Summer Desserts

him long to learn what made Summer tick.
    She dashed back into the kitchen just as he was finally pouring the coffee. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Cocharan. I know it was rude.” She smiled, as if she had no doubt she’d be forgiven, as she poured her own coffee. “I had to get those pastries finished for my neighbor. She’s having a small engagement tea this afternoon—with prospective in-laws.” Her smile turned to a grin, and sipping her black coffee, she plucked the top from the panda. “Did you want a cookie?”
    “No. Please, you go ahead.”
    Taking him at his word, Summer chose one and nibbled. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “these are uniformly excellent for their kind.” She gestured with the half cookie she had left. “Shall we go sit down and discuss your proposition?”
    She moved fast, he mused with approval. Perhaps he’d at least been on the mark about the no-nonsense attitude. With a nod of acknowledgment, Blake followed her. He was successful in his profession, not because he was a third-generation Cocharan, but because he had a quick and analytical mind. Problems weresystematically solved. At the moment, he had to decide just how to approach a woman like Summer Lyndon.
    She had a face that belonged in the shade of a tree on the Bois de Boulogne. Very French, very elegant. Her voice had the round, clear tones that spoke unmistakably of European education and upbringing—a wisp of France again but with the discipline of Britain. Her hair was pinned up, a concession to the heat and humidity, he imagined—though she had the windows open, ignoring the available air-conditioning. The studs in her ears were emeralds, round and flawless. There was a good-sized tear in the sleeve of her T-shirt.
    Sitting on the couch, she folded her legs under her. Her bare toes were painted with a wild rose enamel, but her fingernails were short and unvarnished. He caught the allure of her scent—a touch of the caramel from the pastries, but under it something unmistakably French, unapologetically sexual.
    How did one approach such a woman? Blake reflected. Did he use charm, flattery or figures? She was reputed to be a perfectionist and occasionally a firebrand. She’d refused to cook for an important political figure because he wouldn’t fly her personal kitchen equipment to his country. She’d charged a Hollywood celebrity a small fortune to create a twenty-tiered wedding cake extravaganza. And she’d just hand-baked and hand-delivered a plate of pastries to a neighbor for a tea. Blake would much prefer to have the key to her before he made his offer. He knew the advantages of taking a circular route. Indeed some might call it stalking.
    “I’m acquainted with your mother,” Blake began easily as he continued to gauge the woman beside him.
    “Really?” He caught both amusement and affection in the word. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said as she nibbled on the cookie again. “My mother always patronized a Cocharan House when we traveled. I believe I had dinner with your grandfather when I was six or seven.” The amusement didn’t fade as she sipped at her coffee. “Small world.”
    An excellent suit, Summer decided, relaxing against the back of the sofa. It was well cut and conservative enough to have gained her father’s approval. The form it was molded to was well built and lean enough to have gained her mother’s. It was perhaps the combination of the two that drew her interest.
    Good God, he is attractive, she thought as she took another considering survey of his face. Not quite smooth, not quite rugged, his power sat well on him. That was something she recognized—in herself and in others. She respected someone who sought and got his own way, as she judged Blake did. She respected herself for the same reason. Attractive, she thought again—but she felt that a man like Blake would be so, regardless of physical appearance.
    Her mother would have called him séduisant, and accurately so. Summer would have called him dangerous. A difficult combination to resist. She shifted, perhaps unconsciously to put more distance between them. Business, after all, was business.
    “You’re familiar then with the standards of a Cocharan House,” Blake began. Quite suddenly he wished her scent weren’t so alluring or her mouth so tempting. He didn’t care to have business muddled with attraction, no matter how pleasant.
    “Of course.” Summer set down her coffee