by Nora Roberts
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 mu
tually 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 Bla
ke. 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.
