Summer Desserts

thought about reaching for a cigarette then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “I wanted those hotels. As it turned out, the deal satisfied all parties in the end. You can’t ask for more than that.”
    “No.” Thoughtfully, she rolled over so that she could look at him directly. Her hair brushed over his chest. “Why did you want them? Is it the acquisition itself, the property, or just a matter of enjoying the wheeling and dealing? The strategy of negotiations?”
    “It’s all of that. Part of the enjoyment in business is setting up deals, working out the flaws, following through until you’ve gotten what you were aiming for. In some ways it’s not that different from art.”
    “Business isn’t art,” Summer corrected archly.
    “There are parallels. You set up an idea, work out the flaws, then follow through until you’ve created what you wanted.”
    “You’re being logical again. In art you use the emotion in equalparts with the mind. You can’t do that in business.” Her shrug was typically French. Somehow she became more French whenever her craft was under discussion. “This is all facts and figures.”
    “You left out instinct. Facts and figures aren’t enough without that.”
    She frowned, considering. “Perhaps, but you wouldn’t follow instinct over a solid set of facts.”
    “Even a solid set of facts varies according to the circumstances and the players.” He was thinking of her now, and himself. Reaching up, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “Instincts are very often more reliable.”
    And she was thinking of him now, and herself. “Often more,” Summer murmured, “but not always more. That leaves room for failure.”
    “No amount of planning, no amount of facts, precludes failure.”
    “No.” She laid her head on his shoulder again, trying to ward off the little trickle of panic that was trying to creep in.
    He ran a hand down her back. She was still so cautious, he thought. A little more time, a little more room—a change of subject. “I have twenty new hotels to oversee, to reorganize,” he began. “That means twenty more kitchens that have to be studied and graded. I’ll need an expert.”
    She smiled a little as she lifted her head again. “Twenty is a very demanding and time-consuming number.”
    “Not for the best.”
    Tilting her head, she looked down her straight, elegant nose. “Naturally not, but the best is very difficult to come by.”
    “The best is currently very soft and very naked in my arms.”
    Her lips curved slowly, the way he most enjoyed them. “Very true. But this, I think, is not a negotiating table.”
    “You’ve a better idea how to spend the evening?”
    She ran a fingertip along his jawline. “Much better.”
    He caught her hand in his and, drawing her finger into his mouth, nipped lightly. “Show me.”
    The idea appealed, and excited. It seemed that whenever they made love she was quickly dominated by her own emotions and his skill. This time, she would set the pace, and in her own time, in her own way, she would destroy the innate control that brought her both admiration and frustration. Just the thought of it sent a thrill racing up her spine.
    She brought her mouth close to his, but used her tongue to taste. Slowly, very slowly, she traced his lips. Already she could feel the heat rising. With a lazy sigh, she shifted so that her body moved over his as she trailed kisses down his jaw.
    A strong face, she thought, aristocratic but not soft, intelligent, but not cold. It was a face some women would find haughty—until they looked into the eyes. She did so now and saw the intensity, the heat, even the ruthlessness.
    “I want you more than I should,” she heard herself say. “I have you less than I want.”
    Before he could speak, she crushed her mouth to his and started the journey for both of them.
    He was still throbbing from her words alone. He’d wanted to hear that kind of admission from her; he’d waited to hear it. Just as he’d waited to feel this strong, pure emotion from her. It was that emotion that stripped away all his defenses even as her seeking hands and mouth exploited the weaknesses.
    She touched. His skin heated.
    She tasted. His blood sang.
    She encompassed. His mind swam.
    Vulnerable. Blake discovered the new sensation in himself. She made him so. In the soft, lowering light—near dusk—he was trapped in that midnight world of quietly raging powers. Her fingers were cool and very sure as they