Summer Desserts: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

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.