Summer Desserts

they were ever made. And he could do so with a cold-blooded ruthlessness that was as clean as his looks.
    The woman might be as delectable as the concoction she was creating, but that wasn’t what he wanted—correction, what he could afford to want—from her. He needed her skill, her name and her brain. That was all. For now, he comforted himself with that thought as he fought back waves of a more insistent and much more basic need.
    As he stood, as far outside of the melee as possible, Blake watched her patiently, methodically apply and smooth on layer after layer. There was no hesitation in her hands—something he noticed with approval even as he noted the fine-boned elegant shape of them. There was no lack of confidence in her stance. Looking on, Blake realized that she might have been alone for all the noise and confusion around her mattered.
    The woman, he decided, could build her spectacular bombe on the Ben Franklin Parkway at rush hour and never miss a step. Good. He couldn’t use some hysterical female who folded under pressure.
    Patiently he waited as she completed her work. By the time Summer had the pastry bag filled with white icing and had begun the final decorating, most of the kitchen staff were on hand to watch. The rest of the meal was a fait accompli. There was only the finale now.
    On the last swirl, she stepped back. There was a communal sigh of appreciation. Still, she didn’t smile as she walked completely around the bombe, checking, rechecking. Perfection. Nothing less was acceptable.
    Then Blake saw her eyes clear, her lips curve. At the scattered applause, she grinned and was more than beautiful—she was approachable. He found that disturbed him even more.
    “Take it in.” With a laugh, she stretched her arms high to work out a dozen stiffened muscles. She decided she could sleep for a week.
    “Very impressive.”
    Arms still high, Summer turned slowly to find herself facing Blake. “Thank you.” Her voice was very cool, her eyes wary. Sometime between the berries and the frosting, she’d decided to be very, very careful with Blake Cocharan, III. “It’s meant to be.”
    “In looks,” he agreed. Glancing down, he saw the large bowl of chocolate frosting that had yet to be removed. He ran his finger around the edge, then licked it off. The taste was enough to melt the hardest hearts. “Fantastic.”
    She couldn’t have prevented the smile—a little boy’s trick from a man in an exquisite suit and silk tie. “Naturally,” she told him with a little toss of her head. “I only make the fantastic. Which is why you want me—correct, Mr. Cocharan?”
    “Mmm.” The sound might have been agreement, or it might have been something else. Wisely, both left it at that. “You must be tired, after being on your feet for so long.”
    “A perceptive man,” she murmured, pulling off the chef’s hat.
    “If you’d like, we’ll have supper at my penthouse. It’s private, quiet. You’d be comfortable.”
    She lifted a brow, then sent a quick, distrustful look over his face. Intimate suppers were something to be considered carefully. She might be tired, Summer mused, but she could still hold her own with any man—particularly an American businessman. With a shrug, she pulled off her stained apron. “That’s fine. It’ll only take me a minute to change.”
    She left him without a backward glance, but as he watched, she was waylaid by a small man with a dark moustache who grabbed her hand and pressed it dramatically to his lips. Blake didn’t have to overhear the words to gauge the intent. He felt a twist of annoyance that, with some effort, he forced into amusement.
    The man was speaking rapidly while working his way up Summer’s arm. She laughed, shook her head and gently nudged him away. Blake watched the man gaze after her like a forlorn puppy before he clutched his own chef’s hat to his heart.
    Quite an effect she has on the male of the species, Blake mused. Again dispassionately, he reflected that there was a certain type of woman who drew men without any visible effort. It was an innate…skill, he supposed was the correct term. A skill he didn’t admire or condemn, but simply mistrusted. A woman like that could manipulate with the flick of the wrist. On a personal level, he preferred women who were more obvious in their gifts.
    He positioned himself well out of the way while the cacophony and confusion of cleaning up began. It was a skill he figured wouldn’t