Summer Desserts

time, a paper baron on thisround, and her father was separated from his second wife, a successful barrister.
    All of Blake’s probing had produced the same basic answer. Summer Lyndon was the best dessert chef on either side of the Atlantic. She was also a superb all-around chef with an instinctive knowledge of quality, a flair for creativity and the ability to improvise in a crisis. On the other hand, she was reputed to be dictatorial, temperamental and brutally frank. These qualities, however, hadn’t alienated her from heads of state, aristocracy or celebrities.
    She might insist on having Chopin piped into the kitchen while she cooked, or summarily refuse to work at all if the lighting wasn’t to her liking, but her mousse alone was enough to make a strong man beg to grant her slightest wish.
    Blake wasn’t a man to beg for anything…but he wanted Summer Lyndon for Cocharan House. He never doubted he could persuade her to agree to precisely what he had in mind.
    A formidable woman, he imagined, respecting that. He had no patience with weak wills or soft brains—particularly in people who worked for him. Not many women had risen to the position, or the reputation, that Summer Lyndon held. Women might traditionally be cooks, but men were traditionally chefs.
    He imagined her thick waisted from sampling her own creations. Strong hands, he thought idly. Her skin was probably a bit pasty from all those hours indoors in kitchens. A no-nonsense woman, he was sure, with an uncompromising view on what was edible and why. Organized, logical and cultured—perhaps a bit plain due to her preoccupation with food rather than fashion. Blake imagined that they would deal with eachother very well. With a glance at his watch, Blake noted with satisfaction that he was right on time for the meeting.
    The limo cruised to a halt beside the curb. “I’ll be no more than an hour,” Blake told the driver as he climbed out.
    “Yes, sir.” The driver checked his watch. When Mr. Cocharan said an hour, you could depend on it.
    Blake glanced up at the fourth floor as he crossed to the well-kept old building. The windows were open, he noted. Warm spring air poured in, while music—a melody he couldn’t quite catch over the sounds of traffic—poured out. When Blake went in, he learned that the single elevator was out of order. He walked up four flights.
    After Blake knocked, the door was opened by a small woman with a stunning face who was dressed in a T-shirt and slim black jeans. The maid on her way out for a day off? Blake wondered idly. She didn’t look strong enough to scrub a floor. And if she was going out, she was going out without her shoes.
    After the brief, objective glance, his gaze was drawn irresistibly back to her face. Classic, naked and undeniably sensuous. The mouth alone would make a man’s blood move. Blake ignored what he considered an automatic sexual pull.
    “Blake Cocharan to see Ms. Lyndon.”
    Summer’s left brow rose—a sign of surprise. Then her lips curved slightly—a sign of pleasure.
    Plump, he wasn’t, she observed. Hard and lean—racketball, tennis, swimming. He was obviously a man more prone to these than lingering over executive lunches. Balding, no. His hair was rich black and thick. It was styled well, with slight natural waves that added to the attractiveness of a cool, sensualface. A sweep of cheekbones, a firm line of chin. She liked the look of the former that spoke of strength, and the latter, just barely cleft, that spoke of charm. Black brows were almost straight over clear, water-blue eyes. His mouth was a bit long but beautifully shaped. His nose was very straight—the sort she’d always thought was made to be looked down. Perhaps she’d been right about the outward trimmings—the Italian shoes, and so forth—but, Summer admitted, she’d been off the mark with the man.
    The assessment didn’t take her long—three, perhaps four, seconds. But her mouth curved more. Blake couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was a mouth a man, if he breathed, wanted to taste. “Please come in, Mr. Cocharan.” Summer stepped back, swinging the door wider in invitation. “It’s very considerate of you to agree to meet here. Please have a seat. I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something in the kitchen.” She smiled, gestured and disappeared.
    Blake opened his mouth—he wasn’t used to being brushed off by servants—then closed it again. He had enough time to be tolerant. As he set