Summer Desserts
Page 20
When the door closed, Summer stood where she was, unsure if she wanted to applaud or throw something.
“Quite a performance,” Blake commented. “More wine?”
She could be as urbane and casual as he. “All right.”
“And how was Rome?”
“Hot.”
“And your cake?”
“Magnificent.” Lifting her freshly filled glass, she took two steps away. It was always better to talk of the unimportant when so many urgent needs were pressing. “Things running smoothly here?”
“Amazingly so. Though I think everyone’ll be relieved that you’re here for the first run tomorrow. Tell me—” he sipped his own wine, approving it “—when did you first know that my father and your mother had had an affair?”
That was blunt enough, she thought. Well, she would be equally blunt. “When it was happening. I was only a child, but children are astute. You could say I suspected it then. I was sure of it when I first mentioned my mother’s name to your father.”
He nodded, remembering the meeting in his office. “Just how much have you let that bother you?”
“It was awkward.” Restlessly she moved her shoulders.
“And you were determined not to let history repeat itself.”
His perception was too often killingly accurate. “Perhaps.”
“But then, in a matter of speaking, it did.”
With another attempt at casualness, she spread some caviar on a cracker. “But then, neither of us was married.”
As if it were only general cocktail talk, Blake chose a quiche. “You know why your mother did this tonight.”
Summer shook her head when he offered the tray. “Monique could never resist a scene of any kind. She set the stage, brought in the players, to show me, I think, that while marriage might not be perfect, it can be durable.”
“Was she successful?” When she didn’t speak, Blake set down his glass. It was time they stopped hedging, time they stopped speaking in generalities. “There hasn’t been an hour since the last time I saw you that I haven’t thought of you.”
Her eyes met his. Helplessly she shook her head. “Blake, I don’t think you should—”
“Damn it, you’re going to hear me out. We’re good for each other. You can’t tell me you don’t believe that. Maybe you were right before about the way I planned out my…courtship,” he decided for a lack of a better word. “Maybe I was too smug about it, too sure that if I waited for just the right moment, I’d have exactly what I wanted with the least amount of trouble. I had to be sure or I’d’ve gone insane trying to give you enough time to see just what we could have together.”
“I was too hard that night.” She wrapped her arms around herself then dropped them to her sides. “I said things because you frightened me. I didn’t mean them, not all of them.”
“Summer.” He touched her cheek. “I meant everything I said that night. I want you now as much as I wanted you the first time.”
“I’m here.” She stepped closer. “We’re alone.”
The need twisted inside him. “I want to make love with you, but not until I know what it is you want from me. Do you want only a few nights, a few memories, like our parents had together?”
She turned away then. “I don’t know how to explain.”
“Tell me how you feel.”
She took a moment to steady herself. “All right. When I cook, I take this ingredient and that. I have my own hands, my own skill, and putting these together, I make something perfect. If I don’t find it perfect, I toss it out. There’s little patience in me.” She paused a moment, wondering if he could possibly understand this kind of analogy. “I’ve thought that if I ever decided to become involved in a relationship, there would be this ingredient and that, and again I’d put them together. But I knew it would never be perfect. So…” She let out a long breath. “I wondered if that too would be something to toss out.”
“A relationship isn’t something that has to be created in a day, or perfected in a day. Part of the game is to keep working on it. Fifty years still isn’t long enough.”
“A long time to work on something that’ll always be just a little flawed.”
“Too much of a challenge?”
She whirled, then stopped. “You know me too well,” she murmured. “Too well for my own good. Maybe too well for your own.”
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “You are my own good.”
Her mouth trembled open, then closed. “Please,” she managed, “I want to finish this. When I was in Rome, I tried to tell myself that this was what I wanted—to go back to flying here, there, without anyone to worry about but myself and the next dish I would create. When I was in Rome,” she added with a sigh, “I was more miserable than I’ve ever been in my life.”
He couldn’t prevent the grin. “Sorry to hear it.”
“No, I think you’re not.” Turning away, she ran her fingertip around and around the rim of a champagne glass. Since she would only explain once, she wanted to be certain she explained well. “On the plane, I told myself that when I came back, we would talk, reasonably, logically. We’d work the situation out in the best manner. In my head, I thought that would be a continuation of our relationship as it was. Intimacy without strings, which is perhaps not intimacy at all.” She lifted the glass and sipped some of the cold, frothy wine. “When I walked in here tonight and saw you, I knew that would be impossible. We can’t see each other as we have been. In the end, that would damage us both.”
“You’re not walking out of my life.”
Turning back, she stood toe-to-toe with him. “I would, if I could. And damn it, you’re not the one who’s stopping me. It’s me! None of your planning, none of your logic could’ve changed what was inside me. Only I could change it, only what I feel could change it.”
She took his hands. She took a deep breath. “I want to ride that merry-go-round with you, and I want my shot at the brass ring.”
His hands slid up her arms, into her hair. “Why? Just tell me why.”
“Because sometime between the moment you walked in my front door and now, I fell in love with you. No matter how foolish it is, I want to take a chance on that.”
“We’re going to win.” His mouth sought hers, and when she trembled he knew it was as much from nerves as passion. Soon they’d face the passion, now he would soothe the nerves. “If you like, we’ll take a trial period.” He began to roam her face with kisses. “We can even put it in contract form—more practical.”
“Trial?” She started to draw away from him, but he held her close.
“Yes, and if during the trial period either of us wants a divorce, they simply have to wait until the end of the contract term.”
Her brows came together. Could he speak of business now? Would he dare? Her chin tilted challengingly. “How long is the contract term?”
“Fifty years.”
Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck. “Deal. I want it drawn up tomorrow, in triplicate. But tonight—” she began to nibble on his lips as she ran her hands beneath his jacket “—tonight we’re only lovers. Truly lovers now. And the suite is ours till morning.”
The kiss was long—it was slow—it was lingering.
“Remind me to send Monique a case of champagne,” Blake said as he lifted Summer into his arms.
“Speaking of it…” Leaning over—a bit precariously—she lifted the two half-full glasses from the table. “We shouldn’t let it get flat. And later,” she continued as he carried her toward the bedroom, “much later, perhaps we can send out for pizza.”
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Summer Desserts
Copyright © 1985 by Nora Roberts
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