Summer Desserts

her eyes. The man was a steamroller, she decided. A very attractive, very sleek steamroller. No matter how elegant the machinery, you still got flattened if you were in the path. Haughtiness emanated from her. “I’m sorry, I’m working Friday evening—the governor’s charity affair.”
    “Ah, yes.” He smiled, though his stomach had tightened. He had a suddenly vivid, completely wild image of making love to her on the ground of some moist, shadowy forest. That alone nearly made him consider accepting her refusal. And that alonemade him all the more determined not to. “I can pick you up there. We can have a late supper.”
    “Mr. Cocharan,” Summer said in a frigid voice, “you’re going to have to learn to take no for an answer.”
    Like hell, he thought grimly, but gave her a rather rueful, rather charming smile. “My apologies, Ms. Lyndon, if I seem to be pressuring you. You were my first choice, you see, and I tend to go with my instincts. However…” Seemingly reluctant, he rose. The knot of tension and anger in Summer’s stomach began to loosen. “If your mind’s made up…” He plucked the contract from the table and started to slip it into his briefcase. “Perhaps you can give me your opinion on Louis LaPointe.”
    “LaPointe?” The word whispered through Summer’s lips like venom. Very slowly she uncurled from the sofa, then rose, her whole body stiff. “You ask me of LaPointe?” In anger, her French ancestry became more pronounced in her speech.
    “I’d appreciate anything you could tell me,” Blake went on amiably, knowing full well he’d scored his first real point off her. “Seeing that you and he are associates and—”
    With a toss of her head, Summer said something short, rude and to the point in her mother’s tongue. The gold flecks in her eyes glimmered. Sherlock Holmes had Professor Moriarty. Superman had Lex Luthor. Summer Lyndon had Louis LaPointe.
    “Slimy pig,” she grated, reverting to English. “He has the mind of a peanut and the hands of a lumberjack. You want to know about LaPointe?” She snatched a cigarette from the case on the table, lighting it as she did only when extremely agitated. “He’s a peasant. What else is there to know?”
    “According to my information, he’s one of the five top chefs in Paris.” Blake pressed because a good pressure point was an invaluable weapon. “His Canard en Croûte is said to be unsurpassable.”
    “Shoe leather.” She all but spat out the words, and Blake had to school every facial muscle to prevent the grin. Professional vanity, he thought again. She had her share. Then as she drew in a deep breath, he had to school the rest of his muscles to hold off a fierce surge of desire. Sensuality—perhaps she had more than her share. “Why are you asking me about LaPointe?”
    “I’m flying to Paris next week to meet with him. Since you’re refusing my offer—”
    “You’ll offer this—” she wagged a finger at the contract still in Blake’s hand “—to him?”
    “Admittedly he’s my second choice, but there are those on the board who feel Louis LaPointe is more qualified for the position.”
    “Is that so?” Her eyes were slits now behind a screen of smoke. She plucked the contract from his hand, then dropped it beside her cooling coffee. “The members of your board are perhaps ignorant?”
    “They are,” he managed, “perhaps mistaken.”
    “Indeed.” Summer took a drag of her cigarette, then released smoke in a quick stream. She detested the taste. “You can pick me up at nine o’clock on Friday at the governor’s kitchen, Mr. Cocharan. We’ll discuss this matter further.”
    “My pleasure, Ms. Lyndon.” He inclined his head, careful to keep his face expressionless until he’d closed the front door behind him. He laughed his way down four flights of steps.

Chapter Two
    M aking a good dessert from scratch isn’t a simple matter. Creating a masterpiece from flour, eggs and sugar is something else again. Whenever Summer picked up a bowl or a whisk or beater, she felt it her duty to create a masterpiece. Adequate, as an adjective in conjunction with her work, was the ultimate insult. Adequate, to Summer, was the result achieved by a newlywed with a cookbook first opened the day after the honeymoon. She didn’t simply bake, mix or freeze—she conceived, developed and achieved. An architect, an engineer, a scientist did no more, no less. When she’d chosen to study the art of haute