Summer Desserts Read Free Page A

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 because drinkingit only seemed to accentuate the odd little flutter in her stomach. “I invariably stay at them myself.”
    “I’ve been told your standards of quality are equally high.”
    This time when Summer smiled there was a hint of arrogance to it. “I’m the very best at what I do because I have no intention of being otherwise.”
    The first key, Blake decided with satisfaction. Professional vanity. “So my information tells me, Ms. Lyndon. The very best is all that interests me.”
    “So.” Summer propped an elbow on the back of the sofa then rested her head on the palm. “How exactly do I interest you, Mr. Cocharan?” She knew the question was loaded, but couldn’t resist. When a woman was constantly taking risks and making experiments in her professional life, the habit often leaked through.
    Six separate answers skimmed through his mind, none of which had any bearing on his purpose for being there. Blake set down his coffee. “The restaurants at the Cocharan Houses are renowned for their quality and service. However, recently the restaurant here in our Philadelphia complex seems to be suffering from a lack of both. Frankly, Ms. Lyndon, it’s my opinion that the food has become too pedestrian—too boring. I plan to do some remodeling, both in physical structure and in staff.”
    “Wise. Restaurants, like people, often become too complacent.”
    “I want the best head chef available.” He aimed a level look. “My research tells me that’s