Summer Desserts

by Nora Roberts

  “So many dimensions, from every angle you can see something different. A strong stone, and more elegant than any other.” Laying the bracelet over her wrist, he clasped it. His gaze lifted and locked on hers. “I didn’t do this tonight for any reason other than I wanted to do it.”

  She was breathless, vulnerable. Would it be like this every time he looked at her? “You begin to worry me,” Summer whispered.

  The one quiet statement had the need whipping through him almost out of control. He rose, then, drawing her to her feet, crushed her against him before she could agree or protest. “Good.”

  His mouth wasn’t patient this time. There seemed to be a desperate need to hurry, take all, take everything. Hunger that had nothing to do with the meal still unfinished on the table sped through him. She was every desire, and every answer. Biting off an oath, he pulled her to the floor.

  This was the whirlwind. She’d never been here before, trapped, exhilarated. Elated by the speed, trembling from the power, Summer moved with him. There was no patience with clothes this time. They were tugged and pulled and tossed aside until flesh could meet flesh. Hot and eager, her body arched against his. She wanted the wind and the fury that only he could bring her.

  As his hands sped over her, she delighted in their firmness, in the strength of each individual finger. Her own demands raged equally. Her mouth raced down his throat, teeth nipping, tongue darting. Each unsteady breath told her that she drove him just as he drove her. There was pleasure in that, she discovered. To give passion, and to have it returned to you. Even though her mind clouded, she knew the instant his control snapped.

  He was rough, but she delighted in it. She had taken him beyond the civilized only by being. His mouth was everywhere, tasting, on a crazed journey from her lips to her breasts—lingering—then lower, still lower, until she caught her breath in astonished excitement.

  The world peeled away, the floor, the walls, ceiling, then the sky and the ground itself. She was beyond all that, in some spiraling tunnel where only the senses ruled. Her body had no bounds, and she had no control. She moaned, struggling for a moment to pull it back, but the first peak swept her up, tossing her blindly. Even the illusion of reason shattered.

  He wanted her like this. Some dark, primitive part of him needed to know he could bring her to this throbbing, mindless world of sensations. She shuddered beneath him, gasping, yet he continued to drive her up again and again with hands and mouth only. He could see her face in the candlelight—those flickers of passion, of pleasure, of need. She was moist and heated. And he was greedy.

  Her skin pulsed under him everywhere he touched. When he touched his mouth to the sensitive curve where thigh meets hip, she arched and moaned his name. The sound of it tore through him, pounding in his blood long after there was silence.

  “Tell me you want me,” he demanded as he raced up her shuddering body again. “And only me.”

  “I want you.” She could think of nothing. She would have given him anything. “Only you.”

  They joined in a violence that went on and on, then shattered into a crystal contentment.

  She lay beneath him knowing she’d never gather the strength to move. There was barely the strength to breathe. It didn’t seem to matter. For the first time, she noticed the floor was hard beneath her, but it didn’t inspire her to shift to a more comfortable position. Sighing, she closed her eyes. Without too much effort, she could sleep exactly where she was.

  Blake moved, only to draw himself up and take his weight on his own arms. She seemed so fragile suddenly, so completely without defense. He hadn’t been gentle with her, yet during the loving, she’d seemed so strong, so full of fire.

  He gave himself the enjoyment of looking at her while she half dozed, wearing nothing more than diamonds at her wrist. As he watched, her eyes fluttered open and she watched him, catlike from half-lowered lids. Her lips curved. He grinned at her, then kissed them.

  “What’s for dessert?”

  Chapter Nine

  Unfortunately, Summer was going to need a phone in her office. She preferred to work undisturbed, and phones had a habit of disturbing, but the final menu was almost completed. She was approaching the practical stage of selective marketing. With so many new things—and difficult-to-come-by items—on the bill of fare, she would have to begin the process of finding the best suppliers. It was a job she would have loved to have delegated, but she trusted her own negotiating skills, and her own intuition, more than anyone else’s. When choosing a supplier of the best oysters or okra, you needed both.

  After tidying her morning’s work, Summer gave the stack of papers a satisifed nod. Her instincts about taking this very different sort of job had been valid. She was doing it, and doing it well. The kitchen remodeling was exactly what she’d envisioned, the staff was well trained—and with her carefully screened and selected additions would be only more so. The two new pastry chefs were better than she’d expected them to be. Julio and Georgia had sent a postcard from Hawaii, and it had been taped, with some honor, to the front of a refrigerator. Summer had only had a moment’s temptation to throw darts at it.

  She’d interfered very little with the setup in the dining room. The lighting there was excellent, the linen impeccable. The food—her food—alone would be all the refreshing the restaurant required.

  Soon, she thought, she’d be able to have the new menus printed. She had only to pin down a few prices first and haggle over terms and delivery hours. The next step was the installation of a phone. Choosing to deal with it immediately, she headed for the door. She entered the kitchen from one end as Monique entered from the other. All work ceased.

  It amused Summer, and rather pleased her, that her mother had that stunning effect on people. She could see Max standing, staring, with a kitchen spoon in one hand that dripped sauce unheeded onto the floor. And, of course, Monique knew how to make an entrance. It might be said she was a woman made for entrances.

  She smiled slowly—it almost appeared hesitantly—as she stepped in, bringing the scent of Paris and spring with her. Her eyes were more gray than her daughter’s and, despite the difference in years and experience, held more innocence. Summer had yet to decide if it was calculated or innate.

  “Perhaps someone could help me?”

  Six men stepped forward. Max came perilously close to allowing the stock from the spoon to drip on Monique’s shoulder. Summer decided it was time to restore order. “Mother.” She brushed her way through the circle of bodies surrounding Monique.

  “Ah, Summer, just who I was looking for.” Even as she took her daughter’s hands, she gave the group of male faces a sweeping smile. “How fascinating. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a hotel kitchen before. It’s so—ah—large, oui?”

  “Please, Ms. Dubois—madame.” Unable to contain himself, Max took Monique’s hand. “I’d be honored to show you whatever you’d like to see. Perhaps you’d care to sample some of the soup?”

  “How kind.” Her smile would have melted chocolate at fifty yards. “Of course, I must see everything where my daughter works.”

  “Daughter?”

  Obviously, Summer mused, Max had heard nothing but violins since Monique walked into the room. “My mother,” Summer said clearly, “Monique Dubois. This is Max, who’s in charge of the kitchen staff.”

  Mother? Max thought dumbly. But of course the resemblance was so strong he felt like a fool for not seeing it before. There wasn’t a Dubois film he hadn’t seen at least three times. “A pleasure.” Rather gallantly, he kissed the offered hand. “An honor.”

  “How comforting to know my daughter works with such a gentleman.” Though Summer’s lip curled, she said nothing. “And I would love to see everything, just everything—perhaps later today?” she added before Max could begin again. “Now, I must steal Summer away for just a short time. Tell me, would it be possible to have some champagne and caviar delivered to my suite?”

  “Caviar isn’t on the menu,�
� Summer put in with an arch look at Max. “As yet.”

  “Oh.” Prettily, Monique pouted. “I suppose some pâté, or some cheese would do.”

  “I’ll see to it personally. Right away, madame.”

  “So kind.” With a flutter of lashes, Monique slipped her arm through Summer’s and swept from the room.

  “Laying it on a bit thick,” Summer muttered.

  Monique threw back her head and gave a bubbling laugh. “Don’t be so British, chérie. I just did you an enormous service. I learned from the delightful young Cocharan this morning that not only is my daughter an employee at this very hotel—which you didn’t bother to tell me—but that you had a few internal problems in the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t tell you because it’s only a temporary arrangement, and because it’s been keeping me quite busy. As to the internal problems…”

  “In the form of one very large Max.” Monique glided into the elevator.

  “I can handle them just fine by myself,” Summer finished.

  “But it doesn’t hurt to have him impressed by your parentage.” After pressing the button for her floor, Monique turned to study her daughter. “So, I look at you in the light and see that you’ve grown more lovely. That pleases me. If one must have a grown daughter, one should have a beautiful grown daughter.”

  Laughing, Summer shook her head. “You’re as vain as ever.”

  “I’ll always be vain,” Monique said simply. “God willing I’ll always have a reason to be. Now—” she motioned Summer out of the elevator “—I’ve had my morning coffee and croissants, and my massage. I’m ready to hear about this new job of yours and your new lover. From the look of you, both agree with you.”

  “I believe it’s customary for mothers and daughters to discuss new jobs, but not new lovers.”

  “Pooh.” Monique tossed open the door to her suite. “We were never just mother and daughter, but friends, n’est-çe pas? And chère amies always discuss new lovers.”

  “The job,” Summer said distinctly as she dropped into a butter-soft daybed and brought up her legs, “is working out quite well. I took it originally because it intrigued me and—well because Blake threw LaPointe up in my face.”

  “LaPointe? The beady-eyed little man you detest so much? The one who told the Paris papers you were his…”

  “Mistress,” Summer said violently.

  “Ah, yes, such a foolish word, mistress, so antiquated, don’t you agree? Unless one considers that mistress is the feminine term for master.” Monique smiled serenely as she draped herself on the sofa. “And were you?”

  “Certainly not. I wouldn’t have let him put his pudgy little hands on me if he’d been half the chef he claims to be.”

  “You might have sued.”

  “Then more people would’ve snickered and said where there’s smoke there’s fire. The little French swine would’ve loved that.” She was gritting her teeth, so she deliberately relaxed her jaw. “Don’t get me started on LaPointe. It was enough that Blake maneuvered me into this job with him as an edge.”

  “A very clever man—your Blake, that is.”

  “He’s not my Blake,” Summer said pointedly. “He’s his own man, just as I’m my own woman. You know I don’t believe in that sort of thing.” The discreet knock had Monique waving negligently and Summer rising to answer. She thought, as the tray of cheeses and fresh fruit and the bucket of iced champagne was wheeled in, that Max must have dashed around like a madman to have it served so promptly. Summer signed the check with a flourish and dismissed the waiter.

  Idly Monique inspected the tray before choosing a single cube of cheese. “But you’re in love with him.”

  Busy with the champagne cork, Summer glanced over. “What?”

  “You’re in love with the young Cocharan.”

  The cork exploded out, champagne fizzed and geysered from the bottle. Monique merely lifted her glass to be filled. “I’m not in love with him,” Summer said with an underlying desperation her mother recognized.

  “One is always in love with one’s lover.”

  “No, one is not.” With a bit more control, Summer poured the wine. “Affairs don’t have to be romantic and flowery. I’m fond of Blake, I respect him. I consider him an attractive, intelligent man and enjoy his company.”

  “It’s possible to say the same of a brother, or an uncle. Even perhaps an ex-husband,” Monique commented. “This is not what I think you feel for Blake.”

  “I feel passion for him,” Summer said impatiently. “Passion is not to be equated with love.”

  “Ah, Summer.” Amused, Monique chose a grape. “You can think with your British mind, but you feel with your French heart. This young Cocharan isn’t a man any woman would lightly dismiss.”

  “Like father like son?” The moment it was said, Summer regretted it.

  But Monique only smiled, softly, reminiscently. “It occurred to me. I haven’t forgotten B.C.”

  “Nor he you.”

  Interested, Monique flipped back from the past. “You’ve met Blake’s father?”

  “Briefly. When your name was mentioned he looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.”

  The soft smile became brilliant. “How flattering. A woman likes to believe she remains in a man’s memory long after they part.”

  “You may be flattered. I can tell you I was damned uncomfortable.”

  “But why?”

  “Mother.” Restless, Summer rose again and began to pace. “I was attracted to Blake—very much attracted—and he to me. How do you think I felt when I was talking to his father, and both B.C. and I were thinking about the fact that you’d been lovers? I don’t think Blake has any idea. If he did, do you realize how awkward the situation would be?”

  “Why?”

  On a long breath, Summer turned to her mother again. “B.C. was and is married to Blake’s mother. I get the impression Blake’s rather fond of his mother, and of his father.”

  “What does that have to do with it?” Monique’s gesture was typically French—a slight shrug, a slight lifting of the hand, palm out. “I was fond of his father too. Listen to me,” she continued before Summer could retort. “B.C. was always in love with his wife. I knew that then. We consoled each other, made each other laugh in what was a miserable time for both of us. I’m grateful for it, not ashamed of it. Neither should you be.”

  “I’m not ashamed.” Frustrated, Summer dragged a hand through her hair. “I don’t ask you to be, but—damn it, Mother, it’s awkward.”

  “Life often is. You’ll remind me there are rules, and so there are.” She threw back her head and took on the regal haughtiness her daughter had inherited. “I don’t play by the rules, and I don’t apologize.”

  “Mother.” Cursing herself, Summer went and knelt beside the couch. “I wasn’t criticizing you. It’s only that what’s right for you, what’s good for you, isn’t right and good for me.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think I’d have you live my life?” Monique laid a hand on her daughter’s head. “Perhaps I’ve seen more deep happiness than you’ve seen. But I’ve also seen more deep despair. I can’t wish you the first without knowing you’d face the second. I want for you only what you wish for yourself.”

  “Some things you’re afraid to wish for.”

  “No, but some things are more carefully wished for. I will give you some advice.” She patted Summer’s head, then drew her up to sit on the sofa. “When you were a little girl, I gave you none because small children have always been a mystery to me. When you grew up, you wouldn’t have listened to any. Perhaps now we’ve come to the point between mother and daughter when each understands the other is intelligent.”

  With a laugh, Summer picked a strawberry from the tray. “All right, I’ll listen.”

  “It does not make you less of a woman to need a man.” When Summer frowned, she continued. “To need one to exist, yes, this is nonsense. To need one to give one scope and importanc
e, this is dishonest. But to need a man, one man, to bring joy and passion? This is life.”

  “There can be joy and passion in a woman’s life without a man.”

  “Some joy, some passion,” Monique agreed. “Why settle for some? What is it that you prove by cutting off what is a natural need? Perhaps it’s a foolish woman who takes a different man as a husband, four times. Again, I don’t apologize, but only remind you that Summer Lyndon is not Monique Dubois. We look for different things in different ways. But we are both women. I don’t regret my choices.”

  With a sigh, Summer laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I want to be able to say that for myself. I’ve always thought I could.”

  “You’re an intelligent woman. What choice you make will be right for you.”

  “My greatest fear has always been to make a mistake.”

  “Perhaps your greatest fear is your greatest mistake.” She touched Summer’s cheek again. “Come, pour me some more champagne. I’ll tell you of my Keil.”

  When Summer returned to the kitchen, her mind was still playing back her conversation with Monique. It was rare that Monique pressed her for details about her personal life, and rarer still for her to offer advice. It was true that most of the hour they’d spent together had been devoted to a listing of Keil Morrison’s virtues, but in those first few moments, Monique had said things designed to make Summer think—designed to make her begin to doubt her own list of priorities.

  But when she approached the swinging doors leading into the kitchen, and the sounds of the argument met her, she knew her thinking would have to wait.

  “My casserole’s perfect.”

  “Too much milk, too little cheese.”

  “You’ve never been able to admit that my casseroles are better than yours.”