Take it in.” With a laugh, she stretched her arms high to work out a dozen stiffened muscles. She decided she could sleep for a week.

“Very impressive.”

Arms still high, Summer turned slowly to find herself facing Blake. “Thank you.” Her voice was very cool, her eyes wary. Sometime between the berries and the frosting, she’d decided to be very, very careful with Blake Cocharan, III. “It’s meant to be.”

“In looks,” he agreed. Glancing down, he saw the large bowl of chocolate frosting that had yet to be removed. He ran his finger around the edge, then licked it off. The taste was enough to melt the hardest hearts. “Fantastic.”

She couldn’t have prevented the smile—a little boy’s trick from a man in an exquisite suit and silk tie. “Naturally,” she told him with a little toss of her head. “I only make the fantastic. Which is why you want me—correct, Mr. Cocharan?”

“Mmm.” The sound might have been agreement, or it might have been something else. Wisely, both left it at that. “You must be tired, after being on your feet for so long.”

“A perceptive man,” she murmured, pulling off the chef’s hat.

“If you’d like, we’ll have supper at my penthouse. It’s private, quiet. You’d be comfortable.”

She lifted a brow, then sent a quick, distrustful look over his face. Intimate suppers were something to be considered carefully. She might be tired, Summer mused, but she could still hold her own with any man—particularly an American businessman. With a shrug, she pulled off her stained apron. “That’s fine. It’ll only take me a minute to change.”

She left him without a backward glance, but as he watched, she was waylaid by a small man with a dark moustache who grabbed her hand and pressed it dramatically to his lips. Blake didn’t have to overhear the words to gauge the intent. He felt a twist of annoyance that, with some effort, he forced into amusement.

The man was speaking rapidly while working his way up Summer’s arm. She laughed, shook her head and gently nudged him away. Blake watched the man gaze after her like a forlorn puppy before he clutched his own chef’s hat to his heart.

Quite an effect she has on the male of the species, Blake mused. Again dispassionately, he reflected that there was a certain type of woman who drew men without any visible effort. It was an innate…skill, he supposed was the correct term. A skill he didn’t admire or condemn, but simply mistrusted. A woman like that could manipulate with the flick of the wrist. On a personal level, he preferred women who were more obvious in their gifts.

He positioned himself well out of the way while the cacophony and confusion of cleaning up began. It was a skill he figured wouldn’t hurt in her position as head chef of his Philadelphia Cocharan House.

In nine more than the minute she’d claimed she’d be, Summer strolled back into the kitchen. She’d chosen the thin poppy-colored silk because it was perfectly simple—so simple it had a tendency to cling to every curve and draw every eye. Her arms were bare but for one ornately carved gold bracelet she wore just above the elbow. Drop spiral earrings fell almost to her shoulders. Unbound now, her hair curled a bit around her face from the heat and humidity of the kitchen.

She knew the result was part eccentric, part exotic. Just as she knew it transmitted a primal sexuality. She dressed as she did—from jeans to silks—for her own pleasure and at her own whim. But when she saw the fire, quickly banked, in Blake’s eyes she was perversely satisfied.

No iceman, she mused—of course she wasn’t interested in him in any personal way. She simply wanted to establish herself as a person, an individual, rather than a name he wanted neatly signed on a contract. Her work clothes were jumbled into a canvas tote she carried in one hand, while over her other shoulder hung a tiny exquisitely beaded purse. In a rather regal gesture, she offered Blake her hand.

“Ready?”

“Of course.” Her hand was cool, small and smooth. He thought of streaming sunlight and wet, fragrant grass. Because of it, his voice became cool and pragmatic. “You’re lovely.”

She couldn’t resist. Humor leaped into her eyes. “Of course.” For the first time she saw him grin—fast, appealing. Dangerous. In that moment she wasn’t quite certain who held the upper hand.

“My driver’s waiting outside,” Blake told her smoothly. Together they walked from the brightly lit, noisy kitchen out into the moonlit street. “I take it you were satisified with your part of the governor’s meal. You didn’t choose to stay for the criticism or compliments.”

As she stepped into the back of the limo, Summer sent him an incredulous look. “Criticism? The bombe is my specialty, Mr. Cocharan. It’s always superb. I need no one to tell me that.” She got in the car, smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs.

“Of course,” Blake murmured, sliding beside her, “it’s a complicated dish.” He went on conversationally, “If my memory serves me, it takes hours to prepare properly.”

She watched him remove a bottle of champagne from ice and open it with only a muffled pop. “There’s very little that can be superb in a short amount of time.”

“Very true.” Blake poured champagne into two tulip glasses and, handing Summer one, smiled. “To a lengthy association.”

Summer gave him a frank look as the streetlights flickered into the car and over his face. A bit Scottish warrior, a bit English aristocrat, she decided. Not a simple combination. Then again, simplicity wasn’t always what she looked for. With only a brief hesitation, she touched her glass to his. “Perhaps,” she said. “You enjoy your work, Mr. Cocharan?” She sipped, and without looking at the label, identified the vintage of the wine she drank.

“Very much.” He watched her as he drank, noting that she’d done no more than sweep some mascara over her lashes when she’d changed. For an instant he was distracted by the speculation of what her skin would feel like under his fingers. “It’s obvious by what I caught of that session in there that you enjoy yours.”

“Yes.” She smiled, appreciating him and what she thought would be an interesting struggle for power. “I make it a policy to do only what I enjoy. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have the same policy.”

He nodded, knowing he was being baited. “You’re very perceptive, Ms. Lyndon.”

“Yes.” She held her glass out for a refill. “You have excellent taste in wines. Does that extend to other areas?”

His eyes locked on hers as he filled her glass. “All other areas?”

Her mouth curved slowly as she brought the champagne to it. Summer enjoyed the effervescence she could feel just before she tasted it. “Of course. Would it be accurate to say that you’re a discriminating man?”

What the hell was she getting at? “If you like,” Blake returned smoothly.

“A businessman,” she went on. “An executive. Tell me, don’t executives…delegate?”

“Often.”

“And you? Don’t you delegate?”

“That depends.”

“I wondered why Blake Cocharan, III himself would take the time and trouble to woo a chef into his organization.”

He was certain she was laughing at him. More, he was certain she wanted him to know it. With an effort, he suppressed his annoyance. “This project is a personal pet of mine. Since I want only the best for it, I take the time and trouble to acquire the best personally.”

“I see.” The limo glided smoothly to the curb. Summer handed Blake her empty glass as the driver opened her door. “Then how strange that you would even mention LaPointe if only the best will serve you.” With the haughty grace a woman can only be born with, Summer alighted. That, she thought smugly, should poke a few holes in his arrogance.

The Cocharan House of Philadelphia stood only twelve stories and had a weathered brick facade. It had been built to blend and accent the colonial architecture that was the heart of the city. Other buildings might zoom higher, might gleam with modernity, but Blake Cocharan had known what he’d wanted. Elegance, style and discretion. That was Cocharan House. Summer was forced to approve. In a great many things, she preferred the old world to the new.

The lobby was quiet, and if the gold was a bit dull, the rugs a bit soft and faded looking, it was a deliberate and canny choice. Old, established wealth was the ambience. No amount of gloss, gleam or gilt would have been more effective.

Taking Summer’s arm, Blake passed through with only a nod here and there to the many “Good evening, Mr. Cocharans” he received. After inserting a key into a private elevator, he led her inside. They were enveloped by silence and smoked glass.

“A lovely place,” Summer commented. “It’s been years since I’ve been inside. I’d forgotten.” She glanced around the elevator and saw their reflections trapped deep in gray glass. “But don’t you find it confining to live in a hotel—to live, that is, where you work?”

“No. Convenient.”

A pity, Summer mused. When she wasn’t working, she wanted to remove herself from the kitchens and timers. She’d never been one—as her mother and father had been—to bring her work home with her.

The elevator stopped so smoothly that the change was hardly noticeable. The doors slid open silently. “Do you have the entire floor to yourself?”

“There’re three guest suites as well as my penthouse,” Blake explained as they walked down the hall. “None of them are occupied at the moment.” He inserted a key into a single panel of a double oak door then gestured her inside.

The lights were already dimmed. He’d chosen his colors well, she thought as she stepped onto the thick pewter-toned carpet. Grays from silvery pale to smoky dominated in the low, spreading sofa, the chairs, the walls. With the lights low it had a dreamlike effect that was both sensuous and soothing.

It might have been dull, even bland, but there were splashes of color cleverly interspersed. The deep midnight blue of the drapes, the pearl-like tones of the army of cushions lining the sofa, the rich, primal green of an ivy tangling down the rungs of a breakfront. Then there were the glowing colors of the one painting, a French Impressionist that dominated one wall.

There was none of the clutter she would have chosen for herself, but a sense of style she admired immediately. “Unusual, Mr. Cocharan,” Summer complimented as she automatically stepped out of her shoes. “And effective.”

“Thank you. Another drink, Ms. Lyndon? The bar’s fully stocked, or there’s champagne if you prefer.”

Still determined to come out of the evening on top, Summer strolled to the sofa and sat. She sent him a cool, easy smile. “I always prefer champagne.”

While Blake dealt with the bottle and cork, she took an extra moment to study the room again. Not an ordinary man, she decided. Too often ordinary was synonymous with boring. Summer was forced to admit that because she’d associated herself with the bohemian, the eccentric, the creative for most of her life, she’d always thought of people in business as innately boring.

No, Blake Cocharan wouldn’t be dull. She almost regretted it. A dull man, no matter how attractive, could be handled with the minimum of effort. Blake was going to be difficult. Particularly since she’d yet to come to a firm decision on his proposition.

“Your champagne, Ms. Lyndon.” When she lifted her eyes to his, Blake had to fight back a frown. The look was too measuring, too damn calculating. Just what was the woman up to now? And why in God’s name did she look so right, so temptingly right, curled on his sofa with pillows at her back? “You must be hungry,” he said, astonished that he needed the defense of words. “If you’d tell me what you’d like, the kitchen will prepare it. Or I can get you a menu, if you’d prefer.”

“A menu won’t be necessary.” She sipped more cold, frothy French champagne. “I’d like a cheeseburger.”

Blake watched the silk shift as she nestled into the corner of the sofa. “A what?”

“Cheeseburger,” Summer repeated. “With a side order of fries, shoestring.” She lifted her glass to examine the color of the liquid. “Do you know, this was a truly exceptional year.”

“Ms. Lyndon…” With strained patience, Blake dipped his hands in his pockets and kept his voice even. “Exactly what game are you playing?”

She sipped slowly, savoring. “Game?”

“Do you seriously want me to believe that you, a gourmet, a cordon bleu chef, want to eat a cheeseburger and shoestring fries?”

“I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.” When her glass was empty, Summer rose to refill it herself. She moved, he noted, lazily, with none of that sharp, almost military motion she’d used when cooking. “Your kitchen does have lean prime beef, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.” Certain she was trying to annoy him, or make a fool of him, Blake took her arm and turned her to face him. “Why do you want a cheeseburger?”

“Because I like them,” she said simply. “I also like tacos and pizza and fried chicken—particularly when someone else is cooking them. That sort of thing is quick, tasty and convenient.” She grinned, relaxed by the wine, amused by his reaction. “Do you have a moral objection to junk food, Mr. Cocharan?”

“No, but I’d think you would.”

“Ah, I’ve shattered your image of a gastronomic snob.” She laughed, a very appealing, purely feminine sound. “As a chef, I can tell you that rich sauces and heavy creams aren’t easy on the digestion either. Besides that, I cook professionally. For long periods of time I’m surrounded by the finest of haute cuisine. Delicacies, foods that have to be prepared with absolute perfection, split-second timing. When I’m not working, I like to relax.” She drank champagne again. “I’d prefer a cheeseburger, medium rare, to Filet aux Champignons at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Your choice,” he muttered and moved the phone to order. Her explanation had been reasonable, even logical. There was nothing which annoyed him more than having his own style of manuevering used against him.

With her glass in hand, Summer wandered to the window. She liked the looks of a city at night. The buildings rose and spread in the distance and traffic wound its way silently on the intersecting roads. Lights, darkness, shadows.

She couldn’t have counted the number of cities she’d been in or viewed from a similar spot, but her favorite remained Paris. Yet she’d chosen to live for long lengths of time in the States—she liked the contrast of people and cultures and attitudes. She liked the ambition and enthusiasm of Americans, which she saw typified in her mother’s second husband.

Ambition was something she understood. She had a lot of her own. She understood this to be the reason she looked for men with more creative ability than ambition in her personal relationships. Two competitive, career-oriented people made an uneasy couple. She’d learned that early on watching her own parents with each other, and their subsequent spouses. When she chose permanence in a relationship—something Summer considered was at least a decade away—she wanted someone who understood that her career came first. Any cook, from a child making a peanut butter sandwich to a master chef, had to understand priorities. Summer had understood her own all of her life.

“You like the view?” Blake stood behind her where he’d been studying her for a full five minutes. Why should she seem different from any other woman he’d ever brought to his home? Why should she seem more elusive, more alluring? And why should her presence alone make it so difficult for him to keep his mind on the business he’d brought her there for?

“Yes.” She didn’t turn because she realized abruptly just how close he was. It was something she should have sensed before, Summer thought with a slight frown. If she turned, they’d be face-to-face. There’d be a brush of bodies, a meeting of eyes. The quick scramble of nerves made her sip the champagne again. Ridiculous, she told herself. No man made her nervous.

“You’ve lived here long enough to recognize the points of interest,” Blake said easily, while his thoughts centered on how the curve of her neck would taste, would feel under the brush of his lips.

“Of course. I consider myself a Philadelphian when I’m in Philadelphia. I’m told by some of my associates that I’ve become quite Americanized.”

Blake listened to the flow of the European accented voice, drew in the subtle, sexy scent of Paris that was her perfume. The dim light touched on the gold scattered through her hair. Like her eyes, he thought. He had only to turn her around and look at her face to see her sculptured, exotic look. And he wanted, overwhelmingly, to see that face.

“Americanized,” Blake murmured. His hands were on her shoulders before he could stop them. The silk slid cool under his palms as he turned her. “No…” His gaze flicked down, over her hair and eyes, and lingered on her mouth. “I think your associates are very much mistaken.”

“Do you?” Her fingers had tightened on the stem of her glass, her mouth had heated. Willpower alone kept her voice steady. Her body brushed his once, then twice as he began to draw her closer. Needs, tightly controlled, began to smolder. While her mind raced with the possibilities, Summer tilted her head back and spoke calmly. “What about the business we’re here to discuss, Mr. Cocharan?”

“We haven’t started on business yet.” His mouth hovered over hers for a moment before he shifted to whisper a kiss just under one eyebrow. “And before we do, it might be wise to settle this one point.”

Her breathing was clogging, backing up in her lungs. Drawing away was still possible, but she began to wonder why she should consider it. “Point?”

“Your lips—will they taste as exciting as they look?”

Her lashes were fluttering down, her body softening. “Interesting point,” she murmured, then tilted her head back in invitation.

Their lips were only a breath apart when the sharp knock sounded at the door. Something cleared in Summer’s brain—reason—while her body continued to hum. She smiled, concentrating hard on that one slice of sanity.

“The service in a Cocharan House is invariably excellent.”

“Tomorrow,” Blake said as he drew reluctantly away, “I’m going to fire my room service manager.”

Summer laughed, but took a shaky sip of wine when he left her to answer the door. Close, she thought, letting out a long, steadying breath. Much too close. It was time to steer the evening into business channels and keep it there. She gave herself a moment while the waiter set up the meal on the table.

“Smells wonderful,” Summer commented, crossing the room as Blake tipped and dismissed the waiter. Before sitting, she glanced at his meal. Steak, rare, a steaming potato popping out of its skin, buttered asparagus. “Very sensible.” She shot him a teasing grin over her shoulder as he held out her chair.

“We can order dessert later.”

“Never touch them,” she said, tongue in cheek. With a generous hand she spread mustard over her bun. “I read over your contract.”

“Did you?” He watched as she cut the burger neatly in two then lifted a half. It shouldn’t surprise him, Blake mused. She did, after all, keep Oreos in her cookie jar.

“So did my attorney.”

Blake added some ground pepper to his steak before cutting into it. “And?”

“And it seems to be very much in order. Except…” She allowed the word to hang while she took the first bite. Closing her eyes, Summer simply enjoyed.

“Except?” Blake prompted.

“If I were to consider such an offer, I’d need considerably more room.”

Blake ignored the if. She was considering it, and they both knew it. “In what area?”

“Certainly you’re aware that I do quite a bit of traveling.” Summer dashed salt on the French fries, tasted and approved. “Often it’s a matter of two or three days when I go to, say, Venice and prepare a Gâteau St. Honoré. Some of my clients book me months in advance. On the other hand, there are some that deal more spontaneously. A few of these—” Summer bit into the cheeseburger again “—I’ll accommodate because of personal affection or professional challenge.”

“In other words you’d want to fly to Venice or wherever when you felt it necessary.” However incongruous he felt the combination was, Blake poured more champagne into her glass while she ate.

“Precisely. Though your offer does have some slight interest for me, it would be impossible, even, I feel, unethical, to turn my back on established clients.”

“Understood.” She was crafty, Blake thought, but so was he. “I should think a reasonable arrangement could be worked out. You and I could go over your current schedule.”

Summer nibbled on a fry, then dusted her fingers on a white linen napkin. “You and I?”

“That would keep it simpler. Then if we agreed to discuss whatever other occasions might crop up during the year on an individual basis…” He smiled as she picked up the second half of her cheeseburger. “I like to think I’m a reasonable man, Ms. Lyndon. And, to be frank, I personally would prefer signing you with my hotel. At the moment, the board’s leaning toward LaPointe, but—”

“Why?” The word was a demand and an accusation. Nothing could have pleased Blake more.

“Characteristically, the great chefs are men.” She cursed, bluntly and brutally in French. Blake merely nodded. “Yes, exactly. And, through some discreet questioning, we’ve learned that Monsieur LaPointe is very interested in the position.”

“The swine would scramble at a chance to roast chestnuts on a street corner if only to have his picture in the paper.” Tossing down her napkin, she rose. “You think perhaps I don’t understand your strategy, Mr. Cocharan.” The regal lifting of her head accentuated her long, slender neck. Blake remembered quite vividly how that skin had felt under his fingers. “You throw LaPointe in my face thinking that I’ll grab your offer as a matter of ego, of pride.”

He grinned because she looked magnificent. “Did it work?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips wanted badly to curve. “LaPointe is a philistine. I am an artist.”

“And?”

She knew better than to agree to anything in anger. Knew better, but… “You accommodate my schedule, Mr. Cocharan, the Third, and I’ll make your restaurant the finest establishment of its kind on the East Coast.” And damn it, she could do it. She found she wanted to do it to prove it to both of them.

Blake rose, lifting both glasses. “To your art, mademoiselle.” He handed her a glass. “And to my business. May it be a profitable union for both of us.”

“To success,” she amended, clinking glass to glass. “Which, in the end, is what we both look for.”

Chapter Three

Well, I’ve done it, Summer thought, scowling. She swept back her hair and secured it with two mother-of-pearl combs. Critically she studied her face in the mirror to check her makeup. She’d learned the trick of accenting her best features from her mother. When the occasion called for it, and she was in the mood, Summer exploited the art. Although she felt the face that was reflected at her would do, she frowned anyway.

Whether it had been anger or ego or just plain cussedness, she’d agreed to tie herself to the Cocharan House, and Blake, for the next year. Maybe she did want the challenge of it, but already she was uncomfortable with the long-term commitment and the obligations that went with it.

Three hundred sixty-five days. No, that was too overwhelming, she decided. Fifty-two weeks was hardly a better image. Twelve months. Well, she’d just have to live with it. No, she’d have to do better than that, Summer decided as she wandered back into the studio where she’d be taping a demonstration for public TV. She had to live up to her vow to give the Philadelphia Cocharan House the finest restaurant on the East Coast.

And so she would, she told herself with a flick of her hair over her shoulder. So she damn well would. Then she’d thumb her nose at Blake Cocharan, III. The sneak.

He’d manipulated her. Twice, he’d manipulated her. Even though she’d been perfectly aware of it the second time, she’d strolled down the garden path anyway. Why? Summer ran her tongue over her teeth and watched the television crew set up for the taping.

The challenge, she decided, twisting her braided gold chain around one slim finger. It would be a challenge to work with him and stay on top. Competing was her greatest weakness, after all. That was one reason she’d chosen to excel in a career that was characteristically male-dominated. Oh, yes, she liked to compete. Best of all, she liked to win.

Then there was that ripe masculinity of his. Polished manners couldn’t hide it. Tailored clothes couldn’t cloak it. If she were honest—and she decided she would be for the moment—Summer had to admit she’d enjoy exploring it.

She knew her effect on men. A genetic gift, she’d always thought, from her mother. It was rare that she paid much attention to her own sexuality. Her life was too full of the pressures of her work and the complete relaxation she demanded between clients. But it might be time, Summer mused now, to alter things a bit.

Blake Cocharan, III represented a definite challenge. And how she’d love to shake up that smug male arrogance. How she’d like to pay him back for maneuvering her to precisely where he’d wanted her. As she considered varied ways and means to do just that, Summer idly watched the studio audience file in.

They had the capacity for about fifty, and apparently they’d have a full house this morning. People were talking in undertones, the mumbles and shuffles associated with theaters and churches. The director, a small, excitable man whom Summer had worked with before, hustled from grip to gaffer, light to camera, tossing his arms in gestures that signaled pleasure or dread. Only extremes. When he came over to her, Summer listened to his quick nervous instructions with half an ear. She wasn’t thinking of him, nor was she thinking of the vacherin she was to prepare on camera. She was still thinking of the best way to handle Blake Cocharan.

Perhaps she should pursue him, subtly—but not so subtly that he wouldn’t notice. Then when his ego was inflated, she’d…she’d totally ignore him. A fascinating idea.

“The first baked shell is in the center storage cabinet.”

“Yes, Simon, I know.” Summer patted the director’s hand while she went over the plan for flaws. It had a big one. She could remember all too clearly that giddy sensation that had swept over her when he’d nearly—just barely—kissed her a few evenings before. If she played the game that way, she just might find herself muddling the rules. So…

“The second is right beneath it.”

“Yes, I know.” Hadn’t she put it there herself to cool after baking? Summer gave the frantic director an absent smile. She could ignore Blake right from the start. Treat him—not with contempt, but with disinterest. The smile became a bit menacing. Her eyes glinted. That should drive him crazy.

“All the ingredients and equipment are exactly where you put them.”

“Simon,” Summer began kindly, “stop worrying. I can build a vacherin in my sleep.”

“We roll tape in five minutes—”

“Where is she!”

Both Summer and Simon looked around at the bellowing voice. Her grin was already forming before she saw its owner. “Carlo!”

“Aha.” Dark and wiry and as supple as a snake, Carlo Franconi wound his way around people and over cable to grab Summer and pull her jarringly against his chest. “My little French pastry.” Fondly he patted her bottom.

Laughing, she returned the favor. “Carlo, what’re you doing in downtown Philadelphia on a Wednesday morning?”

“I was in New York promoting my new book, Pasta by the Master.” He drew back enough to wiggle his eyebrows at her. “And I said, Carlo, you are just around the corner from the sexiest woman who ever held a pastry bag. So I come.”

“Just around the corner,” Summer repeated. It was typical of him. If he’d been in Los Angeles, he’d have done the same thing. They’d studied together, cooked together, and perhaps if their friendship had not become so solid and important, they might have slept together. “Let me look at you.”

Obligingly, Carlo stepped back to pose. He wore straight, tight jeans that flattered narrow hips, a salmon-colored silk shirt and a cloth fedora that was tilted rakishly over his dark, almond-shaped eyes. An outrageous diamond glinted on his finger. As always, he was beautiful, male and aware of it.

“You look fantastic, Carlo. Fantastico.”

“But of course.” He ran a finger down the brim of his hat. “And you, my delectable puff pastry—” he took her hands and pressed each palm to his lips “—esquisita.”

“But of course.” Laughing again, she kissed him full on the mouth. She knew hundreds of people, professionally, socially, but if she’d been asked to name a friend, it would have been Carlo Franconi who’d have come to her mind. “It’s good to see you, Carlo. What’s it been? Four months? Five? You were in Belgium the last time I was in Italy?”

“Four months and twelve days,” he said easily. “But who counts? It’s only that I lusted for your Napoleons, your eclairs, your—” he grabbed her again and nibbled on her fingers “—chocolate cake.”

“It’s vacherin this morning,” she said dryly. “and you’re welcome to some when the show’s over.”

“Ah, your meringue. To die for.” He grinned wickedly. “I will sit in the front row and cross my eyes at you.”

Summer pinched his cheek. “Try to lighten up, Carlo. You’re so stuffy.”

“Ms. Lyndon, please.”

Summer glanced at Simon, whose breathing was becoming shallower as the countdown began. “It’s all right, Simon, I’m ready. Get your seat, Carlo, and watch carefully. You might learn something this time.”

He said something short and rude and easily translated as they went their separate ways. Relaxed, Summer stood behind her work surface and watched the floor director count off the seconds. Easily ignoring the face Carlo made at her, Summer began the show, talking directly to the camera.

She took this part of her profession as seriously as she took creating the royal wedding cake for a European princess. If she were to teach the average person how to make something elaborate and exciting, she would do it well.

She did look exquisite, Carlo thought. Then she always did. And confident, competent, cool. On one hand, he was glad to find it true, for he was a man who disliked things or people who changed too quickly—particularly if he had nothing to do with it. On the other hand, he worried about her.

As long as he’d known Summer—good God, had it been ten years?—she’d never allowed herself a personal involvement. It was difficult for a volatile, emotional man like himself to fully understand her quality of reserve, her apparent disinterest in romantic encounters. She had passion. He’d seen it explode in temper, in joy, but never had he seen it directed toward a man.

A pity, he thought as he watched her build the meringue rings. A woman, he felt, was wasted without a man—just as a man was wasted without a woman. He’d shared himself with many.

Once over kirsch cake and Chablis, she’d loosened up enough to tell him that she didn’t think that men and women were meant for permanent relationships. Marriage was an institution too easily dissolved and, therefore, not an institution at all but a hypocrisy perpetuated by people who wanted to pretend they could make commitments. Love was a fickle emotion and, therefore, untrustworthy. It was something exploited by people as an excuse to act foolishly or unwisely. If she wanted to act foolish, she’d do so without excuses.

At the time, because he’d been on the down end of an affair with a Greek heiress, Carlo had agreed with her. Later, he’d realized that while his agreement had been the temporary result of sour grapes, Summer had meant precisely what she’d said.

A pity, he thought again as Summer took out the previously baked rings from beneath the counter and began to build the shell. If he didn’t feel about her as he would about a sister, it would be a pleasure to show her the…appealing side of the man/woman mystique. Ah, well—he settled back—that was for someone else.

Keeping an easy monologue with the camera and the studio audience, Summer went through the stages of the dessert. The completed shell, decorated with strips of more meringue and dotted with candied violets was popped into an oven. The one that she’d baked and cooled earlier was brought out to complete the final stage. She filled it, arranged the fruit, covered it all with rich raspberry sauce and whipped cream to the murmured approval of her audience. The camera came in for a close-up.

“Brava!” Carlo stood, applauding as the dessert sat tempting and complete on the counter. “Bravissima!”

Summer grinned and, pastry bag in hand, took a deep bow as the camera clicked off.

“Brilliant, Ms. Lyndon.” Simon rushed up to her, whipping off his earphones as he came. “Just brilliant. And, as always, perfect.”

“Thank you, Simon. Shall we serve this to the audience and crew?”

“Yes, yes, good idea.” He snapped his fingers at his assistant. “Get some plates and pass this out before we have to clear for the next show. Aerobic dancing,” he muttered and dashed off again.

“Beautiful, cara,” Carlo told her as he dipped a finger into the whipped cream. “A masterpiece.” He took a spoon from the counter and took a hefty serving directly from the vacherin. “Now, I will take you to lunch and you can fill me in on your life. Mine—” he shrugged, still eating “—is so exciting it would take days. Maybe weeks.”

“We can grab a slice of pizza around the corner.” Summer pulled off her apron and tossed it on the counter. “As it happens, there’s something I’d like your advice about.”

“Advice?” Though the idea of Summer’s asking advice of him, of anyone, stunned him, Carlo only lifted a brow. “Naturally,” he said with a silky smile as he drew her along. “Who else would an intelligent woman come to for advice—or for anything—but Carlo?”

“You’re such a pig, darling.”

“Careful.” He slipped on dark glasses and adjusted his hat. “Or you pay for the pizza.”

Within moments, Summer was taking her first bite and bracing herself as Carlo zoomed his rented Ferrari into Philadelphia traffic. Carlo managed to steer and eat and shift gears with maniacal skill. “So tell me,” he shouted over the boom of the radio, “what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve taken a job,” Summer yelled back at him. Her hair whipped across her face and she tossed it back again.

“A job? So, you take lots of jobs?”

“This is different.” She shifted, crossing her legs beneath her and turning sideways as she took the next bite. “I’ve agreed to revamp and manage a hotel restaurant for the next year.”

“Hotel restaurant?” Carlo frowned over his slice of pizza as he cut off a station wagon. “What hotel?”

She took a deep sip of soda through a straw. “The Cocharan House here in Philadelphia.”

“Ah.” His expression cleared. “First class, cara. I should never have doubted you.”

“A year, Carlo.”

“Goes quickly when one has one’s health,” he finished blithely.

She let the grin come first. “Damn it, Carlo, I painted myself into a corner because, well, I just couldn’t resist the idea of trying it and this—this American steamroller tossed LaPointe in my face.”

“LaPointe?” Carlo snarled as only an Italian can. “What does that Gallic slug have to do with this?”

Summer licked sauce from her thumb. “I was going to turn down the offer at first, then Blake—that’s the steamroller—asked me for my opinion on LaPointe, since he was also being considered for the position.”

“And did you give it to him?” Carlo asked with relish.

“I did, and I kept the contract to look it over. The next hitch was that it was a tremendous offer. With the budget I have, I could turn a two-room slum into a gourmet palace.” She frowned, not noticing when Carlo zoomed around a compact with little more than wind between metal. “In addition to that, there’s Blake himself.”

“The steamroller.”

“Yes. I can’t control the need to get the best of him. He’s smart, he’s smug, and damn it, he’s sexy as hell.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I have this tremendous urge to put him in his place.”

Carlo breezed through a yellow light as it was turning red. “Which is?”

“Under my thumb.” With a laugh, Summer polished off her pizza. “So because of those things, I’ve locked myself into a year-long commitment. Are you going to eat the rest of that?”

Carlo glanced down to the remains of his pizza, then took a healthy bite. “Yes. And the advice you wanted?”

After drawing through the straw again, Summer discovered she’d hit bottom. “If I’m going to stay sane while locked into a project for a year, I need a diversion.” Grinning, she stretched her arms to the sky. “What’s the most foolproof way to make Blake Cocharan, III crawl?”

“Heartless woman,” Carlo said with a smirk. “You don’t need my advice for that. You already have men crawling in twenty countries.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You simply don’t look behind you, cara mia.”

Summer frowned, not certain she liked the idea after all. “Turn left at the corner, Carlo, we’ll drop in on my new kitchen.”

The sights and smells were familiar enough, but within moments, Summer saw a dozen changes she’d make. The lighting was good, she mused as she walked arm-in-arm with Carlo. And the space. But they’d need an eye-level wall-oven there—brick lined. A replacement for the electric oven, and certainly more kitchen help. She glanced around, checking the corners of the ceiling for speakers. None. That, too, would change.

“Not bad, my love.” Carlo took down a large chef’s knife and checked it for weight and balance. “You have the rudiments here. It’s a bit like getting a new toy for Christmas and having to assemble it, sì?”

“Hmmm.” Absently she picked up a skillet. Stainless steel, she noted and set it down again. The pans would have to be replaced with copper washed with tin. She turned and thudded firmly into Blake’s chest.

There was a fraction of a second when she softened, enjoying the sensation of body against body. His scent, sophisticated, slightly aloof, pleased her. Then came the annoyance that she hadn’t sensed him behind her as she felt she should have. “Mr. Cocharan.” She drew away, masking both the attraction and the annoyance with a polite smile. “Somehow I didn’t think to find you here.”

“My staff keeps me well informed, Ms. Lyndon. I was told you were here.”

The idea of being reported on might have grated, but Summer only nodded. “This is Carlo Franconi,” she began. “One of the finest chefs in Italy.”

“The finest chef in Italy,” Carlo corrected, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cocharan. I’ve often enjoyed the hospitality of your hotels. Your restaurant in Milan makes a very passable linguini.”

“Very passable is a great compliment from Carlo,” Summer explained. “He doesn’t think anyone can make an Italian dish but himself.”

“Not think, know.” Carlo lifted the lid on a steaming pot and sniffed. “Summer tells me she’ll be associated with your restaurant here. You’re a fortunate man.”

Blake looked down at Summer, glancing at the lean, tanned hand Carlo had placed on her shoulder. Jealousy is a sensation that can be recognized even if it has never been experienced before. Blake didn’t care for it, or the cause. “Yes, I am. Since you’re here, Ms. Lyndon, you might like to sign the final contract. It would save us both a meeting later.”

“All right. Carlo?”

“Go, do your business. They do a rack of lamb over there—it interests me.” Without a backward glance, he went to add his two cents.

“Well, he’s happy,” Summer commented as she walked through the kitchen with Blake.

“Is he in town on business?”

“No, he just wanted to see me.”

It was said carelessly, and truthfully, and had the effect of knotting Blake’s stomach muscles. So she liked slick Italians, he thought grimly, and slipped a proprietary hand over her arm without being aware of it. That was certainly her business. His was to get her into the kitchens as quickly as possible.

In silence he led her though the lobby and into the hotel offices. Quiet and efficient. Those were brief impressions before she was led into a large, private room that was obviously Blake’s.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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