Summer Desserts Read Free Page B

you.”
    Summer lifted a brow, not in surprise this time but in consideration. “That’s flattering, but I freelance, Mr. Cocharan. And I specialize.”
    “Specialize, yes, but you do have both experience and knowledge in all areas of haute cuisine. As for the freelancing, you’d be free to continue that to a large extent, at least after the first few months. You’d need to establish your own staff and create your own menu. I don’t believe in hiring an expert, then interfering.”
    She was frowning again—concentration not annoyance. It was tempting, very tempting. Perhaps it was just the travel weariness from her trip back from Italy, but she’d begun to grow a bit tired—bored?—with the constant demands of flying to any given country to make that one dish. It seemed he’d hit her at the right moment to stir her interest in concentrating on one place, and one kitchen, for a span of time.
    It would be interesting work—if he were being truthful about the free hand she’d have—redoing a kitchen and the menu in an old, established and respected hotel. It would take her perhaps six months of intense effort, and then… It was the “and then” that made her hesitate again. If she gave that much time and effort to a full-time job, would she still retain her flair for the spectacular? That, too, was something to consider.
    She’d always had a firm policy against committing herself to any one establishment—a wariness of commitments ribboned through all areas of her life. If you locked yourself into something, to someone, you opened yourself to all manner of complications.
    Besides, Summer reasoned, if she wanted to affiliate herself with a restaurant, she could open and run her own. She hadn’t done it yet because it would tie her too long to one place, attach her too closely to one project. She preferred traveling, creatingone superb dish at a time, then moving on. The next country, the next dish. That was her style. Why should she consider altering it now?
    “A very flattering offer, Mr. Cocharan—”
    “A mutually advantageous one,” he interrupted, perceptive enough to catch the beginning of a refusal. With deliberate ease, he tossed out a six-digit annual salary that rendered Summer momentarily speechless—not a simple task.
    “And generous,” she said when she found her voice again.
    “One doesn’t get the best unless one’s willing to pay for it. I’d like you to think about this, Ms. Lyndon.” He reached in his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “This is a draft of an agreement. You might like to have your attorney look it over, and of course, points can be negotiated.”
    She didn’t want to look at the damn contract because she could feel, quite tangibly, that she was being maneuvered into a corner—a very plush one. “Mr. Cocharan, I do appreciate your interest, but—”
    “After you’ve thought it over, I’d like to discuss it with you again, perhaps over dinner. Say, Friday?”
    Summer narrowed 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…”