Читать книгу Summer Desserts: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 7

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.”