Summer Desserts: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс

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СКАЧАТЬ “Very sensible.” She shot him a teasing grin over her shoulder as he held out her chair.

      “We can order dessert later.”

      “Never touch them,” she said, tongue in cheek. With a generous hand she spread mustard over her bun. “I read over your contract.”

      “Did you?” He watched as she cut the burger neatly in two then lifted a half. It shouldn’t surprise him, Blake mused. She did, after all, keep Oreos in her cookie jar.

      “So did my attorney.”

      Blake added some ground pepper to his steak before cutting into it. “And?”

      “And it seems to be very much in order. Except…” She allowed the word to hang while she took the first bite. Closing her eyes, Summer simply enjoyed.

      “Except?” Blake prompted.

      “If I were to consider such an offer, I’d need considerably more room.”

      Blake ignored the if. She was considering it, and they both knew it. “In what area?”

      “Certainly you’re aware that I do quite a bit of traveling.” Summer dashed salt on the French fries, tasted and approved. “Often it’s a matter of two or three days when I go to, say, Venice and prepare a Gâteau St. Honoré. Some of my clients book me months in advance. On the other hand, there are some that deal more spontaneously. A few of these—” Summer bit into the cheeseburger again “—I’ll accommodate because of personal affection or professional challenge.”

      “In other words you’d want to fly to Venice or wherever when you felt it necessary.” However incongruous he felt the combination was, Blake poured more champagne into her glass while she ate.

      “Precisely. Though your offer does have some slight interest for me, it would be impossible, even, I feel, unethical, to turn my back on established clients.”

      “Understood.” She was crafty, Blake thought, but so was he. “I should think a reasonable arrangement could be worked out. You and I could go over your current schedule.”

      Summer nibbled on a fry, then dusted her fingers on a white linen napkin. “You and I?”

      “That would keep it simpler. Then if we agreed to discuss whatever other occasions might crop up during the year on an individual basis…” He smiled as she picked up the second half of her cheeseburger. “I like to think I’m a reasonable man, Ms. Lyndon. And, to be frank, I personally would prefer signing you with my hotel. At the moment, the board’s leaning toward LaPointe, but—”

      “Why?” The word was a demand and an accusation. Nothing could have pleased Blake more.

      “Characteristically, the great chefs are men.” She cursed, bluntly and brutally in French. Blake merely nodded. “Yes, exactly. And, through some discreet questioning, we’ve learned that Monsieur LaPointe is very interested in the position.”

      “The swine would scramble at a chance to roast chestnuts on a street corner if only to have his picture in the paper.” Tossing down her napkin, she rose. “You think perhaps I don’t understand your strategy, Mr. Cocharan.” The regal lifting of her head accentuated her long, slender neck. Blake remembered quite vividly how that skin had felt under his fingers. “You throw LaPointe in my face thinking that I’ll grab your offer as a matter of ego, of pride.”

      He grinned because she looked magnificent. “Did it work?”

      Her eyes narrowed, but her lips wanted badly to curve. “LaPointe is a philistine. I am an artist.”

      “And?”

      She knew better than to agree to anything in anger. Knew better, but… “You accommodate my schedule, Mr. Cocharan, the Third, and I’ll make your restaurant the finest establishment of its kind on the East Coast.” And damn it, she could do it. She found she wanted to do it to prove it to both of them.

      Blake rose, lifting both glasses. “To your art, mademoiselle.” He handed her a glass. “And to my business. May it be a profitable union for both of us.”

      “To success,” she amended, clinking glass to glass. “Which, in the end, is what we both look for.”

      Chapter Three

      Well, I’ve done it, Summer thought, scowling. She swept back her hair and secured it with two mother-of-pearl combs. Critically she studied her face in the mirror to check her makeup. She’d learned the trick of accenting her best features from her mother. When the occasion called for it, and she was in the mood, Summer exploited the art. Although she felt the face that was reflected at her would do, she frowned anyway.

      Whether it had been anger or ego or just plain cussedness, she’d agreed to tie herself to the Cocharan House, and Blake, for the next year. Maybe she did want the challenge of it, but already she was uncomfortable with the long-term commitment and the obligations that went with it.

      Three hundred sixty-five days. No, that was too overwhelming, she decided. Fifty-two weeks was hardly a better image. Twelve months. Well, she’d just have to live with it. No, she’d have to do better than that, Summer decided as she wandered back into the studio where she’d be taping a demonstration for public TV. She had to live up to her vow to give the Philadelphia Cocharan House the finest restaurant on the East Coast.

      And so she would, she told herself with a flick of her hair over her shoulder. So she damn well would. Then she’d thumb her nose at Blake Cocharan, III. The sneak.

      He’d manipulated her. Twice, he’d manipulated her. Even though she’d been perfectly aware of it the second time, she’d strolled down the garden path anyway. Why? Summer ran her tongue over her teeth and watched the television crew set up for the taping.

      The challenge, she decided, twisting her braided gold chain around one slim finger. It would be a challenge to work with him and stay on top. Competing was her greatest weakness, after all. That was one reason she’d chosen to excel in a career that was characteristically male-dominated. Oh, yes, she liked to compete. Best of all, she liked to win.

      Then there was that ripe masculinity of his. Polished manners couldn’t hide it. Tailored clothes couldn’t cloak it. If she were honest—and she decided she would be for the moment—Summer had to admit she’d enjoy exploring it.

      She knew her effect on men. A genetic gift, she’d always thought, from her mother. It was rare that she paid much attention to her own sexuality. Her life was too full of the pressures of her work and the complete relaxation she demanded between clients. But it might be time, Summer mused now, to alter things a bit.

      Blake Cocharan, III represented a definite challenge. And how she’d love to shake up that smug male arrogance. How she’d like to pay him back for maneuvering her to precisely where he’d wanted her. As she considered varied ways and means to do just that, Summer idly watched the studio audience file in.

      They had the capacity for about fifty, and apparently they’d have a full house this morning. People were talking in undertones, the mumbles and shuffles associated with theaters and churches. The director, a small, excitable man whom Summer had worked with before, hustled from grip to gaffer, light to camera, tossing his arms in gestures that signaled pleasure or dread. Only extremes. When he came over to her, Summer listened to his quick nervous СКАЧАТЬ