Summer Desserts

shook her head, trying to block that out. That morning they’d been perfectly at ease with each other—two adults preparing for a workday without any morning-after awkwardness. That’s what she wanted.
    Too many times, she’d seen her mother glowing and bubblingat the beginning of an affair. This man was the man—this man was the most exciting, the most considerate, the most poetic. Until the bloom faded. Summer’s belief was that if you didn’t glow, you didn’t fade, and life was a lot simpler.
    Yet she still wanted him.
    After a brief knock, one of the kitchen staff stuck his head around her door. “Ms. Lyndon, Mr. Cocharan would like to see you in his office.”
    Summer finished off her rapidly cooling coffee. “Yes? When?”
    “Immediately.”
    She lifted a brow. No one summoned her immediately. People requested her, at her leisure. “I see.” Her smile was icy enough to make the messenger shrink back. “Thank you.”
    When the door closed again she sat perfectly still. These were working hours, she reflected, and she was under contract. It was reasonable and right that he should ask her to come to his office. That was acceptable. But she was still Summer Lyndon—she went to no one immediately.
    She spent the next fifteen minutes deliberately dawdling over her papers before she rose. After strolling through the kitchen, and taking the time to check on the contents of a pot or skillet on the way, she went to an elevator. On the ride up, she glanced at her watch, pleased to note that she’d arrive nearly twenty-five minutes after the call. As the doors opened she flicked a speck of lint from the sleeve of her blouse, then sauntered out.
    “Mr. Cocharan would like to speak to me?” She gave the words the intonation of a question as she smiled down at the receptionist.
    “Yes, Ms. Lyndon, you’re to go right through. He’s been waiting.”
    Unsure if the last statement had been censure or warning, Summer continued down the hall to Blake’s door. She gave a peremptory knock before going in. “Good morning, Blake.”
    When she entered, he set aside the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “Have trouble finding an elevator?”
    “No.” Crossing the room, she chose a chair and settled down. He looked, she thought, as he had the first time she’d come into his office—aloof, aristocratic. This then was the perfect level for them to deal on. “This is one of the few hotels which has elevators one doesn’t grow old waiting for.”
    “You’re aware what the term immediately means.”
    “I’m aware of it. I was busy.”
    “Perhaps I should make it clear that I don’t tolerate being kept waiting by an employee.”
    “And I’ll make two things clear,” she tossed back. “I’m not merely an employee, but an artist. Secondly, I don’t come at the snap of anyone’s fingers.”
    “It’s eleven-twenty,” Blake began with a mildness Summer instantly suspected. “On a workday. My signature is at the base of your checks. Therefore, you do answer to me.”
    The faint, telltale flush crept along her cheekbones. “You’d turn my work into something to be measured in dollars and cents and minute by minute—”
    “Business is business,” he countered, spreading his hands. “I think you were quite clear on that subject.”
    She’d maneuvered herself successfully toward that particular corner, and he’d given her a helpful shove into it. As aresult, her attitude only became more haughty. “You’ll notice I am here at present. You’re wasting time.”
    As an ice queen, she was magnificent, Blake thought. He wondered if she realized how a change of expression, a tone of voice, could alter her image. She could be half a dozen women in the course of a day. Whether she knew it or not, Summer had her mother’s talent. “I received another dissatisfied call from Max,” he told her flatly.
    She arched a brow and looked like royalty about to dispense a beheading. “Yes?”
    “He objects—strongly—to some of the proposed changes in the menu. Ah—” Blake glanced down at the pad on his desk “—pressed duck seems to be the current problem, though several others were tossed in around it.”
    Summer sat straighter in her chair, tilting up her chin. “I believe you contracted me to improve the quality of Cocharan House dining.”
    “I did.”
    “That is precisely what I’m doing.”
    The French was beginning to seep into the intonation of her voice, her eyes were