by Nora Roberts
“B.C.” Their hands clasped, one older and rougher than the other, both firm. “Just passing through?”
“On my way to Tahiti, going to do some sailing.” B.C. grinned again, appealingly, as he ran a finger along the brim of his cap. “Want to play hookey and crew for me?”
“Can’t. I’m booked solid for the next two weeks.”
“You work too hard, boy.” In an old habit, B.C. walked over to the bar at the west side of the room and poured himself bourbon, neat.
Blake grinned at his father’s back as B.C. tossed down three fingers of liquor. It was still shy of noon. “I came by it honestly.”
With a chuckle, B.C. poured a second drink. When it had been his office, he’d stocked only the best bourbon. He was glad his son carried on the tradition. “Maybe—but I learned to play just as hard.”
“You paid your dues, B.C.”
“Yeah.” Twenty-five years of ten-hour days, he reflected. Of hotel rooms, airports and board meetings. “So did the old man—so’ve you.” He turned back to his son. Like looking into a mirror that’s twenty years past, he thought, and smiled rather than sighed. “I’ve told you before, you can’t wrap your life up in hotels.” He sipped appreciatively at the bourbon this time, then swirled it. “Gives you ulcers.”
“Not so far.” Sitting again, Blake steepled his fingers, watching his father over them. He knew him too well, had apprenticed under him, watched him wheel and deal. Tahiti might be his destination, but he hadn’t stopped off in Philadelphia without a reason. “You came in for the board meeting.”
B.C. nodded before he found some salted almonds under the bar. “Have to put in my two cents worth now and again.” He popped two nuts in his mouth and bit down with relish. He was always grateful that the teeth were still his and his eyesight was keen. If a man had those, and a forty-foot sloop, he needed little else. “If we buy the Hamilton chain, it’s going to mean twenty more hotels, over two thousand more employees. A big step.”
Blake lifted a brow. “Too big?”
With a laugh, B.C. dropped down into a chair across from the desk. “I didn’t say that, don’t think that—and apparently you don’t think so either.”
“No, I don’t.” Blake waved away his father’s offering of almonds. “Hamilton’s an excellent chain, simply mismanaged at this point. The buildings themselves are worth the outlay.” He gave his father a mild, knowledgeable look. “You might check out the Hamilton Tahiti while you’re there.”
Grinning, B.C. leaned back. The boy was sharp, he thought, pleased. But then he came by that honestly, too. “Thought crossed my mind. By the way, your mother sends her love.”
“How is she?”
“Up to her neck in a campaign to save another crumbling ruin.” The grin widened. “Keeps her off the streets. Going to meet me on the island next week. Hell of a first mate, your mother.” He nibbled on another almond, pleased to think of having some time alone with his wife in the tropics. “So, Blake, how’s your sex life?”
Too used to his father to be anything but amused, Blake inclined his head. “Adequate, thanks.”
With a short laugh, B.C. downed the rest of his drink. “Adequate’s a disgrace to the Cocharan name. We do everything in superlatives.”
Blake drew out a cigarette. “I’ve heard stories.”
“All true,” his father told him, gesturing with the empty glass. “One day I’ll have to tell you about this dancer in Bangkok in ’39. In the meantime, I’ve heard you plan to do some face-lifting right here.”
“The restaurant.” Blake nodded and thought of Summer. “It promises to be…fascinating work.”
B.C. caught the tone and began to gently probe. “I can’t disagree that the place needs a little glitzing up. So you hired on a French chef to oversee the operation.”
“Half French.”
“A woman?”
“That’s right.” Blake blew out smoke, aware which path his father was trying to lead him down.
B.C. stretched out his legs. “Knows her business, does she?”
“I wouldn’t have hired her otherwise.”
“Young?”
Blake drew on his cigarette and suppressed a smile. “Moderately, I suppose.”
“Attractive?”
“That depends on your definition—I wouldn’t call her attractive.” Too tame a word, Blake thought, much, much too tame. Exotic, alluring—those suited her more. “I can tell you that she’s dedicated to her profession, an ambitious perfectionist and that her éclairs…” His thoughts drifted back to that intoxicating interlude. “Her éclairs are an experience not to be missed.”
“Her éclairs,” B.C. repeated.
“Fantastic.” Blake leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely fantastic.” He kept the grin under control as his buzzer sounded again.
“Ms. Lyndon is here, Mr. Cocharan.”
Monday morning, he thought. Business as usual. “Send her in.”
“Lyndon.” B.C. set down his glass. “That’s the cook, isn’t it?”
“Chef,” Blake corrected. “I’m not sure if she answers to the term ‘cook.’”
The knock was brief before Summer walked in. She carried a slim leather folder in one hand. Her hair was braided and rolled at the nape of her neck so that the hints of gold threaded through the brown. Her suit in a deep plum color was Chanel, simple and exquisite over a high-necked lace blouse that rose to frame her face. The strict professionalism of her attire made Blake instantly speculate on what she wore beneath—something brief, silky and sexy, the same color as her skin.
“Blake.” Following her own self-lecture on priorities, Summer held out her hand. Impersonal, businesslike and formal. She wasn’t going to think about what happened when his mouth touched hers. “I’ve brought you the list of changes of equipment and suggestions we spoke about.”
“Fine.” He saw her turn her head as B.C. rose from his chair. And he saw the gleam light his father’s eyes as it always did when he was in the company of a beautiful woman. “Summer Lyndon, Blake Cocharan, II. B.C., Ms. Lyndon will be managing the kitchen here at the Philadelphia Cocharan House.”
“Mr. Cocharan.” Summer found her hand enveloped in a large, calloused one. He looks, she realized with a jolt, exactly as Blake will in thirty years. Distinguished, weathered, with that perennial touch of polish. Then B.C. grinned, and she understood that Blake would still be dangerous in three decades.
“B.C.,” he corrected, lifting her fingers to his lips. “Welcome to the family.”
Summer shot Blake a quick look. “Family?”
“We consider anyone associated with Cocharan House part of the family.” B.C. gestured to the chair he’d vacated. “Please, sit down. Let me get you a drink.”
“Thank you. Perhaps some Perrier.” She watched B.C. cross the room before she sat and laid the folder on her lap. “I believe you’re acquainted with my mother, Monique Dubois.”
That stopped him. B.C. turned, the bottle of Perrier still in his hand, the glass in the other still empty. “Monique? You’re Monique’s girl? I’ll be damned.”
And so he might be, B.C. thought. Years before—was it nearly twenty now?—during a period of marital upheaval on both sides, he’d had a brief, searing affair with the French actress. They’d parted on amicable terms and he’d reconciled with his wife. But the two weeks with Monique had been…memorable. Now, he was in his son’s office pouring Perrier for her daughter. Fate, he thought wryly, was a tricky sonofabitch.
If Summer had suspected before that her mother and Blake’s father had once been lovers, she was now certain of it. Her thoughts on fate directly mirrored his as she crossed her legs. Like mother, like daughter? she wondered. Oh, no, not in this case. B.C. was still staring at her. For a reason she didn’t completely understand, she decided to make it easy for him.
“Mother is a loyal client of Cocharan Houses; she’ll stay nowhere else. I’ve already mentioned to Blake that we once had dinner with your father. He w
as very gracious.”
“When it suits him,” B.C. returned, relieved. She knows, he concluded before his gaze strayed to Blake’s. There he saw a frown of concentration that was all too familiar. And so will he if I don’t watch my step, B.C. decided. Hot water, he mused. After twenty years I could still be in hot water. His wife was the love of his life, his best friend, but twenty years wasn’t long enough to be safe from a transgression.
“So—” he finished pouring the Perrier, then brought it to her “—you decided against following in your mother’s footsteps and became a chef instead.”
“I’m sure Blake would agree that following in a parent’s footsteps is often treacherous.”
Instinct told Blake that it wasn’t business she spoke of now. A look passed between his father and Summer that he couldn’t comprehend. “It depends where the path leads,” Blake countered. “In my case I preferred to look at it as a challenge.”
“Blake takes after his grandfather,” B.C. put in. “He has that cagey kind of logic.”
“Yes,” Summer murmured. “I’ve seen it in action.”
“Apparently you made the right choice,” B.C. went on. “Blake told me about your éclairs.”
Slowly, Summer turned her head until she was facing Blake again. The muscles in her stomach, in her thighs, tightened with the memory. Her voice remained calm and cool. “Did he? Actually, my specialty is the bombe.”
Blake met her gaze directly. “A pity you didn’t have one available the other night.”
There were vibrations there, B.C. thought, that didn’t need to bounce off a third party. “Well, I’ll let you two get on with your business. I’ve some people to see before the board meeting. A pleasure meeting you, Summer.” He took her hand again and held it as his eyes held hers. “Please, give my best to your mother.”
She saw his eyes were like Blake’s, in color, in shape, in appeal. Her lips curved. “I will.”
“Blake, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
He only murmured an assent, watching Summer rather than his father. The door closed before he spoke. “Why do I feel as though there were messages being passed in front of me?”
“I have no idea,” Summer said coolly as she lifted the folder. “I’d like you to glance over these papers while I’m here, if you have time.” Zipping open the folder, she pulled them out. “That way, if there are any questions or any disagreements, we can get through them now before I begin downstairs.”
“All right.” Blake picked up the first sheet but studied her over it. “Is that suit supposed to keep me at a distance?”
She sent him a haughty look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. And another time I’d like to peel it off you, layer by layer. But at the moment, we’ll play it your way.” Without another word, he lowered his gaze to the paper and started to read.
“Arrogant swine,” Summer said distinctly. When he didn’t even bother to look up she folded her arms over her chest. She wanted a cigarette to give her something to do with her hands, but refused herself the luxury. She would sit like a stone, and when the time came, she would argue for every one of the changes she’d listed. And win every one of them. On that level she was in complete control.
She wanted to hate him for realizing she’d worn the elegant, career-oriented suit to set a certain tone. Instead, she had to respect him for being perceptive enough to pick up on small details. She wanted to hate him for making her want so badly with only a look and a few words. It wasn’t possible when she’d spent the remainder of the weekend alternately wishing she’d never met him and wishing he’d come back and bring her that excitement again. He was a problem; there was no denying it. She understood that you solved problems one step at a time. Step one, her kitchen—accent on the personal pronoun.
“Two new gas ovens,” he murmured as he scanned the sheet. “One electric oven and two more ranges of each kind.” Without lowering it, he glanced at her over the top of the page.
“I believe I explained to you before the need for both gas and electric ovens. First, yours are antiquated. Second, in a restaurant of this size the need for two gas ovens is imperative.”
“You specify brands.”
“Of course, I know what I like to work with.”
He only lifted a brow, thinking that procurement was going to grumble. “All new pots and pans?”
“Definitely.”
“Perhaps we should have a yard sale,” Blake mumbled as he went back to the sheet. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what a sautoir was or why she required three of them. “And this particular heavy-duty mixer?”
“Essential. The one you have is adequate. I don’t accept adequate.”
He smothered a laugh as he recalled his father’s view on adequate in relation to love lives. “Did you list so much of this in French to confuse me?”
“I listed in French,” Summer countered, “because French is correct.”
He made an indefinable sound as he passed over the next sheet. “In any case, I’ve no intention of quibbling over equipment in French or English.”
“Good. Because I’ve no intention of working with any less than the best.” She smiled at him and settled back. First point taken.
Blake flipped over the second sheet and went on to the third. “You intend to rip out the existing counters, have the new ranges built in, add an island and an additional six feet of counter space.”
“More efficient,” Summer said easily.
“And time-consuming.”
“In a hurry? You hired me, Blake, not Minute Chef.” His quick grin made her eyes narrow. “My function is to organize your kitchen, which means making it as efficient and creative as I know how. Once the nuts and bolts of that are done, I’ll beef up your menu.”
“And this—” he flipped through the five typed sheets “—is all necessary for that?”
“I don’t bother with anything that isn’t necessary when it comes to business. If you don’t agree,” she said as she rose, “we can terminate the agreement. Hire LaPointe,” she suggested, firing up. “You’ll have an ostentatious, overpriced, second-rate kitchen that produces equally ostentatious, overpriced and second-rate meals.”
“I have to meet this LaPointe,” Blake murmured as he stood. “You’ll get what you want, Summer.” As a satisfied smile formed on her lips, he narrowed his eyes. “And you damn well better deliver what you promised.”
The fire leapt back, accenting the gold in her irises. And as he saw it, he wanted.
“I’ve given you my word. Your middle-class restaurant with its mediocre prime rib and soggy pastries will be serving the finest in haute cuisine within six months.”
“Or?”
So he wanted collateral, Summer thought, and heaved a breath. “Or my services for the term of the contract are gratis. Does that satisfy you?”
“Completely.” Blake held out a hand. “As I said, you’ll have precisely what you’ve asked for, down to the last egg beater.”
“A pleasure doing business with you.” Summer tried to draw her hand away and found it caught firm. “Perhaps you don’t,” she began, “but I have work to do. You’ll excuse me?”
“I want to see you.”
She let her hand remain passively in his rather than risk a struggle she might lose. “You have seen me.”
“Tonight.”
“Sorry.” She smiled again, though her teeth were beginning to clench. “I have a date.”
She felt the quick increase in pressure of his fingers over hers and was perversely pleased. “All right, when?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen every day, and some evenings, to oversee the remodeling. You need only ride the elevator down.”
He drew her closer, and though the desk remained between them, Summer felt that the ground beneath was a bit less firm. “I want to see you alone,” he said quietly. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers slowly, one by one. “Away from here, outside of business hou
rs.”
If Blake Cocharan, II had been anything like Blake Cocharan, III in his youth, Summer could understand how her mother had become so quickly, so heatedly involved. The yearning was there, and the temptation—but she wasn’t Monique. In this case, she was determined history would not repeat itself. “I’ve explained to you why that’s not possible. I don’t enjoy covering the same ground twice.”
“Your pulse is racing,” Blake pointed out as he ran a finger across her wrist.
“It generally does when I become annoyed.”
“Or aroused.”
Tilting her head, she sent him a killing look. “Would you amuse yourself with LaPointe in this way?”
Temper stirred and he suppressed it, knowing she wanted him to be angry. “At the moment, I don’t care whether you’re a chef or a plumber or a brain surgeon. At the moment,” he repeated, “I only care that you’re a woman, and one that I desire very much.”
She wanted to swallow because her throat had gone dry but fought off the need. “At the moment I am a chef with a specific job to do. I’ll ask you again to excuse me so I can begin to do it.”
This time, Blake thought as he released her hand. But, by God, this time was the last time. “Sooner or later, Summer.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed as she picked up her leather folder. “Perhaps not.” In one quick gesture, she zipped it closed. “Enjoy your day, Blake.” As if her legs weren’t weak and watery, she strolled to the door and out.
Summer continued to walk calmly through the outer office, over the plush carpet, past the busy secretaries and through the reception area. Once in the elevator, she leaned back against the wall and let out the long, tense breath she’d been holding. Nerves jumping, she began the ride down.
That was over, she told herself. She’d faced him in his office and won every point.
Sooner or later, Summer.
She let out another breath. Almost every point, she corrected. The important thing now was to concentrate on her kitchen, and to keep busy. It wasn’t going to help matters if she allowed herself to think of him as she had over the weekend.