Summer Desserts

because drinkingit only seemed to accentuate the odd little flutter in her stomach. “I invariably stay at them myself.”
    “I’ve been told your standards of quality are equally high.”
    This time when Summer smiled there was a hint of arrogance to it. “I’m the very best at what I do because I have no intention of being otherwise.”
    The first key, Blake decided with satisfaction. Professional vanity. “So my information tells me, Ms. Lyndon. The very best is all that interests me.”
    “So.” Summer propped an elbow on the back of the sofa then rested her head on the palm. “How exactly do I interest you, Mr. Cocharan?” She knew the question was loaded, but couldn’t resist. When a woman was constantly taking risks and making experiments in her professional life, the habit often leaked through.
    Six separate answers skimmed through his mind, none of which had any bearing on his purpose for being there. Blake set down his coffee. “The restaurants at the Cocharan Houses are renowned for their quality and service. However, recently the restaurant here in our Philadelphia complex seems to be suffering from a lack of both. Frankly, Ms. Lyndon, it’s my opinion that the food has become too pedestrian—too boring. I plan to do some remodeling, both in physical structure and in staff.”
    “Wise. Restaurants, like people, often become too complacent.”
    “I want the best head chef available.” He aimed a level look. “My research tells me that’s you.”
    Summer lifted a brow, not in surprise this time but in consideration. “That’s flattering, but I freelance, Mr. Cocharan. And I specialize.”
    “Specialize, yes, but you do have both experience and knowledge in all areas of haute cuisine. As for the freelancing, you’d be free to continue that to a large extent, at least after the first few months. You’d need to establish your own staff and create your own menu. I don’t believe in hiring an expert, then interfering.”
    She was frowning again—concentration not annoyance. It was tempting, very tempting. Perhaps it was just the travel weariness from her trip back from Italy, but she’d begun to grow a bit tired—bored?—with the constant demands of flying to any given country to make that one dish. It seemed he’d hit her at the right moment to stir her interest in concentrating on one place, and one kitchen, for a span of time.
    It would be interesting work—if he were being truthful about the free hand she’d have—redoing a kitchen and the menu in an old, established and respected hotel. It would take her perhaps six months of intense effort, and then… It was the “and then” that made her hesitate again. If she gave that much time and effort to a full-time job, would she still retain her flair for the spectacular? That, too, was something to consider.
    She’d always had a firm policy against committing herself to any one establishment—a wariness of commitments ribboned through all areas of her life. If you locked yourself into something, to someone, you opened yourself to all manner of complications.
    Besides, Summer reasoned, if she wanted to affiliate herself with a restaurant, she could open and run her own. She hadn’t done it yet because it would tie her too long to one place, attach her too closely to one project. She preferred traveling, creatingone superb dish at a time, then moving on. The next country, the next dish. That was her style. Why should she consider altering it now?
    “A very flattering offer, Mr. Cocharan—”
    “A mutually advantageous one,” he interrupted, perceptive enough to catch the beginning of a refusal. With deliberate ease, he tossed out a six-digit annual salary that rendered Summer momentarily speechless—not a simple task.
    “And generous,” she said when she found her voice again.
    “One doesn’t get the best unless one’s willing to pay for it. I’d like you to think about this, Ms. Lyndon.” He reached in his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “This is a draft of an agreement. You might like to have your attorney look it over, and of course, points can be negotiated.”
    She didn’t want to look at the damn contract because she could feel, quite tangibly, that she was being maneuvered into a corner—a very plush one. “Mr. Cocharan, I do appreciate your interest, but—”
    “After you’ve thought it over, I’d like to discuss it with you again, perhaps over dinner. Say, Friday?”
    Summer narrowed