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

“I wondered why Blake Cocharan, III himself would take the time and trouble to woo a chef into his organization.”

He was certain she was laughing at him. More, he was certain she wanted him to know it. With an effort, he suppressed his annoyance. “This project is a personal pet of mine. Since I want only the best for it, I take the time and trouble to acquire the best personally.”

“I see.” The limo glided smoothly to the curb. Summer handed Blake her empty glass as the driver opened her door. “Then how strange that you would even mention LaPointe if only the best will serve you.” With the haughty grace a woman can only be born with, Summer alighted. That, she thought smugly, should poke a few holes in his arrogance.

The Cocharan House of Philadelphia stood only twelve stories and had a weathered brick facade. It had been built to blend and accent the colonial architecture that was the heart of the city. Other buildings might zoom higher, might gleam with modernity, but Blake Cocharan had known what he’d wanted. Elegance, style and discretion. That was Cocharan House. Summer was forced to approve. In a great many things, she preferred the old world to the new.

The lobby was quiet, and if the gold was a bit dull, the rugs a bit soft and faded looking, it was a deliberate and canny choice. Old, established wealth was the ambience. No amount of gloss, gleam or gilt would have been more effective.

Taking Summer’s arm, Blake passed through with only a nod here and there to the many “Good evening, Mr. Cocharans” he received. After inserting a key into a private elevator, he led her inside. They were enveloped by silence and smoked glass.

“A lovely place,” Summer commented. “It’s been years since I’ve been inside. I’d forgotten.” She glanced around the elevator and saw their reflections trapped deep in gray glass. “But don’t you find it confining to live in a hotel—to live, that is, where you work?”

“No. Convenient.”

A pity, Summer mused. When she wasn’t working, she wanted to remove herself from the kitchens and timers. She’d never been one—as her mother and father had been—to bring her work home with her.

The elevator stopped so smoothly that the change was hardly noticeable. The doors slid open silently. “Do you have the entire floor to yourself?”

“There’re three guest suites as well as my penthouse,” Blake explained as they walked down the hall. “None of them are occupied at the moment.” He inserted a key into a single panel of a double oak door then gestured her inside.

The lights were already dimmed. He’d chosen his colors well, she thought as she stepped onto the thick pewter-toned carpet. Grays from silvery pale to smoky dominated in the low, spreading sofa, the chairs, the walls. With the lights low it had a dreamlike effect that was both sensuous and soothing.

It might have been dull, even bland, but there were splashes of color cleverly interspersed. The deep midnight blue of the drapes, the pearl-like tones of the army of cushions lining the sofa, the rich, primal green of an ivy tangling down the rungs of a breakfront. Then there were the glowing colors of the one painting, a French Impressionist that dominated one wall.

There was none of the clutter she would have chosen for herself, but a sense of style she admired immediately. “Unusual, Mr. Cocharan,” Summer complimented as she automatically stepped out of her shoes. “And effective.”

“Thank you. Another drink, Ms. Lyndon? The bar’s fully stocked, or there’s champagne if you prefer.”

Still determined to come out of the evening on top, Summer strolled to the sofa and sat. She sent him a cool, easy smile. “I always prefer champagne.”

While Blake dealt with the bottle and cork, she took an extra moment to study the room again. Not an ordinary man, she decided. Too often ordinary was synonymous with boring. Summer was forced to admit that because she’d associated herself with the bohemian, the eccentric, the creative for most of her life, she’d always thought of people in business as innately boring.

No, Blake Cocharan wouldn’t be dull. She almost regretted it. A dull man, no matter how attractive, could be handled with the minimum of effort. Blake was going to be difficult. Particularly since she’d yet to come to a firm decision on his proposition.

“Your champagne, Ms. Lyndon.” When she lifted her eyes to his, Blake had to fight back a frown. The look was too measuring, too damn calculating. Just what was the woman up to now? And why in God’s name did she look so right, so temptingly right, curled on his sofa with pillows at her back? “You must be hungry,” he said, astonished that he needed the defense of words. “If you’d tell me what you’d like, the kitchen will prepare it. Or I can get you a menu, if you’d prefer.”

“A menu won’t be necessary.” She sipped more cold, frothy French champagne. “I’d like a cheeseburger.”

Blake watched the silk shift as she nestled into the corner of the sofa. “A what?”

“Cheeseburger,” Summer repeated. “With a side order of fries, shoestring.” She lifted her glass to examine the color of the liquid. “Do you know, this was a truly exceptional year.”

“Ms. Lyndon…” With strained patience, Blake dipped his hands in his pockets and kept his voice even. “Exactly what game are you playing?”

She sipped slowly, savoring. “Game?”

“Do you seriously want me to believe that you, a gourmet, a cordon bleu chef, want to eat a cheeseburger and shoestring fries?”

“I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.” When her glass was empty, Summer rose to refill it herself. She moved, he noted, lazily, with none of that sharp, almost military motion she’d used when cooking. “Your kitchen does have lean prime beef, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.” Certain she was trying to annoy him, or make a fool of him, Blake took her arm and turned her to face him. “Why do you want a cheeseburger?”

“Because I like them,” she said simply. “I also like tacos and pizza and fried chicken—particularly when someone else is cooking them. That sort of thing is quick, tasty and convenient.” She grinned, relaxed by the wine, amused by his reaction. “Do you have a moral objection to junk food, Mr. Cocharan?”

“No, but I’d think you would.”

“Ah, I’ve shattered your image of a gastronomic snob.” She laughed, a very appealing, purely feminine sound. “As a chef, I can tell you that rich sauces and heavy creams aren’t easy on the digestion either. Besides that, I cook professionally. For long periods of time I’m surrounded by the finest of haute cuisine. Delicacies, foods that have to be prepared with absolute perfection, split-second timing. When I’m not working, I like to relax.” She drank champagne again. “I’d prefer a cheeseburger, medium rare, to Filet aux Champignons at the moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Your choice,” he muttered and moved the phone to order. Her explanation had been reasonable, even logical. There was nothing which annoyed him more than having his own style of manuevering used against him.

With her glass in hand, Summer wandered to the window. She liked the looks of a city at night. The buildings rose and spread in the distance and traffic wound its way silently on the intersecting roads. Lights, darkness, shadows.

She couldn’t have counted the number of cities she’d been in or viewed from a similar spot, but her favorite remained Paris. Yet she’d chosen to live for long lengths of time in the States—she liked the contrast of people and cultures and attitudes. She liked the ambition and enthusiasm of Americans, which she saw typified in her mother’s second husband.

Ambition was something she understood. She had a lot of her own. She understood this to be the reason she looked for men with more creative ability than ambition in her personal relationships. Two competitive, career-oriented people made an uneasy couple. She’d learned that early on watching her own parents with each other, and their subsequent spouses. When she chose permanence in a relationship—something Summer considered was at least a decade away—she wanted someone who understood that her career came first. Any cook, from a child making a peanut butter sandwich to a master chef, had to understand priorities. Summer had understood her own all of her life.

“You like the view?” Blake stood behind her where he’d been studying her for a full five minutes. Why should she seem different from any other woman he’d ever brought to his home? Why should she seem more elusive, more alluring? And why should her presence alone make it so difficult for him to keep his 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.