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

“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.”

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 it had been anger or ego or just plain cussedness, she’d agreed to tie herself to the Cocharan House, and Blake, for the next year. Maybe she did want the challenge of it, but already she was uncomfortable with the long-term commitment 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.”