Summer Desserts: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс
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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