by Nora Roberts
Savor me. The thought ran silkily through her mind even as Blake’s lips journeyed over her face. Slowly. She’d never known a man with such patience or an arousal so heady. Mouth against mouth, then mouth against skin—each drew her deeper and still deeper into a languor that encompassed both body and mind.
Touch me. And he seemed to understand this fresh need. His hands moved, but still without hurry, over her shoulders, down her sides, then up again to whisper over her breasts—until it was no longer enough for either of them. Then wordlessly they began to undress each other.
Fingers of moonlight fell across exposed flesh—a shoulder, the length of an arm, a lean torso. Luxuriously, Summer ran her hands over Blake’s chest and learned the muscle and form. Lazily, he explored the length of her and learned the subtle curves and silk. Even when the last barrier of clothing was drawn away, they didn’t rush. So much to touch, taste—and time had no meaning.
The breeze flitted in, but they grew warmer. Wherever her fingers wandered, his flesh would burn, then cool only to burn again. As he took his lips over her, finding pleasure, learning secrets, she began to heat. And demand crept into both of them.
More urgently now, with quick moans, trembling breaths, they took each other further. He hadn’t known he could be led, and she’d always refused to be, yet now, one guided the other to the same destination.
Summer felt reality slipping away from her, but had no will to stop it. The music penetrated only faintly into her consciousness, but his murmurs were easily heard. It was his scent, no longer the roses, that titillated. She would feel whatever she was meant to feel, go wherever she was meant to go, as long as he was with her. Along with the strongest physical desire she’d ever known was an emotional need that exploded inside her. She couldn’t question it, couldn’t refuse it. Her body, mind, heart, ached for him.
With his name trembling on her lips, she took him into her. Then, for both of them, the pleasure was so acute that sanity was forgotten. Sensation—waves, floods, storms—whipped through her. The calm had become a hurricane to revel in. Together, they were swept away.
Had hours passed or minutes? Summer lay in the filtered moonlight and tried to orient herself. She’d never felt quite like this. Sated, exhilarated, exhausted. Once she’d have said it was impossible to be all at once.
She could feel the brush of Blake’s hair against her shoulder, the whisper of his breath against her cheek. His scent and hers were mixed now, so that the roses were only an accent. The music had stopped, but she thought she could still hear the echo. His body was pressed into hers, but his weight was a pleasure. She knew, without effort, she could wrap her arms around him and stay just so for the rest of her life. So through the hazy pleasure came the first stirrings of fear.
Oh, God, how far had she gone in such a short time? She’d always been so certain her emotions were perfectly safe. It wasn’t the first time she’d been with a man, but she was too aware that it was the first time she’d made love in the true sense of the word.
Mistake. She forced the word into her head even as her heart tried to block it. She had to think, had to be practical. Hadn’t she seen what uncontrolled emotions and dreams had done to two intelligent people? Both her parents had spent years moving from relationship to relationship looking for…what?
This, her heart told her, but again she blocked it out. She knew better than to look for something she didn’t believe existed. Permanency, commitment—they were illusions. And illusions had no place in her life.
Closing her eyes a moment, she waited for herself to settle. She was a grown woman, sophisticated enough to understand and accept mutual desire that held no strings. Treat it lightly, she warned herself. Don’t pretend it’s more than it is.
But she couldn’t resist smoothing his hair as she spoke. “Odd how pizza and champagne affect me.”
Raising his head, Blake grinned at her. At the moment, he felt he could’ve taken on the world. “I think it should be your staple diet.” He kissed the curve of her shoulder. “It’s going to be mine. Want some more?”
“Pizza and champagne?”
Laughing, he nuzzled her neck. “That, too.” He shifted, drawing her against his side. It was one more gesture of intimacy that had something inside her trembling.
Set out the rules, Summer told herself. Do it now, before…before it would be much too easy to forget.
“I like being with you,” she said quietly.
“And I you.” He could see the shadows play on the ceiling, hear the muted sound of traffic outside, but he was still saturated with her.
“Now that we’ve been together like this, it’s going to affect our relationship one of two ways.”
Puzzled, he turned his head to look at her. “One of two ways?”
“It’s either going to increase the tension while we’re working, or alleviate it. I’m hoping it alleviates it.”
In the darkness he frowned at her. “What happened just now had absolutely nothing to do with business.”
“Whatever you and I do together is bound to affect our working relationship.” Moistening her lips, she tried to continue in the same light way. “Making love with you was…personal, but tomorrow morning we’re back to being associates. This can’t change that—I think it’d be a mistake to let it change the tone of our business dealings.” Was she rambling? Was she making sense? She wished desperately that he would say something, anything at all. “I think we both knew this was bound to happen. Now that it has, it’s cleared the air.”
“Cleared the air?” Infuriated, and to his surprise, hurt, he rose on his elbow. “It did a damn sight more than that, Summer. We both know that, too.”
“Let’s keep it in perspective.” How had she begun this so badly? And how could she keep rambling on when she only wanted to curl up next to him and hold on? “We’re both unattached adults who’re attracted to each other. On that level, we shouldn’t expect any more from each other than’s reasonable. On a business level, we both have to expect total involvement.”
He wanted to push the business level down her throat. Violently. The emotion didn’t please him, nor did the sudden realization that he wanted total involvement on a very personal level. With an effort, he controlled the fury. He needed to ask, and answer, some questions for himself—soon. In the meantime, he needed to keep a cool head.
“Summer, I intend to make love with you often, and when I do, business can go to hell.” He ran a hand down her side and felt her body respond. If she wanted rules, he thought furiously, he’d give her rules. His. “When we’re here, there isn’t any hotel or any restaurant. There’s just you and me. Back at Cocharan House, we’ll be as professional as you want.”
She wasn’t certain if she wanted to calmly agree with him or scream in protest. She remained silent.
“And now,” he continued, drawing her still closer, “I want to make love with you again, then I want to sleep with you. At nine o’clock tomorrow, we’ll get back to business.”
She might have spoken then, but his mouth touched hers. Tomorrow was hours away.
Chapter Eight
Damn, it was frustrating. Blake had heard men complain about women, calling them incomprehensible, contradictory, baffling. Because he’d always found it possible to deal with women on a sensible level, he’d never put much credence in any of it, until Summer. Now, he found himself searching for more adjectives. Rising from his desk, Blake paced to the window and frowned out at his view of the city.
When they’d made love the first time, he realized that he’d never known that a woman could be that soft, that giving. Strong—still strong, yes, but with a fragility that had a man lying in velvet. Had it been his imagination, or had she been totally his in every way one person could belong to another? He’d have sworn that for that space of time she’d thought of nothing but him, wanted nothing but him. And yet, before their bodies had cooled, she’d been so practical, so…unemotional.
Damn, wasn’t a man supp
osed to be grateful for that—a man who wanted the pleasure and companionship of a woman without all the complications? He could remember other relationships where a neat set of rules had proven invaluable, but now…
Below, a couple walked along the sidewalk, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. As he watched he imagined them laughing at something no one else would understand. And as he watched, Blake thought of his own statement of the degrees of intimacy. Instinct told him that he and Summer had shared an intimacy as deep as any two people could experience. Not just a merging of bodies, but a touching, a twining, of thoughts and needs and wants that was absolute. But if his instincts had told him one thing, she had told him another. Which was he to believe?
Frustrating, he thought again and turned away from the window. He couldn’t deny that he’d gone to her apartment the night before with the idea of seducing her, and putting an end to the tension between them. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been seduced after five minutes alone with her. He couldn’t see her and not want to touch her. He couldn’t hear her laugh without wanting to taste the curve of her lips. Now that he’d made love with her, he wasn’t certain a night would pass without his wanting her again.
There must be a term for what he was experiencing. Blake was always more comfortable when he could label something and therefore file it properly. The most efficient heading, the most logical category. What was it called when you thought of a woman when you should be thinking about something else? What name did you give to this constant edgy feeling?
Love… The word crept up on him, not entirely pleasantly. Good God. Uneasy, Blake sat again and stared at the far wall. He was in love with her. It was just as simple—and just as terrifying—as that. He wanted to be with her, to make her laugh, to make her tremble with desire. He wanted to see her eyes glow with temper, and with passion. He wanted to spend quiet evenings, and wild nights, with her. And he was deadly sure he’d want the same thing twenty years down the road.
Since the first time he’d walked down those four flights of stairs from her apartment, he hadn’t thought of another woman. Love, if it could ever be considered logical, was the logical conclusion. And he was stuck with it. Taking out a cigarette, Blake ran his fingers down the length of it. He didn’t light it, but continued to stare at the wall.
Now what? he asked himself. He was in love with a woman who’d made herself crystal clear on her feelings about commitments and relationships. She wanted no part of either. He, on the other hand, believed in the permanency, and even the romance, of marriage—though he’d never considered it specifically applying to himself.
Things were different now. He was a man too well ordered, both outwardly and mentally, not to see marriage as the direct result of love. With love, you wanted stability, vows, endurance. He wanted Summer. Blake leaned back in his chair. And he firmly believed there was always a way to get what you wanted.
If he even mentioned the word love, she’d be gone in a flash. Even he wasn’t completely comfortable with it as yet. Strategy, he told himself. It was all a matter of strategy—or so he hoped. He simply had to convince her that he was essential to her life, that theirs was the relationship designed to break her set of rules.
Apparently the game was still on—and he still intended to win. Frowning at the wall, he began to work his way through the problem.
Summer was having problems of her own. Four cups of strong black coffee hadn’t quite brought her up to maximum working level. Ten hours’ sleep suited her well, eight could be tolerated. With less than that, and she’d had a good deal less than that the night before, she edged perilously close to nastiness. Add to that a state of emotional turmoil, and Max’s frigid resentment, and it didn’t promise to be the most pleasant or productive morning.
“By using one of the traditional French garnitures for the roast of lamb, we’ll add something European and attractive to the entrée.” Summer folded her hands on some of the scattered papers on her desk. She’d brought a few of Enrico’s flowers in and set them in a water glass. They helped cover some of the dusty smell.
“My roast of lamb is perfect as it is.”
“For some tastes,” Summer said evenly. “For mine it’s only adequate. I don’t accept adequate.” Their eyes warred, violently. As neither gave way, she continued. “I prefer to go with clamart, artichoke hearts filled with buttered peas, and potatoes sautéed in butter.”
“We’ve always used watercress and mushrooms.”
Meticulously, she changed the angle of a rosebud. The small distraction helped her keep her temper. “Now, we use clamart.” Summer noted it down, underlined it, then went on. “As to the prime rib—”
“You will not touch my prime rib.”
She started to snap back but managed to grit her teeth instead. It was common knowledge in the kitchen that the prime rib was Max’s specialty, one might say his baby. The wisest course was to give in graciously on this point, and hold a hard line on others. Her British heritage of fair play came through.
“The prime rib remains precisely as it is,” she told him. “My function here is to improve what needs improving while incorporating the Cocharan House standard.” Well said, Summer congratulated herself while Max huffed and subsided. “In addition, we’ll keep the New York strip and the filet.” Sensing he was mollified, Summer hit him with the poultry entrée. “We’ll continue to serve the very simple roast chicken, with the choice of potatoes or rice and the vegetables of the day, but we add pressed duck.”
“Pressed duck?” Max blustered. “We have no one on staff who’s capable of preparing that dish properly, nor do we have a duck press.”
“No, which is why I’ve ordered one, and why I’m hiring someone who can use it.”
“You’re bringing someone into my kitchen just for this!”
“I’m bringing someone into my kitchen,” she corrected, “to prepare the pressed duck and the lamb dish among other things. He’s leaving his current job in Chicago to come here because he trusts my judgment. You might begin to do the same.” With this, she began to tidy papers. “That’s all for today, Max. I’d like you to take along these notes.” While the headache began to drum inside her head, she handed him a stack of papers. “If you have any suggestions on what I’ve listed, please jot them down.” She bent back over her work as he rose and strode silently out of the room.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so abrupt. Summer understood injured feelings and fragile egos. She might have handled it better. Yes, she might have—with a weary sigh, she rubbed her temple—if she wasn’t feeling a bit injured and fragile herself. Your own fault, she reminded herself; then propping her elbows on the table, she dropped her head into the cupped hands.
Now that it was tomorrow, she had to face the consequences. She’d broken one of her own primary rules. Never become intimate with a business associate. She should have been able to shrug and say rules were made to be broken, but… It worried her more that it wasn’t that particular rule that was causing the turmoil, but another she’d broken. Never let anyone who could really matter get too close. Blake, if she didn’t draw in the lines now and hold them, could really matter.
Drinking more coffee and wishing for an aspirin, she began to go over everything again. She was certain she’d been casual enough, and clear enough, the night before over the lack of ties and obligations. But when they’d made love again, nothing she’d said had made sense. She shook her head, trying to block that out. That morning they’d been perfectly at ease with each other—two adults preparing for a workday without any morning-after awkwardness. That’s what she wanted.
Too many times, she’d seen her mother glowing and bubbling at the beginning of an affair. This man was the man—this man was the most exciting, the most considerate, the most poetic. Until the bloom faded. Summer’s belief was that if you didn’t glow, you didn’t fade, and life was a lot simpler.
Yet she still wanted him.
After a brief knock, one of the ki
tchen staff stuck his head around her door. “Ms. Lyndon, Mr. Cocharan would like to see you in his office.”
Summer finished off her rapidly cooling coffee. “Yes? When?”
“Immediately.”
She lifted a brow. No one summoned her immediately. People requested her, at her leisure. “I see.” Her smile was icy enough to make the messenger shrink back. “Thank you.”
When the door closed again she sat perfectly still. These were working hours, she reflected, and she was under contract. It was reasonable and right that he should ask her to come to his office. That was acceptable. But she was still Summer Lyndon—she went to no one immediately.
She spent the next fifteen minutes deliberately dawdling over her papers before she rose. After strolling through the kitchen, and taking the time to check on the contents of a pot or skillet on the way, she went to an elevator. On the ride up, she glanced at her watch, pleased to note that she’d arrive nearly twenty-five minutes after the call. As the doors opened she flicked a speck of lint from the sleeve of her blouse, then sauntered out.
“Mr. Cocharan would like to speak to me?” She gave the words the intonation of a question as she smiled down at the receptionist.
“Yes, Ms. Lyndon, you’re to go right through. He’s been waiting.”
Unsure if the last statement had been censure or warning, Summer continued down the hall to Blake’s door. She gave a peremptory knock before going in. “Good morning, Blake.”
When she entered, he set aside the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “Have trouble finding an elevator?”
“No.” Crossing the room, she chose a chair and settled down. He looked, she thought, as he had the first time she’d come into his office—aloof, aristocratic. This then was the perfect level for them to deal on. “This is one of the few hotels which has elevators one doesn’t grow old waiting for.”
