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

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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