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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and the obligations that went with it.
Three hundred sixty-five days. No, that was too overwhelming, she decided. Fifty-two weeks was hardly a better image. Twelve months. Well, she’d just have to live with it. No, she’d have to do better than that, Summer decided as she wandered back into the studio where she’d be taping a demonstration for public TV. She had to live up to her vow to give the Philadelphia Cocharan House the finest restaurant on the East Coast.
And so she would, she told herself with a flick of her hair over her shoulder. So she damn well would. Then she’d thumb her nose at Blake Cocharan, III. The sneak.
He’d manipulated her. Twice, he’d manipulated her. Even though she’d been perfectly aware of it the second time, she’d strolled down the garden path anyway. Why? Summer ran her tongue over her teeth and watched the television crew set up for the taping.
The challenge, she decided, twisting her braided gold chain around one slim finger. It would be a challenge to work with him and stay on top. Competing was her greatest weakness, after all. That was one reason she’d chosen to excel in a career that was characteristically male-dominated. Oh, yes, she liked to compete. Best of all, she liked to win.
Then there was that ripe masculinity of his. Polished manners couldn’t hide it. Tailored clothes couldn’t cloak it. If she were honest—and she decided she would be for the moment—Summer had to admit she’d enjoy exploring it.
She knew her effect on men. A genetic gift, she’d always thought, from her mother. It was rare that she paid much attention to her own sexuality. Her life was too full of the pressures of her work and the complete relaxation she demanded between clients. But it might be time, Summer mused now, to alter things a bit.
Blake Cocharan, III represented a definite challenge. And how she’d love to shake up that smug male arrogance. How she’d like to pay him back for maneuvering her to precisely where he’d wanted her. As she considered varied ways and means to do just that, Summer idly watched the studio audience file in.
They had the capacity for about fifty, and apparently they’d have a full house this morning. People were talking in undertones, the mumbles and shuffles associated with theaters and churches. The director, a small, excitable man whom Summer had worked with before, hustled from grip to gaffer, light to camera, tossing his arms in gestures that signaled pleasure or dread. Only extremes. When he came over to her, Summer listened to his quick nervous instructions with half an ear. She wasn’t thinking of him, nor was she thinking of the vacherin she was to prepare on camera. She was still thinking of the best way to handle Blake Cocharan.
Perhaps she should pursue him, subtly—but not so subtly that he wouldn’t notice. Then when his ego was inflated, she’d…she’d totally ignore him. A fascinating idea.
“The first baked shell is in the center storage cabinet.”
“Yes, Simon, I know.” Summer patted the director’s hand while she went over the plan for flaws. It had a big one. She could remember all too clearly that giddy sensation that had swept over her when he’d nearly—just barely—kissed her a few evenings before. If she played the game that way, she just might find herself muddling the rules. So…
“The second is right beneath it.”
“Yes, I know.” Hadn’t she put it there herself to cool after baking? Summer gave the frantic director an absent smile. She could ignore Blake right from the start. Treat him—not with contempt, but with disinterest. The smile became a bit menacing. Her eyes glinted. That should drive him crazy.
“All the ingredients and equipment are exactly where you put them.”
“Simon,” Summer began kindly, “stop worrying. I can build a vacherin in my sleep.”
“We roll tape in five minutes—”
“Where is she!”
Both Summer and Simon looked around at the bellowing voice. Her grin was already forming before she saw its owner. “Carlo!”
“Aha.” Dark and wiry and as supple as a snake, Carlo Franconi wound his way around people and over cable to grab Summer and pull her jarringly against his chest. “My little French pastry.” Fondly he patted her bottom.
Laughing, she returned the favor. “Carlo, what’re you doing in downtown Philadelphia on a Wednesday morning?”
“I was in New York promoting my new book, Pasta by the Master.” He drew back enough to wiggle his eyebrows at her. “And I said, Carlo, you are just around the corner from the sexiest woman who ever held a pastry bag. So I come.”
“Just around the corner,” Summer repeated. It was typical of him. If he’d been in Los Angeles, he’d have done the same thing. They’d studied together, cooked together, and perhaps if their friendship had not become so solid and important, they might have slept together. “Let me look at you.”
Obligingly, Carlo stepped back to pose. He wore straight, tight jeans that flattered narrow hips, a salmon-colored silk shirt and a cloth fedora that was tilted rakishly over his dark, almond-shaped eyes. An outrageous diamond glinted on his finger. As always, he was beautiful, male and aware of it.
“You look fantastic, Carlo. Fantastico.”
“But of course.” He ran a finger down the brim of his hat. “And you, my delectable puff pastry—” he took her hands and pressed each palm to his lips “—esquisita.”
“But of course.” Laughing again, she kissed him full on the mouth. She knew hundreds of people, professionally, socially, but if she’d been asked to name a friend, it would have been Carlo Franconi who’d have come to her mind. “It’s good to see you, Carlo. What’s it been? Four months? Five? You were in Belgium the last time I was in Italy?”
“Four months and twelve days,” he said easily. “But who counts? It’s only that I lusted for your Napoleons, your eclairs, your—” he grabbed her again and nibbled on her fingers “—chocolate cake.”
“It’s vacherin this morning,” she said dryly. “and you’re welcome to some when the show’s over.”
“Ah, your meringue. To die for.” He grinned wickedly. “I will sit in the front row and cross my eyes at you.”
Summer pinched his cheek. “Try to lighten up, Carlo. You’re so stuffy.”
“Ms. Lyndon, please.”
Summer glanced at Simon, whose breathing was becoming shallower as the countdown began. “It’s all right, Simon, I’m ready. Get your seat, Carlo, and watch carefully. You might learn something this time.”
He said something short and rude and easily translated as they went their separate ways. Relaxed, Summer stood behind her work surface and watched the floor director count off the seconds. Easily ignoring the face Carlo made at her, Summer began the show, talking directly to the camera.
She took this part of her profession as seriously as she took creating the royal wedding cake for a European princess. If she were to teach the average person how to make something elaborate and exciting, she would do it well.
She did look exquisite, Carlo thought. Then she always did. And confident, competent, cool. On one hand, he was glad to find it true, for he was a man who disliked things or people who changed too quickly—particularly if he had nothing to do with it. On the other hand, he worried about her.
As long as he’d known Summer—good God, had it been ten years?—she’d never allowed herself a personal involvement. It was difficult for a volatile, emotional man like himself to fully understand her quality of reserve, her apparent disinterest in romantic encounters. She had passion. He’d seen it explode in temper, in joy, but never had he seen it directed toward a man.
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