the window. Chopin floated from the stereo.
As he stood there, drawing it in, he was abruptly certain there was no one in the apartment but himself and the woman who had opened the door. Summer Lyndon? Fascinated with the idea, and with the aroma creeping from the kitchen, Blake crossed the room.
Six pastry shells, just touched with gold and moisture, sat on a rack. One by one Summer filled them to overflowing with what appeared to be some rich white cream. When Blake glanced at her face he saw the concentration, the seriousness and intensity he might have associated with a brain surgeon. It should have amused him. Yet somehow, with the strains of Chopin pouring through the kitchen speakers, with those delicate, slim-fingered hands arranging the cream in mounds, he was fascinated.
She dipped a fork in a pan and dribbled what he guessed was warmed caramel over the cream. It ran lavishly down the sides and gelled. He doubted that it was humanly possible not to lust after just one taste. Again, one by one, she scooped up the tarts and placed them on a plate lined with a lacy paper doily. When the last one was arranged, she looked up at Blake.
“Would you like some coffee?” She smiled and the line of concentration between her brows disappeared. The intensity that had seemed to darken her irises lightened.
Blake glanced at the dessert plate and wondered how her waist could be hand-spannable. “Yes, I would.”
“It’s hot,” she told him as she lifted the plate. “Help yourself. I have to run these next door.” She was past him and to the doorway of the kitchen before she turned around. “Oh, there’re some cookies in the jar, if you like. I’ll be right back.”
She was gone, and the pastries with her. With a shrug, he turned back to the kitchen, which was a shambles. Summer Lyndon might be a great cook, but she was obviously not a neat one. Still if the scent and look of the pastries had been any indication…
He started to root in the cupboards for a cup, then gave in to temptation. Standing in his Saville Row suit, Blake ran his finger along the edge of the bowl that had held the cream. He laid it on his tongue. With a sigh, his eyes closed. Rich, thick and very French.
He’d dined in the most exclusive restaurants, in some of the wealthiest homes, in dozens of countries all over the world. Logically, practically, honestly, he couldn’t say he’d ever tasted better than what he now scooped from the bowl in this woman’s kitchen. In deciding to specialize in desserts and pastries, Summer Lyndon had chosen well, he concluded. He felt a momentary regret that she’d taken those rich, fat tarts to someone else. This time when Blake started his search for a cup, he spotted the ceramic cookie jar shaped like a panda.
Normally he wouldn’t have been interested. He wasn’t a man with a particularly active sweet tooth. But the flavor of the cream lingered on his tongue. What sort of cookie did a woman who created the finest of haute cuisine make? With a cup of English bone china in one hand, Blake lifted off the top of the panda’s head. Setting it down, he pulled out a cookie and stared in simple wonder.
No American could mistake that particular munchie. A classic? he mused. A tradition? An Oreo. Blake continued to stare at the chocolate sandwich cookie with its double dose of white center. He turned it over in his hand. The brand was unmistakably stamped into both sides. This from a woman who baked and whipped and glazed for royalty?
A laugh broke from him as he dropped the Oreo back into the panda. Throughout his career he’d had to deal with more than his share of eccentrics. Running a chain of hotels wasn’t just a matter of who checked in and who checked out. There were designers, artists, architects, decorators, chefs, musicians, union representatives. Blake considered himself knowledgeable of people. It wouldn’t take him long to learn what made Summer tick.
She dashed back into the kitchen just as he was finally pouring the coffee. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Cocharan. I know it was rude.” She smiled, as if she had no doubt she’d be forgiven, as she poured her own coffee. “I had to get those pastries finished for my neighbor. She’s having a small engagement tea this afternoon—with prospective in-laws.” Her smile turned to a grin, and sipping her black coffee, she plucked the top from the panda. “Did you want a cookie?”
“No. Please, you go ahead.”
Taking him at his word, Summer chose one and nibbled. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “these are uniformly excellent for their kind.” She gestured with the half cookie she had left. “Shall we go sit down and discuss your proposition?”
She moved fast, he mused with approval. Perhaps he’d at least been on the mark about the no-nonsense attitude. With a nod of acknowledgment, Blake followed her. He was successful in his profession, not because he was a third-generation Cocharan, but because he had a quick and analytical mind. Problems were systematically solved. At the moment, he had to decide just how to approach a woman like Summer Lyndon.
She had a face that belonged in the shade of a tree on the Bois de Boulogne. Very French, very elegant. Her voice had the round, clear tones that spoke unmistakably of European education and upbringing—a wisp of France again but with the discipline of Britain. Her hair was pinned up, a concession to the heat and humidity, he imagined—though she had the windows open, ignoring the available air-conditioning. The studs in her ears were emeralds, round and flawless. There was a good-sized tear in the sleeve of her T-shirt.
Sitting on the couch, she folded her legs under her. Her bare toes were painted with a wild rose enamel, but her fingernails were short and unvarnished. He caught the allure of her scent—a touch of the caramel from the pastries, but under it something unmistakably French, unapologetically sexual.
How did one approach such a woman? Blake reflected. Did he use charm, flattery or figures? She was reputed to be a perfectionist and occasionally a firebrand. She’d refused to cook for an important political figure because he wouldn’t fly her personal kitchen equipment to his country. She’d charged a Hollywood celebrity a small fortune to create a twenty-tiered wedding cake extravaganza. And she’d just hand-baked and hand-delivered a plate of pastries to a neighbor for a tea. Blake would much prefer to have the key to her before he made his offer. He knew the advantages of taking a circular route. Indeed some might call it stalking.
“I’m acquainted with your mother,” Blake began easily as he continued to gauge the woman beside him.
“Really?” He caught both amusement and affection in the word. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said as she nibbled on the cookie again. “My mother always patronized a Cocharan House when we traveled. I believe I had dinner with your grandfather when I was six or seven.” The amusement didn’t fade as she sipped at her coffee. “Small world.”
An excellent suit, Summer decided, relaxing against the back of the sofa. It was well cut and conservative enough to have gained her father’s approval. The form it was molded to was well built and lean enough to have gained her mother’s. It was perhaps the combination of the two that drew her interest.
Good God, he is attractive, she thought as she took another considering survey of his face. Not quite smooth, not quite rugged, his power sat well on him. That was something she recognized—in herself and in others. She respected someone who sought and got his own way, as she judged Blake did. She respected herself for the same reason. Attractive, she thought again—but she felt that a man like Blake would be so, regardless of physical appearance.
Her mother would have called him séduisant, and accurately so. Summer would have called him dangerous. A difficult combination to resist. She shifted, perhaps unconsciously to put more distance between them. Business, after all, was business.
“You’re
