by Nora Roberts
He slipped a hand under her sweater and found her. Beneath his palm, her heartbeat pounded. Not enough. The thought raced through his mind that it would never be enough. But questions, reason, were for later. Burying his face against her throat he tasted her skin. The scent he remembered lingered there, enticing him further, drawing him closer to the edge where there could be no turning back. The fatigue he’d felt when he’d entered the room vanished. The tension he felt whenever she was near evaporated. At that moment, he considered her completely his without realizing he’d wanted exclusive possession.
Her hair brushed over his face, cloud soft, fragrant. It made him think of Paris, right before the heat of summer took over from spring. But her skin was hot and vibrating, making him envision long humid nights when lovemaking would be slow, endlessly slow. He wanted her there, in the cramped little room where the floor was littered with boxes.
She couldn’t think. Summer could feel her bones dissolve and her mind empty. Sensation after sensation poured over her. She could have drowned in them. Yet she wanted more—she could feel her body craving more, wanting all. Storm, thunder, heat. Just once…the longing seeped into her with whispering promises and dark pleasure. She could let herself be his, take him as hers. Just once. And then…
With a moan, she tore her mouth from his and buried her face against his shoulder. Once with Blake would haunt her for the rest of her life.
“Come upstairs,” Blake murmured. Tilting her head back, he ran kisses over her face. “Come up with me where I can make love with you properly. I want you in my bed, Summer. Soft, naked, mine.”
“Blake…” She turned her face away and tried to steady her breathing. What had happened to her—when—how? “This is a mistake—for both of us.”
“No.” Taking her by the shoulders, he kept her facing him. “This is right—for both of us.”
“I can’t get involved—”
“You already are.”
She let out a deep breath. “No further than this. It’s already more than I intended.”
When she started to back away, he held her firmly in front of him. “I need a reason, Summer, a damn good one.”
“You confuse me.” Summer blurted it out before she realized it, then swore at the admission. “Damn it, I don’t like to be confused.”
“And I ache for you.” His voice was as impatient as hers, his body as tense. “I don’t like to ache.”
“We’ve got a problem,” she managed, dragging a hand through her hair.
“I want you.” Something in the way he said it made her hand pause in midair and her gaze lift to his. There was nothing casual in those three words. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. I’m not comfortable with that.”
“A big problem,” she whispered and sat unsteadily on the edge of the table.
“There’s one way to solve it.”
She managed a smile. “Two ways,” she corrected. “And I think mine’s the safest.”
“Safest.” Reaching down, he ran a fingertip over the curve of her cheek. “You want safety, Summer?”
“Yes.” It was easily said because she’d discovered it was true. Safety was something she’d never thought about until Blake, because she’d never felt endangered until then. “I’ve made myself a lot of promises, Blake, set a lot of goals. Instinct tells me you could interfere. I always go with my instincts.”
“I’ve no intention of interfering with your goals.”
“Nevertheless, I have a few very strict rules. One of them is never to become intimate with a business associate or a client. In one point of view, you fall into both categories.”
“How do you intend to prevent it from happening? Intimacies come in a lot of degrees, Summer. You and I have already reached some of them.”
How could she deny it? She wanted to run from it. “We managed to keep out of each other’s way for two weeks,” she pointed out. “It’s simply a matter of continuing to do so. Both of us are very busy at the moment, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Eventually one of us is going to break the rules.”
And it could be me just as easily as it could be him, she thought. “I can’t think about eventually, only about now. I’ll stay downstairs and do my job. You stay upstairs and do yours.”
“Like hell,” Blake muttered and took a step forward. Summer was halfway to her feet when a knock sounded on her door.
“Mr. Cocharan, there’s a phone call for you. Your secretary says it’s urgent.”
Blake controlled his fury. “I’ll be there.” He gave Summer a long, hard look. “We’re not finished.”
She waited until he’d reached the door. “I can turn this place into a palace or a greasy spoon,” she said quietly. “It’s your choice.”
Turning around, he measured her. “Blackmail?”
“Insurance,” she corrected and smiled. “Play it my way, Blake and everybody’s happy.”
“Your point, Summer,” he acknowledged with a nod. “This time.”
When the door closed behind him, she sat again. She may have outmaneuvered him this time, she mused, but the game was far from over.
Summer gave herself another hour before she left her temporary office to go back to the kitchen. Busboys wheeled in and out with trays of dirty dishes. The dishwasher hummed busily. Pots simmered. Someone sang as she basted a chicken. Two hours to the dinner rush. In another hour, the panic and confusion would set in.
It was then, when the scent of food hit her, that Summer realized she hadn’t eaten. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, she began to root through the cupboards. She’d find something for a late lunch, and see just how provisions were organized.
She couldn’t complain about the latter. The cupboards were not only well stocked, they were systematically stocked. Max had a number of excellent qualities, she thought. A pity an open mind wasn’t among them. She continued to scan shelf after shelf, but the item she was looking for was nowhere to be found.
“Ms. Lyndon?”
Hearing Max’s voice behind her, Summer slowly closed the cabinet door. She didn’t have to turn around to see the cold politeness in his eyes or the tight disapproval of his mouth. She was going to have to do something about this situation before long, she decided. But at the moment she was a bit tired, quite a bit hungry and not in the mood to deal with it.
“Yes, Max.” She opened the next door and surveyed the stock.
“Perhaps I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
“Perhaps. Actually, I’m checking to see how well stocked we are while searching out a jar of peanut butter. Apparently—” she closed that door and went on to the next “—we’re very well stocked indeed, and very well organized.”
“My kitchen is completely organized,” Max began stiffly. “Even in the midst of all this—this carpentry.”
“The carpentry’s almost finished,” she said easily. “I think the new ovens are working out well.”
“To some, new is always better.”
“To some,” she countered, “progress is always a death knell. Where do I find the peanut butter, Max? I really want a sandwich.”
This time she did turn, in time to see his eyebrows rise and his mouth purse. “Below,” he said with a hint of a smirk as he pointed. “We keep such things on hand for the children’s menu.”
“Good.” Unoffended, Summer crouched down and found it. “Would you like to join me?”
“Thank you, no. I have work to do.”
“Fine.” Summer took two slices of bread and began to spread the peanut butter. “Tomorrow, nine o’clock, you and I will go over the proposed menus in my office.”
“I’m very busy at nine.”
“No,” she corrected mildly. “We’re very busy from seven to nine, then things tend to ease off, particularly midweek, until the lunch rush. Nine o’clock,” she repeated over his huff of breath. “Excuse me, I have to get some jelly for this.”
Leaving Max grittin
g his teeth, Summer went to one of the large refrigerators. Pompous, narrow-minded ass, she thought as she found a restaurant-sized jar of grape jelly. As long as he continued to be uncooperative and stiff, things were going to be difficult. More than once, she’d expected Max to turn in his resignation—and there were times, though she hated to be so hard line, that she wished he would.
The changes in the kitchen were already making a difference, she thought as she closed the second slice of bread over the jelly and peanut butter. Any fool could see that the extra range, the more efficient equipment, tightened the flow of preparation and improved the quality of food. Annoyed, she bit into her sandwich just as excited chatter broke out behind her.
“Max’ll be furious. Fur-i-ous.”
“Nothing he can do about it now.”
“Except yell and throw things.”
Perhaps it was the underlying glee in the last statement that made Summer turn. She saw two cooks huddled over the stove. “What’ll Max be furious about?” she asked over another mouthful of sandwich.
The two faces turned to her. Both were flushed either from the heat of the stove or excitement. “Maybe you ought to tell him, Ms. Lyndon,” one of the cooks said after a moment of indecision. The glee was still there, she noticed, barely suppressed.
“Tell him what?”
“Julio and Georgia eloped—we just got word from Julio’s brother. They took off for Hawaii.”
Julio and Georgia? After a quick flip through her mental file, Summer placed them as two cooks who worked the four-to-eleven shift. A glance at her watch told her they were already fifteen minutes late.
“I take it they won’t be coming in today.”
“They quit.” One of the cooks snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” He glanced across the room where Max was babying a rack of lamb. “Max’ll hit the roof.”
“He won’t solve anything up there,” she murmured. “So we’re two short for the dinner shift.”
“Three,” the second cook corrected. “Charlie called in sick an hour ago.”
“Wonderful.” Summer finished off her sandwich, then rolled up her sleeves. “Then the rest of us better get to work.”
With an apron covering her jeans and sweater, Summer took over one section of the new counter. Perhaps it wasn’t her usual style, she mused as she began mixing the first oversized bowl of cake batter, but circumstances called for immediate action. And, she thought as she licked some batter from her knuckle, they damn well better get the stereo speakers in before the end of the week. Summer might bake without Chopin in an emergency once, but she wouldn’t do it twice.
She was arranging several layers of Black Forest cake in the oven when Max spoke over her shoulder.
“You’re making yourself some dessert now?” he began.
“No.” Summer set the timer, then moved back to the counter to start preparations on chocolate mousse. “It seems there’s been a wedding and an illness—though I don’t think the first has anything to do with the second. We’re shorthanded tonight. I’m taking over the desserts, Max, and I don’t exchange small talk when I’m working.”
“Wedding? What wedding?”
“Julio and Georgia eloped to Hawaii, and Charlie’s sick. I have this mousse to deal with at the moment.”
“Eloped!” he exploded. “Eloped without my permission?”
She took the time to look over her shoulder. “I suppose Charlie should have checked with you before he got sick as well. Save the hysterics, Max, and have someone peel me some apples. I want to do a Charlotte de Pommes after this.”
“Now you’re changing my menu!” he exploded.
She whirled, fire in her eyes. “I have a dozen different desserts to make in a very short time. I’d advise you to stay out of my way while I do it. I’m not known for graciousness when I’m cooking.”
He sucked in his stomach and pulled back his shoulders. “We’ll see what Mr. Cocharan has to say about this.”
“Terrific. Keep him out of my way, too, for the next three hours or someone’s going to end up with a face full of my best whipped cream.” Spinning back around, she went to work.
There wasn’t time, she couldn’t take the time, to study and approve each dessert as it was completed. Later, Summer would think of the hours as assembly line work. At the moment, she was too pressed to think. Julio and Georgia had been the dessert chefs. It was now up to her to do the work of two people in the same amount of time.
She ignored the menu and went with what she knew she could make from memory. The diners that evening were in for a surprise, but as she finished topping the second Black Forest cake, Summer decided it would be a pleasant one. She arranged the cherries quickly, cursing the need to rush. Impossible to create when one was on such a ridiculous timetable, she thought, and muttered bad temperedly under her breath.
By six, the bulk of the baking was done and she concentrated on the finishing touches of a line of desserts designed to satisfy an army. Chocolate icing there, a dab of cream here, a garnish, a spoon of jam or jelly. She was hot, her arms aching. Her once-white apron was streaked and splashed. No one spoke to her, because she wouldn’t answer. No one approached her, because she tended to snarl.
Occasionally she would indicate with a wave of her arm a section of dishes that were to be taken away. This was done instantly, and without a sound. If there was talk, it was done in undertones and out of her hearing. None of them had ever seen anything quite like Summer Lyndon on a roll.
“Problems?”
Summer heard Blake speak quietly over her shoulder but didn’t turn. “Cars are made this way,” she mumbled, “not desserts.”
“Early reports from the dining room are more than favorable.”
She grunted and rolled out pastry dough for tarts. “The next time I’m in Hawaii, I’m going to look up Julio and Georgia and knock their heads together.”
“A bit testy, aren’t you?” he murmured and earned a lethal glare. “And hot.” He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “How long have you been at it?”
“Since a bit after four.” After shrugging his hand away she began to rapidly cut out pastry shells. Blake watched, surprised. He’d never seen her work quickly before. “Move.”
He stepped back but continued to watch her. By his calculations, she’d worked on the menus in the windowless storage room for more than six hours, and had now been on her feet for nearly three. Too small, he thought as a protective urge moved through him. Too delicate.
“Summer, can’t someone else take over now? You should rest.”
“No one touches my desserts.” This was said in such a strong, authoritative voice that the image of a delicate flower vanished. He grinned despite himself.
“Anything I can do?”
“I’ll want some champagne in an hour. Dom Perignon, ’73.”
He nodded as an idea began to form in his mind. She smelled like the desserts lined on the counter in front of her. Tempting, delicious. Since he’d met her, Blake had discovered he possessed a very demanding sweet tooth. “Have you eaten?”
“A sandwich a few hours ago,” she said testily. “Do you think I could eat at a time like this?”
He glanced at the sumptuous array of cakes and pastries. He could smell delicately roasted meats, spicy sauces. Blake shook his head. “No, of course not. I’ll be back.”
Summer muttered something, then fluted the edges of her pastry shells.
Chapter Seven
By eight o’clock, Summer was finished, and not in the best of humors. For nearly four hours, she’d whipped, rolled, fluted and baked. Often, she’d spent twice that time, and twice that effort, perfecting one single dish. That was art. This, on the other hand, had been labor, plain and simple.
She felt no flash of triumph, no glow of self-satisfaction, but simply fatigue. An army cook, she thought disdainfully; it was hardly different from producing the quickest and easiest for the masses. At the moment, if she never saw the inside of another egg ag
ain, it would be too soon.
“There should be enough made up to get us through the dinner hour, and room service tonight,” she told Max briskly as she pulled off her soiled apron. Critically she frowned at a line of fruit tarts. More than one of them were less than perfect in shape. If there’d been time, she’d have discarded them and made others. “I want someone in touch with personnel first thing in the morning to see about hiring two more dessert chefs.”
“Mr. Cocharan has already contacted personnel.” Max stood stiffly, not wanting to give an inch, though he’d been impressed with how quickly and efficiently she’d avoided what could easily have been a catastrophe. He clung tightly to his resentment, even though he had to admit—to himself—that she baked the best apricot tart he’d ever tasted.
“Fine.” Summer ran a hand over the back of her neck. The skin there was damp, the muscles drawn taut. “Nine o’clock tomorrow, Max, in my office. Let’s see if we can get organized. I’m going home to soak in a hot tub until morning.”
Blake had been leaning against the wall, watching her work. It had been fascinating to see just how quickly the temperamental artist had put her nose to the grindstone and produced.
She’d shown him two things he hadn’t expected—a speed and lack of histrionics when she’d been forced to deal with a less than ideal situation, and a calm acceptance of what was obviously a touchy area with Max. However much she played the role of prima donna, when her back was against the wall, she handled herself very well.
When she removed her apron, he stepped forward. “Give you a lift?”
Summer glanced over at him as she pulled the pins from her hair. It fell to her shoulders, tousled, and a bit damp at the ends from the heat. “I have my car.”
“And I have mine.” The arrogance, with that trace of aloofness was still there, even when he smiled.
“And a bottle of Dom Perignon, ’73. My driver can pick you up in the morning.”