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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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 we 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