Summer Desserts

two people in the same amount of time.
    She ignored the menu and went with what she knew she could make from memory. The diners that evening were in for a surprise, but as she finished topping the second Black Forest cake, Summer decided it would be a pleasant one. She arranged the cherries quickly, cursing the need to rush. Impossible to create when one was on such a ridiculous timetable, she thought, and muttered bad temperedly under her breath.
    By six, the bulk of the baking was done and she concentrated on the finishing touches of a line of desserts designed to satisfy an army. Chocolate icing there, a dab of cream here, a garnish, a spoon of jam or jelly. She was hot, her arms aching. Her once-white apron was streaked and splashed. No one spoke to her, because she wouldn’t answer. No one approached her, because she tended to snarl.
    Occasionally she would indicate with a wave of her arm a section of dishes that were to be taken away. This was done instantly, and without a sound. If there was talk, it was done in undertones and out of her hearing. None of them had ever seen anything quite like Summer Lyndon on a roll.
    “Problems?”
    Summer heard Blake speak quietly over her shoulder but didn’t turn. “Cars are made this way,” she mumbled, “not desserts.”
    “Early reports from the dining room are more than favorable.”
    She grunted and rolled out pastry dough for tarts. “The next time I’m in Hawaii, I’m going to look up Julio and Georgia and knock their heads together.”
    “A bit testy, aren’t you?” he murmured and earned a lethal glare. “And hot.” He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “How long have you been at it?”
    “Since a bit after four.” After shrugging his hand away she began to rapidly cut out pastry shells. Blake watched, surprised. He’d never seen her work quickly before. “Move.”
    He stepped back but continued to watch her. By his calculations, she’d worked on the menus in the windowless storage room for more than six hours, and had now been on her feet for nearly three. Too small, he thought as a protective urge moved through him. Too delicate.
    “Summer, can’t someone else take over now? You should rest.”
    “No one touches my desserts.” This was said in such a strong, authoritative voice that the image of a delicate flower vanished. He grinned despite himself.
    “Anything I can do?”
    “I’ll want some champagne in an hour. Dom Perignon, ’73.”
    He nodded as an idea began to form in his mind. She smelled like the desserts lined on the counter in front of her. Tempting, delicious. Since he’d met her, Blake had discovered he possessed a very demanding sweet tooth. “Have you eaten?”
    “A sandwich a few hours ago,” she said testily. “Do you think I could eat at a time like this?”
    He glanced at the sumptuous array of cakes and pastries. He could smell delicately roasted meats, spicy sauces. Blake shook his head. “No, of course not. I’ll be back.”
    Summer muttered something, then fluted the edges of her pastry shells.

Chapter Seven
    B y eight o’clock, Summer was finished, and not in the best of humors. For nearly four hours, she’d whipped, rolled, fluted and baked. Often, she’d spent twice that time, and twice that effort, perfecting one single dish. That was art. This, on the other hand, had been labor, plain and simple.
    She felt no flash of triumph, no glow of self-satisfaction, but simply fatigue. An army cook, she thought disdainfully; it was hardly different from producing the quickest and easiest for the masses. At the moment, if she never saw the inside of another egg again, it would be too soon.
    “There should be enough made up to get us through the dinner hour, and room service tonight,” she told Max briskly as she pulled off her soiled apron. Critically she frowned at a line of fruit tarts. More than one of them were less than perfect in shape. If there’d been time, she’d have discarded them andmade others. “I want someone in touch with personnel first thing in the morning to see about hiring two more dessert chefs.”
    “Mr. Cocharan has already contacted personnel.” Max stood stiffly, not wanting to give an inch, though he’d been impressed with how quickly and efficiently she’d avoided what could easily have been a catastrophe. He clung tightly to his resentment, even though he had to admit—to himself—that she baked the best apricot tart he’d ever tasted.
    “Fine.” Summer ran a