by Nora Roberts
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.
The colors were bones and creams and browns, the decor a bit more modern than his apartment, but she could recognize his stamp on it. Without being asked, Summer walked over and took a chair. It was hardly past noon, but it occurred to her that she’d been on her feet for almost six consecutive hours.
“Handy that I happened to drop by when you were around,” she began, sliding her toes out of her shoes. “It simplifies this contract business. Since I’ve agreed to do it, we might as well get started.” Then there will be only three hundred and sixty-four days, she added silently, and sighed.
He didn’t like her careless attitude about the contract any more than he liked her careless affection toward the Italian. Blake walked over to his desk and lifted a packet of papers. When he looked back at her, some of his anger drained. “You look tired, Summer.”
The lids she allowed to droop lifted again. His first, his only, use of her given name intrigued her. He said it as though he was thinking of the heat and the storms. She felt her chest tighten and blamed it on fatigue. “I am. I was baking meringue at seven o’clock this morning.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m afraid I’ve overdone that already today.” She glanced at the papers he held, then smiled with a trace of self-satisfaction. “Before I sign those, I should warn you I’m going to order some extensive changes in the kitchen.”
“One of the essential reasons you’re to sign them.”
She nodded and held out her hand. “You might not be so amiable when you get the bill.”
Taking a pen from a holder on his desk, Blake gave it to her. “I think we’re both after the same thing, and would both agree cost is secondary.”
“I might think so.” With a flourish, she looped her name on the line. “But I’m not signing the checks. So—” she passed the contract back to him “—it’s official.”
“Yes.” He didn’t even glance at her signature before he dropped the paper on his desk. “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”
She rose, though she found her legs a bit reluctant to hold weight again. “We’ll have to put the seal on our bargain another time. I’ll be entertaining Carlo.” Smiling, she held out her hand. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”
“It has nothing to do with business.” Blake took her hand, then surprised them both by taking her other one. “And I want to see you alone.”
She wasn’t ready for this, Summer realized. She was supposed to begin the maneuvers, in her own time, on her own turf. Now she was forced to realign her strategy and to deal with the blood warming just under her skin. Determined not to be outflanked this time, she tilted her head and smiled. “We are alone.”
His brow lifted. Was that a challenge, or was she plainly mocking him? Either way, this time, he wasn’t going to let it go. Deliberately he drew her into his arms. She fit there smoothly. It was something each of them noticed, something they both found disturbing.
Her eyes were level on his, but he saw, fascinated, that the gold flecks had deepened. Amber now, they seemed to glow against the cloudy, changeable hazel of her irises. Hardly aware of what he did, Blake brushed the hair away from her cheek in a gesture that was as sweet and as intimate as it was uncharacteristic.
Summer fought not to be affected by something so casual. A hundred men had touched her, in greeting, in friendship, in anger and in longing. There was no reason why the mere brush of a fingertip over her skin should have her head spinning. An effort of will kept her from melting into his arms or from jerking away. She remained still, watching him. Waiting.
When his mouth lowered toward hers, she knew she was prepared. The kiss would be different, naturally, because he was different. It would be new because he was new. But that was all. It was still a basic form of communication between man and woman. A touch of lips, a pressure, a testing of another’s taste; it was no different from the kiss of the first couple, and so it went through culture and time.
And the moment she experienced that touch of lips, that pressure, that taste, she knew she was mistaken. Different? New? Those words were much too mild. The brush of lips, for it was no more at first, changed the fabric of everything. Her thoughts veered off into a chaos that seemed somehow right. Her body grew hot, from within and without, in the space of a heartbeat. The woman who’d thought she knew exactly what to expect, sighed with the unexpected. And reached out.
“Again,” she murmured when his lips hovered a breath from hers. With her hands on either side of his face, she drew him to her, through the smoke and into the fire.
He’d thought she’d be cool and smooth and fragrant. He’d been so sure of it. Perhaps that was why the flare of heat had knocked him back on his heels. Smooth she was. Her skin was like silk when he ran his hands up her back to cup her neck. Fragrant. She had a scent that he would, from that moment on, always associate with woman. But not cool. There was nothing cool about the mouth that clung to his, or the breath that mixed with his as two pairs of lips parted. There was something mindless here. He couldn’t grip it, couldn’t analyze it, could only experience it.
With a deep, almost feline sound of pleasure, she ran her hands through his hair. God, she’d thought there wasn’t a taste she hadn’t already known, a texture she hadn’t already felt. But his, his was beyond her scope and now, just now, within her reach. Summer wallowed in it and let her lips and tongue draw in the sweetness.
More. She’d never known greed. She’d grown up in a world of affluence where enough was always available. For the first time in her life, Summer knew true hunger, true need. Those things brought pain, she discovered. A deep well of it that spread from the core. More. The thought ran through her mind again with the knowledge that the more she took, the more she would ache for.
Blake felt her stiffen. Not knowing the cause, he tightened his hold. He wanted her now, at once, more than he’d ever wanted or had conceived of wanting any woman. She shifted in his arms, resisting for the first time since he’d drawn her here. Throwing her head back, she looked up into the passion and impatience of Blake’s eyes.
“Enough.”
“No.” His hand was still tangled possessively in her hair. “No, it’s not.”
“No,” she agreed on an unsteady breath. “That’s why you have to let me go.”
He released her, but didn’t back away. “You’ll have to
explain that.”
She had more control now—barely, Summer realized shakily, but it was better than none. It was time to establish the rules—her rules—quickly and precisely. “Blake, you’re a businessman, I’m an artist. Each of us has priorities. This—” she took a step back and stood straight “—can’t be one of them.”
“Want to bet?”
Her eyes narrowed more in surprise than annoyance. Odd that she’d missed the ruthlessness in him. It would be best if she considered that later, when there was some distance between them. “We’ll be working together for a specific purpose,” she went on smoothly. “But we’re two different people with two very different outlooks. You’re interested in a profit, naturally, and in the reputation of your company. I’m interested in creating the proper showcase for my art, and my own reputation. We both want to be successful. Let’s not cloud the issue.”
“That issue’s perfectly clear,” Blake countered. “So’s this one. I want you.”
“Ah.” The sound came out slowly. Deliberately she reached for her neglected purse. “Straight and to the point.”
“It would be a bit ridiculous to take a more circular route at the moment.” Amusement was overtaking frustration. He was grateful for that because it would give him the edge he’d begun to lose the minute he’d tasted her. “You’d have to be unconscious not to realize it.”
“And I’m not.” Still, she backed away, relying on poise to get her out before she lost whatever slim advantage she had. “But it’s your kitchen—and it’ll be my kitchen—that’s my main concern right now. With the amount of money you’re paying me, you should be grateful I understand the priorities. I’ll have a tentative list of changes and new equipment you’ll have to order on Monday.”
“Fine. We’ll go to dinner Saturday.”
Summer paused at the door, turned and shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
It was rare that anyone ignored a statement she’d made. Rather than temper, Summer tried the patient tone she remembered from her governess. It was bound to infuriate. “Blake, I said no.”
