by Nora Roberts
She told herself she was only interested in the wine. The cool smile had nothing to do with her decision. “Properly chilled?” she asked, arching her brow. “The champagne, that is.”
“Of course.”
“You’re on, Mr. Cocharan. I never turn down champagne.”
“The car’s out in the back.” He took her hand rather than her arm as she’d expected. Before she could make any counter move, he was leading her from the kitchen. “Would it embarrass you if I said I was very impressed with what you did this evening?”
She was used to accolades, even expected them. Somehow, she couldn’t remember ever getting so much pleasure from one before. She moved her shoulders, hoping to lighten her own response. “I make it my business to be impressive. It doesn’t embarrass me.”
Perhaps if she hadn’t been tired, he wouldn’t have seen through the glib answer so easily. When they reached his car, Blake turned and took her by the shoulders. “You worked very hard in there.”
“Just part of the service.”
“No,” he corrected, soothing the muscles. “That’s not what you were hired for.”
“When I signed the contract, that became my kitchen. What goes out of it has to satisfy my standards, my pride.”
“Not an easy job.”
“You wanted the best.”
“Apparently I got it.”
She smiled, though she wanted badly just to sit down. “You definitely got it. Now, you did say something about champagne?”
“Yes, I did.” He opened the door for her. “You smell of vanilla.”
“I earned it.” When she sat, she let out a long, pleasurable sigh. Champagne, she thought, a hot bath with mountains of bubbles, and smooth, cool sheets. In that order. “Chances are,” she murmured, “even as we speak, someone in there is taking the first bite of my Black Forest cake.”
Blake shut the driver’s door, then glanced at her as he started the ignition. “Does it feel odd?” he asked. “Having strangers eat something you spent so much time and care creating?”
“Odd?” Summer stretched back, enjoying the plush luxury of the seat and the view of the dusky sky through the sun roof. “A painter creates on canvas for whoever will look, a composer creates a symphony for whoever will listen.”
“True enough.” Blake maneuvered his way onto the street and into the traffic. The sun was red and low. The night promised to be clear. “But wouldn’t it be more gratifying to be there when your desserts are served?”
She closed her eyes, completely relaxed for the first time in hours. “When one cooks in one’s own kitchen for friends, relatives, it can be a pleasure or a duty. Then there might be the satisfaction of watching something you’ve cooked being appreciated. But again, it’s a pleasure or a duty, not a profession.”
“You rarely eat what you cook.”
“I rarely cook for myself,” she countered. “Except the simpler things.”
“Why?”
“When you cook for yourself, there’s no one there to clean up the mess.”
He laughed and turned into a parking lot. “In your own odd way you’re a very practical woman.”
“In every way I’m a practical woman.” Lazily, she opened her eyes. “Why did we stop?”
“Hungry?”
“I’m always hungry after I work.” Turning her head, she saw the blue neon sign of a pizza parlor.
“Knowing your tastes by now, I thought you’d find this the perfect accompaniment to the champagne.”
She grinned as the fatigue was replaced with the first real stirrings of hunger. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Wait here,” he told her as he opened the door. “I had someone call ahead and order it when I saw you were nearly finished.”
Grateful, and touched, Summer leaned back and closed her eyes again. When was the last time she’d allowed anyone to take care of her? she wondered. If memory served her, the last time she’d been pampered she’d been eight, and cranky with a case of chicken pox. Independence had always been expected of her, by her parents, and by herself. But tonight, this one time, it was a rather sweet feeling to let someone else make the arrangements with her comfort in mind.
And she had to admit, she hadn’t expected simple consideration from Blake. Style, yes, credit where credit was due, yes—but not consideration. He’d put in a hard day himself, she thought, remembering how tired he’d looked that afternoon. Still, he’d waited long past the time when he could have had his own dinner in comfort, relaxed in his own way. He’d waited until she was finished.
Surprises, she mused. Blake Cocharan, III definitely had some surprises up his sleeve. She’d always been a sucker for them.
When Blake opened the car door, the scent of pizza rolled pleasurably inside. Summer took the box from him, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
“I should’ve tried pizza before,” he murmured.
She settled back again, letting her eyes close and her lips curve. “Don’t forget the champagne. Those are two of my biggest weaknesses.”
“I’ve made a note of it.” Blake pulled out of the parking lot and joined the traffic again. Her simple gratitude shouldn’t have surprised him. It certainly shouldn’t have moved him. He had the feeling she would have had the same low-key, pleased reaction if he’d presented her with a full-length sable or a bracelet of blue-white diamonds. With Summer, it wouldn’t be the gift, but the nature of the giving. He found he liked that idea very much. She wasn’t a woman who was easily impressed, he mused, yet she was a woman who could be easily pleased.
Summer did something she rarely did unless she was completely alone. She relaxed, fully. Though her eyes were closed, she was no longer sleepy, but aware. She could feel the smooth motion of the car beneath her, hear the rumble of traffic outside the windows. She had only to draw in a breath to smell the tangy scent of sauce and spice. The car was spacious, but she could sense the warmth of Blake’s body across the seat.
Pleasant. That was the word that drifted through her mind. So pleasant, there seemed to be no need for caution, for defenses. It was a pity, she reflected, that they weren’t driving aimlessly….
Strange, she’d never chosen to do anything aimlessly. And yet, tonight, to drive…along a long, deserted beach—with the moon full, shining off the water, and the sand white. You’d be able to hear the surf ebb and flow, and see the hundreds of stars you so rarely noticed in the city. You’d smell the salt and feel the spray. The moist, warm air would flow over your skin.
She felt the car swing off the road, then purr to a stop. For an extra moment, Summer held on to the fantasy.
“What’re you thinking?”
“About the beach,” she answered. “Stars.” She caught herself, surprised that she’d indulged in what could only be termed romanticism. “I’ll take the pizza,” she said, straightening. “You can bring the champagne.”
He put a hand on her arm, lightly but it stopped her. Slowly he ran a finger down it. “You like the beach?”
“I never really thought about it.” At the moment, she found she’d like nothing better than to rest her head against his shoulder and watch waves surge against the shore. Star counting. Why should she want to indulge in something so foolish now when she never had before? “For some reason, it just seemed like the night for it.” And she wondered if she were answering his question or her own.
“Since there’s no beach, we’ll just have to come up with something else. How’s your imagination?”
“Good enough.” Quite good enough, Summer thought, to see where she’d end up if she didn’t change the mood—hers as well as his. “And at the moment, I imagine the pizza’s getting cold, and the champagne warm.” Opening the door, she climbed out with the box in hand. Once inside the building, Summer started up the stairs.
“Does the elevator ever work?” Blake shifted the bag in his arm and joined her.
“Off and on—mostly it’s off. Personally, I don’t trust it.”
/> “In that case, why’d you pick the fourth floor?”
She smiled as they rounded the second landing. “I like the view—and the fact that salesmen are usually discouraged when they’re faced with more than two flights of steps.”
“You could’ve chosen a more modern building, with a view, a security system and a working elevator.”
“I look at modern tools as essential, a new car, well tuned, as imperative.” Drawing out her keys, Summer jiggled them lightly as they approached her door. “As to living arrangements, I’m a bit more open-minded. My flat in Paris has temperamental plumbing and the most exquisite cornices I’ve ever seen.”
When she opened the door, the scent of roses was overwhelming. There were a dozen white in a straw basket, a dozen red in a Sevres vase, a dozen yellow in a pottery jug and a dozen pink in Venetian glass.
“Run into a special at the florist’s?”
Summer raised her brows as she set the pizza on the dinette. “I never buy flowers for myself. These are from Enrico.”
Blake set the bag next to the box and drew out the champagne. “All?”
“He’s a bit flamboyant—Enrico Gravanti—you might’ve heard of him. Italian shoes and bags.”
Two hundred million dollars worth of shoes and bags, as Blake recalled. He flicked a finger down a rose petal. “I hadn’t heard Gravanti was in town. He normally stays at the Cocharan House.”
“No, he’s in Rome.” As she spoke, Summer went into the kitchen for plates and glasses. “He wired these when I agreed to make the cake for his birthday next month.”
“Four dozen roses for a cake?”
“Five,” Summer corrected as she came back in. “There’s another dozen in the bedroom. They’re rather lovely, a kind of peach color.” In anticipation, she held out both glasses. “And, after all, it is one of my cakes.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Blake loosened the cork. Air fizzed out while the champagne bubbled toward the lip of the bottle. “So, I take it you’ll be going to Italy to bake it.”
“I don’t intend to ship it air freight.” She watched the pale gold liquid rise in the glass as Blake poured. “I should only be in Rome two days, three at most.” Raising the glass to her lips, she sipped, eyes closed, senses keen. “Excellent.” She sipped again before she opened her eyes and smiled. “I’m starving.” After lifting the lid on the box, she breathed deep. “Pepperoni.”
“Somehow I thought it suited you.”
With a laugh, an easy one, she sat down. “Very perceptive. Shall I serve?”
“Please.” And as she began to, Blake flicked on his lighter and set the three staggered-length tapers she had on the table burning. “Champagne and pizza,” he said as he turned off the lights. “That demands candlelight, don’t you think?”
“If you like.” When he sat, Summer lifted her first piece. The cheese was hot enough to make her catch her breath, the sauce tangy. “Mmmm. Wonderful.”
“Has it occurred to you that we spend a great deal of our time together eating?”
“Hmm—well, it’s something I thoroughly enjoy. I always try to look at eating as a pleasure rather than a physical necessity. It adds something.”
“Pounds, usually.”
She shrugged and reached for the champagne. “Of course, if one isn’t wise enough to take one’s pleasure in small doses. Greed is what adds pounds, ruins the complexion and makes one miserable.”
“You don’t succumb to greed?”
She remembered abruptly that it had been just that, exactly that, that she’d felt for him. But she’d controlled it, Summer reminded herself. She hadn’t succumbed. “No.” She ate slowly, savoring. “I don’t. In my profession, it would be disastrous.”
“How do you keep your pleasure in small doses?”
She wasn’t sure she trusted the way the question came out. Taking her time, she set a second piece on each plate. “I’d rather have one spoonful of a superb chocolate soufflé than an entire plateful of food that doesn’t have flair.”
Blake took another bite of pizza. “And this has flair?”
She smiled because it was so obviously not the sort of meal he was used to. “An excellent balance of spices—perhaps just a tad heavy on the oregano—a good marriage of sauce and crust, the proper handling of cheese and the bite of pepperoni. With the proper use of the senses, almost any meal can be memorable.”
“With the proper use of the senses,” Blake countered, “other things can be memorable.”
She reached for her glass again, her eyes laughing over the rim. “We’re speaking of food. Taste, of course, is paramount, but appearance…” He linked his hand with hers and she found herself watching him. “Your eyes tell you first of the desire to taste.” His face was lean, the eyes a deep blue she found continuously compelling….
“Then a scent teases you, entices you.” His was dark, woodsy, tempting….
“You hear the way champagne bubbles into a glass and you want to experience it.” Or the way he said her name, quietly.
“After all this,” she continued in a voice that was beginning to take on a faint huskiness, a faint trace of feeling, “you have the taste, the texture to explore.” And his mouth held a flavor she couldn’t forget.
“So—” he lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to the palm “—your advice is to savor every aspect of the experience in order to absorb all the pleasure. Then…” Turning her hand over, he brushed his lips, then the tip of his tongue, over her knuckles. “The most basic of desires becomes unique.”
In an arrow-straight line, the heat shot up her arm. “No experience is acceptable otherwise.”
“And atmosphere?” Lightly, with just a fingertip, he traced the shape of her ear. “Wouldn’t you agree that the proper setting can enhance the same experience? Candlelight, for instance.”
Their faces were closer now. She could see the soft shifting light casting shadows, mysteries. “Outside devices can often add more intensity to a mood.”
“You could call it romance.” He took his fingertip down the length of her jawline.
“You could.” Champagne never went to her head, yet her head was light. Slowly, luxuriously, her body was softening. She made an effort to remember why she should allow neither to happen, but no answer came.
“And romance, for some, is another very elemental need.”
“For some,” he murmured when his lips followed the trail of his fingertip.
“But not for you.” He nipped at her lips and found them soft, and warm.
“No, not for me.” But her sigh was as soft and warm as her lips.
“A practical woman.” He was raising her to her feet so that their bodies could touch.
“Yes.” She tilted her head back, inviting the exploration of his lips.
“Candlelight doesn’t move you?”
“It’s only an attractive device.” She curved her arms up his back to bring him closer. “As chefs, we’re taught that such things can lend the right mood to our meals.”
“And it wouldn’t matter if I told you that you were beautiful? In the full sun where your skin’s flawless—in candlelight, which turns it to porcelain. It wouldn’t matter,” he continued as he ran a line of moist heat down her throat, “if I told you you excite me as no other woman ever has? Just looking at you makes me want, touching you drives me mad.”
“Words,” she managed, though her head was spinning. “I don’t need—”
Then his mouth covered hers. The one long, deep kiss made lies of all her practical claims. Tonight, though she’d never wanted such things before, she wanted the romance of soft words, soft lights. She wanted the slow, savoring loving that emptied the mind and made a furnace of the body. Tonight she wanted, and there was only one man. If tomorrow there were consequences, tomorrow was hours away. He was here.
She didn’t resist as he lifted her. Tonight, if only for a short while, she’d be fragile, soft. She heard him blow out the candles and the light scent of m
elted wax followed them toward the bedroom.
Moonlight. The silvery sorcery of moonlight slipped through the windows. Roses. The fragile fragrance of roses floated on the air. Music. The muted magic of Beethoven drifted in from the apartment below.
There was a breeze. Summer felt it whisper over her face as he placed her on the bed. Atmosphere, she thought hazily. If she had planned on a night of lovemaking, she could have set the stage no better. Perhaps… She drew him down to join her…. Perhaps it was fate.
She could see his eyes. Deep blue, direct, involving. He watched her while doing no more than tracing the shape of her face, of her lips, with his finger. Had anyone ever shown her that kind of tenderness? Had she ever wanted it?
No. And if the answer was no, the answer had abruptly changed. She wanted this new experience, the sweetness she’d always disregarded, and she wanted the man who would bring her both.
Taking his face in her hands, she studied him. This was the man she would share this one completely private moment with, the one who would soon know her body as well as her vulnerabilities. She might have wavered over the trust, reminded herself of the pitfalls—if she’d been able to resist the need, and the strength, she saw in his eyes.
“Kiss me again,” she murmured. “No one’s ever made me feel the way you do when you kiss me.”
He felt a surge of pleasure, intense, stunning. Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers, toying with them, watching her as she watched him while their emotions heightened and their need sharpened. Should he have known she’d be even more beautiful in the moonlight, with her hair spread over a pillow? Could he have known that desire for her would be an ache unlike any desire he’d known? Was it still as simple as desire, or had he crossed some line he’d been unaware of? There were no answers now. Answers were for the daylight.
With a moan, he deepened the kiss and felt her body yield beneath his even as her mouth grew avid. Little tongues of passion flickered, still subdued beneath a gentleness they both seemed to need. Odd, because neither of them had needed it before, or often thought to show it.
Her hands were light on his face, over his neck, then slowly combing through his hair. Though his body was hard on hers, there was no demand yet.
