by Nora Roberts
“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 w
e 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.”
Chapter Three
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.
