Summer Desserts

by Nora Roberts

  He thought about reaching for a cigarette then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “I wanted those hotels. As it turned out, the deal satisfied all parties in the end. You can’t ask for more than that.”

  “No.” Thoughtfully, she rolled over so that she could look at him directly. Her hair brushed over his chest. “Why did you want them? Is it the acquisition itself, the property, or just a matter of enjoying the wheeling and dealing? The strategy of negotiations?”

  “It’s all of that. Part of the enjoyment in business is setting up deals, working out the flaws, following through until you’ve gotten what you were aiming for. In some ways it’s not that different from art.”

  “Business isn’t art,” Summer corrected archly.

  “There are parallels. You set up an idea, work out the flaws, then follow through until you’ve created what you wanted.”

  “You’re being logical again. In art you use the emotion in equal parts with the mind. You can’t do that in business.” Her shrug was typically French. Somehow she became more French whenever her craft was under discussion. “This is all facts and figures.”

  “You left out instinct. Facts and figures aren’t enough without that.”

  She frowned, considering. “Perhaps, but you wouldn’t follow instinct over a solid set of facts.”

  “Even a solid set of facts varies according to the circumstances and the players.” He was thinking of her now, and himself. Reaching up, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “Instincts are very often more reliable.”

  And she was thinking of him now, and herself. “Often more,” Summer murmured, “but not always more. That leaves room for failure.”

  “No amount of planning, no amount of facts, precludes failure.”

  “No.” She laid her head on his shoulder again, trying to ward off the little trickle of panic that was trying to creep in.

  He ran a hand down her back. She was still so cautious, he thought. A little more time, a little more room—a change of subject. “I have twenty new hotels to oversee, to reorganize,” he began. “That means twenty more kitchens that have to be studied and graded. I’ll need an expert.”

  She smiled a little as she lifted her head again. “Twenty is a very demanding and time-consuming number.”

  “Not for the best.”

  Tilting her head, she looked down her straight, elegant nose. “Naturally not, but the best is very difficult to come by.”

  “The best is currently very soft and very naked in my arms.”

  Her lips curved slowly, the way he most enjoyed them. “Very true. But this, I think, is not a negotiating table.”

  “You’ve a better idea how to spend the evening?”

  She ran a fingertip along his jawline. “Much better.”

  He caught her hand in his and, drawing her finger into his mouth, nipped lightly. “Show me.”

  The idea appealed, and excited. It seemed that whenever they made love she was quickly dominated by her own emotions and his skill. This time, she would set the pace, and in her own time, in her own way, she would destroy the innate control that brought her both admiration and frustration. Just the thought of it sent a thrill racing up her spine.

  She brought her mouth close to his, but used her tongue to taste. Slowly, very slowly, she traced his lips. Already she could feel the heat rising. With a lazy sigh, she shifted so that her body moved over his as she trailed kisses down his jaw.

  A strong face, she thought, aristocratic but not soft, intelligent, but not cold. It was a face some women would find haughty—until they looked into the eyes. She did so now and saw the intensity, the heat, even the ruthlessness.

  “I want you more than I should,” she heard herself say. “I have you less than I want.”

  Before he could speak, she crushed her mouth to his and started the journey for both of them.

  He was still throbbing from her words alone. He’d wanted to hear that kind of admission from her; he’d waited to hear it. Just as he’d waited to feel this strong, pure emotion from her. It was that emotion that stripped away all his defenses even as her seeking hands and mouth exploited the weaknesses.

  She touched. His skin heated.

  She tasted. His blood sang.

  She encompassed. His mind swam.

  Vulnerable. Blake discovered the new sensation in himself. She made him so. In the soft, lowering light—near dusk—he was trapped in that midnight world of quietly raging powers. Her fingers were cool and very sure as they stroked, enticed. He could feel them slide leisurely over him, pausing to linger while she sighed. And while she sighed, she exploited. His body was weighed down with layer after layer of pleasures—to be seduced so carefully, to be desired so fully.

  With long, lengthy, openmouthed kisses, she explored all of him, reveling in the firm masculinity of his body—knowing she would soon rip apart that impenetrable control. She was obsessed with it, and with him. Could it be that now, after she’d made love with him, after she’d begun to understand the powers and weaknesses in his body, she would find even more delight in learning of them again?

  There seemed to be no end to the variations of her feelings, to the changes of sensations she could experience when she was with him like this. Each time, every time, was as vital and unique as the first had been. If this was a contradiction to everything she’d ever believed was true about a man and woman, she didn’t question it now. She exalted in it.

  He was hers. Body and mind—she felt it. Almost tangibly she could sense the polish, the civilized sheen, that was so much a part of him melt away. It was what she wanted.

  There was little sanity left. As she roamed over him the need became more primitive, more primal. He wanted more, endlessly more, but the blood was drumming in his head. She was so agile, so relentless. He experienced a wave of pure helplessness for the first time in his life. Her hands were clever—so clever he couldn’t hear the quick unsteadiness of her breathing. He could feel her tormenting him exquisitely, but he couldn’t see the flickers of passion or depth of desire in her eyes. He was blind and deaf to everything.

  Then her mouth was devouring his and everything savage that civilized men restrain tore from him. He was mad for her. In his mind were dark swirling colors, in his ears was a wild rushing like a sea crazed by a storm. Her name ripped from him like an oath as he gripped her, rolling her to her back, enclosing her, possessing her.

  And there was nothing but her, to take, to drown in, to ravage and to worship until passion spun from its peak and emptied him.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m starving.”

  It was full dark, with no moon to shed any trickle of light into the room. The darkness itself was comfortable and easy. They were still naked and tangled on Summer’s bed, but the piano had been silent for an hour. There were no more supper smells in the air. Blake drew her a bit closer and kept his eyes shut, though it wasn’t sleep he sought. Somehow in the silence, in the darkness, he felt closer to her.

  “I’m starving,” Summer repeated, a bit sulkily this time.

  “You’re the chef.”

  “Oh, no, not this time.” Rising on her elbow, Summer glared at him. She could see the silhouette of his profile, the long line of chin, the straight nose, the sweep of brow. She wanted to kiss all of them again, but knew it was time to make a stand. “It’s definitely your turn to cook.”

  “My turn?” He opened one eye, cautiously. “I could send out for pizza.”

  “Takes too long.” She rolled on top of him to give him a smacking kiss—and a quick jab in the ribs. “I said I was starving. That’s an immediate problem.”

  He folded his arms behind his head. He, too, could see only a silhouette—the drape of her hair, slope of her shoulder, the curve of her breasts. It was enough. “I don’t cook.”

  “Everyone cooks something,” she insisted.

  “Scrambled eggs,” he said, hoping it would discourage her. “That’s about it.”

  “That’ll do.�
�� Before he could think of anything to change her mind, she was off the bed and switching on the bedside lamp.

  “Summer!” He tossed his arm over his eyes to shield them and tried a halfhearted moan. She grinned at that before she turned to the closet to find a robe.

  “I have eggs, and a skillet.”

  “I make very bad eggs.”

  “That’s okay.” She found his slacks, shook them out briefly, then tossed them on top of him. “Real hunger makes allowances.”

  Resigned, Blake put his feet on the floor. “Then I don’t expect a critique afterward.”

  While she waited, he slipped into a pair of brief jockey shorts. They were dark blue, cut low at the waist, high at the thigh. Very sexy, she mused, and very discreet. Strange how such an incidental thing could reflect a personality.

  “Cooks like to be cooked for,” she told him as he drew on his slacks.

  He shrugged into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. “Then don’t interfere.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hooking her arm through his, Summer led him to the kitchen. Again, she switched on lights and made him wince. “Make yourself at home,” she invited.

  “Aren’t you going to assist?”

  “No, indeed.” Summer took the top off the cookie jar and plucked out the familiar sandwich cookie. “I don’t work overtime and I never assist.”

  “Union rules?”

  “My rules.”

  “You’re going to eat cookies?” he asked as he rummaged for a bowl. “And eggs?”

  “This is just the appetizer,” she said with her mouth full. “Want one?”

  “I’ll pass.” Sticking his head in the refrigerator, he found a carton of eggs and a quart of milk.

  “You might want to grate a bit of cheese,” Summer began, then shrugged when he sent her an arch look. “Sorry. Carry on.” Blake broke four eggs into the bowl then added a dollop of milk. “One should measure, you know.”

  “One shouldn’t talk with one’s mouth full,” he said mildly and began to beat the eggs.

  Overbeating them, she thought but managed to restrain herself. But when it came to cooking, willpower wasn’t her strong suit. “You haven’t heated up the pan, either.” Undaunted by being totally ignored, she took another cookie. “I can see you’re going to need lessons.”

  “If you want something to do, make some toast.”

  Obligingly she took a loaf of bread from the bin and popped two pieces in the toaster. “It’s characteristic of cooks to get a bit testy when they’re watched, but a good chef has to overcome that—and distractions.” She waited until he’d poured the egg mixture into a skillet before going to him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her lips to the back of his neck. “All manner of distraction. And you’ve got the flame up too high.”

  “Do you like your eggs singed or burned clear through?”

  With a laugh, she ran her hands up his bare chest. “Singed is fine. I have a nice little white Bordeaux you might’ve put in the eggs, but since you didn’t, I’ll just pour some into glasses.” She left him to cook and, by the time Blake had finished the eggs, she had buttered toast on a plate and chilled wine in glasses. “Impressive,” Summer decided as she sat at the dinette. “And aromatic.”

  But it’s the eyes that tell you first, he remembered. “Attractive?” He watched as she spooned eggs on her plate.

  “Very, and—” she took a first testing bite “—yes, and quite good, all in all. I might consider putting you on the breakfast shift, on a trial basis.”

  “I might consider the job, if cold cereal were the basic menu.”

  “You’ll have to expand your horizons.” She continued to eat, enjoying the hot, simple food on an empty stomach. “I believe you could be quite good at this with a few rudimentary lessons.”

  “From you?”

  She lifted her wine, and her eyes laughed over the rim. “If you like. You certainly couldn’t have a better teacher.”

  Her hair was still rumpled around her face—his hands had done that. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and flecked with gold. The robe threatened to slip off one shoulder, and left a teasing hint of skin exposed. As passion had stripped away his control, now emotions stripped away all logic.

  “I love you, Summer.”

  She stared at him while the smile faded slowly. What went through her she didn’t recognize. It didn’t seem to be any one sensation, but a cornucopia of fears, excitement, disbelief and longings. Oddly, no one of them seemed dominant at first, but were so mixed and muddled she tried to grip any one of them and hold on to it. Not knowing what else to do, she set the glass down precisely, then stared at the wine shimmering inside.

  “That wasn’t a threat.” He took her hand, holding it until she looked up at him again. “I don’t see how it could come as that much of a surprise to you.”

  But it had. She expected affection. That was something she could deal with. She understood respect. But love—that was such a fragile word. Such an easily broken word. And something inside her begged for it to be taken from him, cherished, protected. Summer struggled against it.

  “Blake, I don’t need to hear that sort of thing the way other women do. Please—”

  “Maybe you don’t.” He hadn’t started the way he’d intended to, but now that he had, he’d finish. “But I need to say it. I’ve needed to for a long time now.”

  She drew her hand from his and nervously picked up her glass again. “I’ve always thought that words are the first thing that can damage a relationship.”

  “When they’re not said,” Blake countered. “It’s a lack of words, a lack of meaning, that damages a relationship. This one isn’t a word I use casually.”

  “No.” She could believe that. It might have been the belief that had the fear growing stronger. Love, when it was given demanded some kind of return. She wasn’t ready—she was sure she wasn’t ready. “I think it’s best, if we want things to go on as they are, that we—”

  “I don’t want things to go on as they are,” he interrupted. He’d rather have felt annoyance than this panic that was sneaking in. He took a moment, trying to alleviate both. “I want you to marry me.”

  “No.” Summer’s own panic became full-blown. She stood quickly, as if that would erase the words, put back the distance. “No, that’s impossible.”

  “It’s very possible.” He rose too, unwilling to have her draw away from him. “I want you to share my life, my name. I want to share children with you and all the years it takes to watch them grow.”

  “Stop.” She threw up her hand, desperate to halt the words. They were moving her, and she knew it would be too easy to say yes and make that ultimate mistake.

  “Why?” Before she could prevent it, he’d taken her face in his hands. The touch was gentle, though there was steel beneath. “Because you’re afraid to admit it’s something you want, too?”

  “No, it’s not something I want—it’s not something I believe in. Marriage—it’s a license that costs a few dollars. A piece of paper. For a few thousand dollars more, you can get a divorce decree. Another piece of paper.”

  He could feel her trembling and cursed himself for not knowing how to get through. “You know better than that. Marriage is two people who make promises to each other, and who make the effort to keep them. A divorce is giving up.”

  “I’m not interested in promises.” Desperate, she pushed his hands from her face and stepped back. “I don’t want any made to me, and I don’t want to make any. I’m happy with my life just as it is. I have my career to think of.”

  “That’s not enough for you, and we both know it. You can’t tell me you don’t feel for me. I can see it. Every time I’m with you it shows in your eyes, more each time.” He was handling it badly, but saw no other course open but straight ahead. The closer he came, the further away she drew. “Damn it, Summer, I’ve waited long enough. If my timing’s not as perfect as I wanted it to be, it can’t be helped.”

&
nbsp; “Timing?” She dragged a hand through her hair. “What are you talking about? You’ve waited?” Dropping her hands, she began to pace the room. “Has this been one of your long-term plans, all neatly thought out, all meticulously outlined? Oh, I can see it.” She let out a trembling breath and whirled back to him. It no longer made any difference to her if she were unreasonable. “Did you sit in your office and go over your strategy point by point? Was this the setting up, the looking for flaws, the following through?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—”

  “Ridiculous?” she tossed back. “No, I think not. You’d play the game well—disarming, confusing, charming, supportive. Patience, you’d have a lot of that. Did you wait until you thought I was at my most vulnerable?” Her breath was heaving now, and the words were tumbling out on each one. “Let me tell you something, Blake, I’m not a hotel chain you can acquire by waiting until the market’s ripe.”

  In a slanted way she’d been killingly accurate. And the accuracy put him on the defensive. “Damn it, Summer, I want to marry you, not acquire you.”

  “The words are often one and the same, to my way of thinking. Your plan’s a little off the mark this time, Blake. No deal. Now, I want you to leave me alone.”

  “We have a hell of a lot of talking to do.”

  “No, we have no talking to do, not about this. I work for you, for the term of the contract. That’s all.”

  “Damn the contract.” He took her by the shoulders, shaking her once in frustration. “And damn you for being so stubborn. I love you. That’s not something you can brush aside as if it doesn’t exist.”

  To their mutual surprise, her eyes filled abruptly, poignantly. “Leave me alone,” she managed as the first tears spilled out. “Leave me completely alone.”

  The tears undermined him as her temper never would have done. “I can’t do that.” But he released her when he wanted to hold her. “I’ll give you some time, maybe we both need time, but we’ll have to come back to this.”

  “Just go away.” She never allowed tears in front of anyone. Though she tried to dash them away, others fell quickly. “Go away.” On the repetition she turned from him, holding herself stiff until she heard the click of the door.