Читать книгу Summer Desserts: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 8

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.