Summer Desserts

hurt in her position as head chef of his Philadelphia Cocharan House.
    In nine more than the minute she’d claimed she’d be, Summer strolled back into the kitchen. She’d chosen the thin poppy-colored silk because it was perfectly simple—so simple it had a tendency to cling to every curve and draw every eye. Her arms were bare but for one ornately carved gold bracelet she wore just above the elbow. Drop spiral earrings fell almost to her shoulders. Unbound now, her hair curled a bit around her face from the heat and humidity of the kitchen.
    She knew the result was part eccentric, part exotic. Just as she knew it transmitted a primal sexuality. She dressed as she did—from jeans to silks—for her own pleasure and at her own whim. But when she saw the fire, quickly banked, in Blake’s eyes she was perversely satisfied.
    No iceman, she mused—of course she wasn’t interested in him in any personal way. She simply wanted to establish herself as a person, an individual, rather than a name he wanted neatly signed on a contract. Her work clothes were jumbled into a canvas tote she carried in one hand, while over her other shoulder hung a tiny exquisitely beaded purse. In a rather regal gesture, she offered Blake her hand.
    “Ready?”
    “Of course.” Her hand was cool, small and smooth. He thought of streaming sunlight and wet, fragrant grass. Because of it, his voice became cool and pragmatic. “You’re lovely.”
    She couldn’t resist. Humor leaped into her eyes. “Of course.” For the first time she saw him grin—fast, appealing. Dangerous. In that moment she wasn’t quite certain who held the upper hand.
    “My driver’s waiting outside,” Blake told her smoothly.Together they walked from the brightly lit, noisy kitchen out into the moonlit street. “I take it you were satisified with your part of the governor’s meal. You didn’t choose to stay for the criticism or compliments.”
    As she stepped into the back of the limo, Summer sent him an incredulous look. “Criticism? The bombe is my specialty, Mr. Cocharan. It’s always superb. I need no one to tell me that.” She got in the car, smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs.
    “Of course,” Blake murmured, sliding beside her, “it’s a complicated dish.” He went on conversationally, “If my memory serves me, it takes hours to prepare properly.”
    She watched him remove a bottle of champagne from ice and open it with only a muffled pop. “There’s very little that can be superb in a short amount of time.”
    “Very true.” Blake poured champagne into two tulip glasses and, handing Summer one, smiled. “To a lengthy association.”
    Summer gave him a frank look as the streetlights flickered into the car and over his face. A bit Scottish warrior, a bit English aristocrat, she decided. Not a simple combination. Then again, simplicity wasn’t always what she looked for. With only a brief hesitation, she touched her glass to his. “Perhaps,” she said. “You enjoy your work, Mr. Cocharan?” She sipped, and without looking at the label, identified the vintage of the wine she drank.
    “Very much.” He watched her as he drank, noting that she’d done no more than sweep some mascara over her lashes when she’d changed. For an instant he was distracted by the speculation of what her skin would feel like under his fingers. “It’s obvious by what I caught of that session in there that you enjoy yours.”
    “Yes.” She smiled, appreciating him and what she thought would be an interesting struggle for power. “I make it a policy to do only what I enjoy. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have the same policy.”
    He nodded, knowing he was being baited. “You’re very perceptive, Ms. Lyndon.”
    “Yes.” She held her glass out for a refill. “You have excellent taste in wines. Does that extend to other areas?”
    His eyes locked on hers as he filled her glass. “All other areas?”
    Her mouth curved slowly as she brought the champagne to it. Summer enjoyed the effervescence she could feel just before she tasted it. “Of course. Would it be accurate to say that you’re a discriminating man?”
    What the hell was she getting at? “If you like,” Blake returned smoothly.
    “A businessman,” she went on. “An executive. Tell me, don’t executives…delegate?”
    “Often.”
    “And you? Don’t you delegate?”
    “That depends.”
    “I wondered why Blake Cocharan, III himself would take the time and trouble to