Summer Desserts

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.”

Chapter Three
    W ell, 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’dhave 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