Summer Desserts

by Nora Roberts

  If he was infuriated, he concealed it well. Blake merely smiled at her—as one might smile at a fussy child. Two, it seemed, could play the same game with equal skill. “Eight,” he repeated and sat on the corner of his desk. “We can even have tacos if you like.”

  “You’re very stubborn.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “So am I.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ll see you Saturday.”

  She had to put a lot of effort into the glare because she wanted to laugh. In the end, Summer found satisfaction by slamming the door, quite loudly.

  Chapter Four

  “Incredible nerve,” Summer mumbled. She took another bite of her hot dog, scowled and swallowed. “The man has incredible nerve.”

  “You shouldn’t let it affect your appetite, cara.” Carlo patted her shoulder as they strolled along the sidewalk toward the proud, weathered bricks of Independence Hall.

  Summer bit into the hot dog again. When she tossed her head, the sun caught at the ends of her hair and flicked them with gold. “Shut up, Carlo. He’s so arrogant.” With her free hand, she gestured wildly while continuing to munch, almost vengefully, on the dog and bun. “Carlo, I don’t take orders from anyone, especially some tailored, polished, American executive with dictatorial tendencies and incredible blue eyes.”

  Carlo lifted a brow at her description, then shot an approving look at a leggy blonde in a short pink skirt who passed them. “Of course not, mi amore,” he said absently, craning his neck to follow the blonde’s progress down the street. “This Philadelphia of yours has the most fascinating tourist attractions, sì?”

  “I make my own decisions, run my own life,” Summer grumbled, jerking his arm when she saw where his attention had wandered. “I take requests, Franconi, not orders.”

  “It’s always been so.” Carlo gave a last wistful look over his shoulder. Perhaps he could talk Summer into stopping somewhere, a park bench, an outdoor café, where he could get a more…complete view of Philadelphia’s attractions. “You must be tired of walking, love,” he began.

  “I’m definitely not having dinner with him tonight.”

  “That should teach him to push Summer Lyndon around.” The park, Carlo thought, might have the most interesting of possibilities.

  She gave him a dangerous stare. “You’re amused because you’re a man.”

  “You’re amused,” Carlo corrected, grinning. “And interested.”

  “I am not.”

  “Oh, yes, cara mia, you are. Why don’t we sit so I can take in the…beauty and attractions of your adopted city? After all—” he tipped the brim of his hat at a strolling brunette in brief shorts “—I’m a tourist, sì?”

  She caught the gleam in his eyes, and the reason for it. After letting out a huff of breath, Summer turned a sharp right. “I’ll show you tourist attractions, amico.”

  “But Summer…” Carlo caught sight of a redhead in snug jeans walking a poodle. “The view from out here is very educational and uplifting.”

  “I’ll lift you up,” she promised and ruthlessly dragged him inside. “The Second Continental Congress met here in 1775, when the building was known as the Pennsylvania State House.”

  There was an echoing of feet, of voices. A group of school-children flocked by led by a prim, stern-faced teacher wearing practical shoes. “Fascinating,” Carlo muttered. “Why don’t we go to the park, Summer. It’s a beautiful day.” For female joggers in tiny shorts and tiny shirts.

  “I’d consider myself a poor friend if I didn’t give you a brief history lesson before you leave this evening, Carlo.” She linked her arm more firmly through his. “It was actually July 8, not July 4, 1776, that the Declaration of Independence was read to the crowd in the yard outside this building.”

  “Incredible.” Hadn’t that brunette been heading for the park? “I can’t tell you how interesting I find this American history, but some fresh air perhaps—”

  “You can’t leave Philadelphia without seeing the Liberty Bell.” Taking him by the hand, Summer dragged him along. “A symbol of freedom is international, Carlo.” She didn’t even hear his muttered assent as her thoughts began to swing back to Blake again. “Just what was he trying to prove with that gloss and machismo?” she demanded. “Telling me he’d pick me up at eight after I’d refused to go.” Gritting her teeth, she put her hands on her hips and glared at Carlo. “Men—you’re all basically the same, aren’t you?”

  “But no, carissima.” Amused, he gave her a charming smile and ran his fingers down her cheek. “We are all unique, especially Franconi. There are women in every city of the world who can attest to that.”

  “Pig,” she said bluntly, refusing to be swayed with humor. She sidled closer to him, unconcerned that there was a group of three female college students hanging on every word. “Don’t throw your women up to me, you Italian lecher.”

  “Ah, but, Summer…” He brought her palm to his lips, watching the three young women over it. “The word is…connoisseur.”

  Her comment was an unladylike snort. “You—men,” she corrected, jerking her hand from his, “think of women as something to toy with, enjoy for a while, then disregard. No one’s ever going to play that game with me.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Carlo took both her hands and kissed them. “Ah, no, no, cara mia. A woman, she is like the most exquisite of meals.”

  Summer’s eyes narrowed. As the three girls edged closer she struggled with a grin of her own. “A meal? You dare to compare a woman with a meal?”

  “An exquisite one,” Carlo reminded her. “One you anticipate with great excitement, one you linger over, savor, even worship.”

  Her brows arched. “And when your plate’s clean, Carlo?”

  “It stays in your memory.” Touching his thumb and forefinger together, he kissed them dramatically. “Returns in your dreams and keeps you forever searching for an equally sensual experience.”

  “Very poetic,” she said dryly. “But I’m not going to be anyone’s entrée.”

  “No, my Summer, you are the most forbidden of desserts, and therefore, the most desirable.” Irrepressible, he winked at the trio of girls. “This Cocharan, do you not think his mouth waters whenever he looks at you?”

  Summer gave a short laugh, took two steps away, then stopped. The image had an odd, primitive appeal. Intrigued, she looked back over her shoulder. “Does it?”

  Because he knew he’d distracted her, Carlo slipped an arm around her waist and began to lead her from the building. There was still time for fresh air and leggy joggers in the park. Behind them, the three girls muttered in disappointment. “Cara, I am a man who has made a study of amore. I know what I see in another man’s eyes.”

  Summer fought off a surge of pleasure and shrugged. “You Italians insist on giving a pretty label to basic lust.”

  With a huge sigh, Carlo led her outside. “Summer, for a woman with French blood, you have no romance.”

  “Romance belongs in books and movies.”

  “Romance,” Carlo corrected, “belongs everywhere.” Though she’d spoken lightly, Carlo understood that she was being perfectly frank. It worried him and, in the way of friend for friend, disappointed him. “You should try candlelight and wine and soft music, Summer. Let yourself experience it. It won’t hurt you.”

  She gave him a strange sidelong smile as they walked. “Won’t it?”

  “You can trust Carlo like you trust no one else.”

  “Oh, I do.” Laughing again, she swung an arm around his shoulders. “I trust no one else, Franconi.”

  That too, was the unvarnished truth. Carlo sighed again but spoke with equal lightness. “Then trust yourself, cara. Be guided by your own instincts.”

  “But I do trust myself.”

  “Do you?” This time it was Carlo who slanted a look at her. “I think you don’t trust yourself to be alone with the American.”

  “With Blake?” He could feel her stiffen with outrage under the arm he stil
l held around her waist. “That’s absurd.”

  “Then why are you so upset about the idea of having a simple dinner with him?”

  “Your English is suffering, Carlo. Upset’s the wrong word. I’m annoyed.” She made herself relax under his arm again, then tilted her chin. “I’m annoyed because he assumed I’d have dinner with him, then continued to assume I would even after I’d refused. It’s a normal reaction.”

  “I believe your reaction to him is very normal. One might say even—ah—basic.” He took out his dark glasses and adjusted them meticulously. Perhaps squint lines added character to a face, but he wanted none on his. “I saw what was in your eyes as well that day in the kitchen.”

  Summer scowled at him, then lifted her chin a bit higher. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m a gourmet,” Carlo corrected with a sweep of his free arm. “Of food, yes, but also of love.”

  “Just stick to your pasta, Franconi.”

  He only grinned and patted her flank. “Carissima, my pasta never sticks.”

  She uttered a single French word in the most dulcet tones. It was one most commonly seen scrawled in Parisian alleyways. In tune with each other, they walked on, but both were speculating about what would happen that evening at eight.

  It was quite deliberate, well thought out and very satisfying. Summer put on her shabbiest jeans and a faded T-shirt that was unraveled at the hem on one sleeve. She didn’t bother with even a pretense of makeup. After seeing Carlo off at the airport, she’d gone through the drive-in window at a local fast-food restaurant and had picked up a cardboard container of fried chicken, complete with French fries and a tiny plastic bowl of coleslaw.

  She opened a can of diet soda and flicked the television on to a syndicated rerun of a situation comedy.

  Picking up a drumstick, Summer began to nibble. She’d considered dressing to kill, then breezing by him when he came to the door with the careless comment that she had a date. Very self-satisfying. But this way, Summer decided as she propped up her feet, she could be comfortable and insult him at the same time. After a day spent walking around the city while Carlo ogled and flirted with every female between six and sixty, comfort was every bit as important as the insult.

  Satisfied with her strategy, Summer settled back and waited for the knock. It wouldn’t be long, she mused. If she was any judge of character, she’d peg Blake as a man who was obsessively prompt. And fastidious, she added, taking a pleased survey of her cluttered, comfortably disorganized apartment.

  Let’s not forget smug, she reminded herself as she polished off the drumstick. He’d arrive in a sleek, tailored suit with the shirt crisp and monogrammed on the cuffs. There wouldn’t be a smudge on the Italian leather of his shoes. Not a hair out of place. Pleased, she glanced down at the tattered hem on her oldest jeans. A pity they didn’t have a few good holes in them.

  Grinning gleefully, she reached for her soda. Holes or not, she certainly didn’t look like a woman waiting anxiously to impress a man. And that, Summer concluded, was what a man like Blake expected. Surprising him would give her a great deal of pleasure. Infuriating him would give her even more.

  When the knock came, Summer glanced around idly before unfolding her legs. Taking her time, she rose, stretched, then moved to the door.

  For the second time, Blake wished he’d had a camera to catch the look of blank astonishment on her face. She said nothing, only stared. With a hint of a smile on his lips, Blake tucked his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. There was no one, he reflected, whom he’d ever gotten more pleasure out of outwitting. So much so, it was tempting to make a career out of it.

  “Dinner ready?” He took an appreciative sniff of the air. “Smells good.”

  Damn his arrogance—and his perception, Summer thought. How did he always manage to stay one step ahead of her? Except for the fact that he wore tennis shoes—tattered ones—he was dressed almost identically to her. It was only more annoying that he looked every bit as natural, and every bit as attractive, in jeans and a T-shirt as he did in an elegant business suit. With an effort, Summer controlled her temper, and twin surges of humor and desire. The rules might have changed, but the game wasn’t over.

  “My dinner’s ready,” she told him coolly. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

  “I did say eight.”

  “I did say no.”

  “Since you objected to going out—” he took both her hands before breezing inside “—I thought we’d just eat in.”

  With her hands caught in his, Summer stood in the open doorway. She could order him to leave, she considered. Demand it… And he might. Although she didn’t mind being rude, she didn’t see much satisfaction in winning a battle so directly. She’d have to find another, more devious, more gratifying method to come out on top.

  “You’re very persistent, Blake. One might even say pig-headed.”

  “One might. What’s for dinner?”

  “Very little.” Freeing one hand, Summer gestured toward the take-out box.

  Blake lifted a brow. “Your penchant for fast food’s very intriguing. Ever thought of opening your own chain—Minute Croissants? Drive Through Pastries?”

  She wouldn’t be amused. “You’re the businessman,” she reminded him. “I’m an artist.”

  “With a teenager’s appetite.” Strolling over, Blake plucked a drumstick from the box. He settled on the couch, then propped his feet on the coffee table. “Not bad,” he decided after the first bite. “No wine?”

  No, she didn’t want to be amused, was determined not to be, but watching him make himself at home with her dinner, Summer fought off a grin. Maybe her plan to insult him hadn’t worked, but there was no telling what the evening might bring. She only needed one opening to give him a good, solid jab. “Diet soda.” She sat down and lifted the can. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

  “This is fine.” Blake took the drink from her and sipped. “Is this how one of the greatest dessert chefs spends her evenings?”

  Lifting a brow, Summer took the can back from him. “The greatest dessert chef spends her evenings as she pleases.”

  Blake crossed one ankle over the other and studied her. The flecks in her eyes were more subtle this evening—perhaps because she was relaxed. He liked to think he could make them glow again before the night was over. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Does that extend to other areas?”

  “Yes.” Summer took another piece of chicken before handing Blake a paper napkin. “I’ve decided your company’s tolerable—for the moment.”

  Watching her, he took another bite. “Have you?”

  “That’s why you’re here eating half my meal.” She ignored his chuckle and propped her own feet on the table beside his. There was something cozy about the setting that appealed to her—something intimate that made her wary. She was too cautious a woman to allow herself to forget the effect that one kiss had had on her. She was too stubborn a woman to back down.

  “I’m curious about why you insisted on seeing me tonight.” A commercial on floor wax flicked across the television screen. Summer glanced at it before turning to Blake. “Why don’t you explain?”

  He took a plastic fork and sampled the coleslaw. “The professional reason or the personal one?”

  He answered a question with a question too often, she decided. It was time to pin him down. “Why don’t you take it one at a time?”

  How did she eat this stuff? he wondered as he dropped the fork back into the box. When you looked at her you could see her in the most elegant of restaurants—flowers, French wine, starchily correct waiters. She’d be wearing silk and toying with some exotic dessert.

  Summer rubbed the bottom of one bare foot over the top of the other while she took another bite of chicken. Blake smiled even as he asked himself why she attracted him.

  “Business first then. We’ll be working together closely for several months at least. I think it’s wise if we get to know each other—f
ind out how the other works so we can make the proper adjustments when necessary.”

  “Logical.” Summer plucked out a couple of French fries before offering the box to Blake. “It’s just as well that you find out up front that I don’t make adjustments at all. I work only one way—my way. So…personal?”

  He enjoyed her confidence and the complete lack of compromise. He planned to explore the first and undo the second. “Personally, I find you a beautiful, interesting woman.” Dipping his hand into the box, he watched her. “I want to take you to bed.” When she said nothing, he nibbled on a fry. “And I think we should get to know each other first.” Her stare was direct and unblinking. He smiled. “Logical?”

  “Yes, and egotistical. You seem to have your share of both qualities. But—” she wiped her fingers on the napkin before she picked up the soda again “—you’re honest. I admire honesty in other people.” Rising, she looked down at him. “Finished?”

  His gaze remained as cool as hers while he handed her the box. “Yeah.”

  “I happen to have a couple of éclairs in the fridge, if you’re interested.”

  “Supermarket special?”

  Her lips curved, slowly, slightly. “No. I do have some standards. They’re mine.”

  “Then I could hardly insult you by turning them down.”

  This time she laughed. “I’m sure diplomacy’s your only motive.”

  “That, and basic gluttony,” he added as she walked away. She’s a cool one, Blake reflected, thinking back to her reaction, or lack of one, to his statement about taking her to bed. The coolness, the control, intrigued him. Or perhaps more accurately, challenged him.

  Was it a veneer? If it was, he’d like the opportunity to strip off the layers. Slowly, he decided, even lazily, until he found the passion beneath. It would be there—he imagined it would be like one of her desserts—dark and forbidden beneath a cool white icing. Before too much time had passed, Blake intended to taste it.

  Her hands weren’t steady. Summer cursed herself as she opened the refrigerator. He’d shaken her—just as he’d meant to. She only hoped he hadn’t been able to see through her offhand response. Yes, he’d intended to shake her, but he’d said precisely what he’d meant. That she understood. At the moment, she didn’t have the time to absorb and dissect her feelings. There was only her first reaction—not shock, not outrage, but a kind of nervous excitement she hadn’t experienced in years.