thought of streaming sunlight and wet, fragrant grass. Because of it, his voice became cool and pragmatic. “You’re lovely.”
She couldn’t resist. Humor leaped into her eyes. “Of course.” For the first time she saw him grin—fast, appealing. Dangerous. In that moment she wasn’t quite certain who held the upper hand.
“My driver’s waiting outside,” Blake told her smoothly. Together they walked from the brightly lit, noisy kitchen out into the moonlit street. “I take it you were satisified with your part of the governor’s meal. You didn’t choose to stay for the criticism or compliments.”
As she stepped into the back of the limo, Summer sent him an incredulous look. “Criticism? The bombe is my specialty, Mr. Cocharan. It’s always superb. I need no one to tell me that.” She got in the car, smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs.
“Of course,” Blake murmured, sliding beside her, “it’s a complicated dish.” He went on conversationally, “If my memory serves me, it takes hours to prepare properly.”
She watched him remove a bottle of champagne from ice and open it with only a muffled pop. “There’s very little that can be superb in a short amount of time.”
“Very true.” Blake poured champagne into two tulip glasses and, handing Summer one, smiled. “To a lengthy association.”
Summer gave him a frank look as the streetlights flickered into the car and over his face. A bit Scottish warrior, a bit English aristocrat, she decided. Not a simple combination. Then again, simplicity wasn’t always what she looked for. With only a brief hesitation, she touched her glass to his. “Perhaps,” she said. “You enjoy your work, Mr. Cocharan?” She sipped, and without looking at the label, identified the vintage of the wine she drank.
“Very much.” He watched her as he drank, noting that she’d done no more than sweep some mascara over her lashes when she’d changed. For an instant he was distracted by the speculation of what her skin would feel like under his fingers. “It’s obvious by what I caught of that session in there that you enjoy yours.”
“Yes.” She smiled, appreciating him and what she thought would be an interesting struggle for power. “I make it a policy to do only what I enjoy. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have the same policy.”
He nodded, knowing he was being baited. “You’re very perceptive, Ms. Lyndon.”
“Yes.” She held her glass out for a refill. “You have excellent taste in wines. Does that extend to other areas?”
His eyes locked on hers as he filled her glass. “All other areas?”
Her mouth curved slowly as she brought the champagne to it. Summer enjoyed the effervescence she could feel just before she tasted it. “Of course. Would it be accurate to say that you’re a discriminating man?”
What the hell was she getting at? “If you like,” Blake returned smoothly.
“A businessman,” she went on. “An executive. Tell me, don’t executives…delegate?”
“Often.”
“And you? Don’t you delegate?”
“That depends.”
“I wondered why Blake Cocharan, III himself would take the time and trouble to woo a chef into his organization.”
He was certain she was laughing at him. More, he was certain she wanted him to know it. With an effort, he suppressed his annoyance. “This project is a personal pet of mine. Since I want only the best for it, I take the time and trouble to acquire the best personally.”
“I see.” The limo glided smoothly to the curb. Summer handed Blake her empty glass as the driver opened her door. “Then how strange that you would even mention LaPointe if only the best will serve you.” With the haughty grace a woman can only be born with, Summer alighted. That, she thought smugly, should poke a few holes in his arrogance.
The Cocharan House of Philadelphia stood only twelve stories and had a weathered brick facade. It had been built to blend and accent the colonial architecture that was the heart of the city. Other buildings might zoom higher, might gleam with modernity, but Blake Cocharan had known what he’d wanted. Elegance, style and discretion. That was Cocharan House. Summer was forced to approve. In a great many things, she preferred the old world to the new.
The lobby was quiet, and if the gold was a bit dull, the rugs a bit soft and faded looking, it was a deliberate and canny choice. Old, established wealth was the ambience. No amount of gloss, gleam or gilt would have been more effective.
Taking Summer’s arm, Blake passed through with only a nod here and there to the many “Good evening, Mr. Cocharans” he received. After inserting a key into a private elevator, he led her inside. They were enveloped by silence and smoked glass.
“A lovely place,” Summer commented. “It’s been years since I’ve been inside. I’d forgotten.” She glanced around the elevator and saw their reflections trapped deep in gray glass. “But don’t you find it confining to live in a hotel—to live, that is, where you work?”
“No. Convenient.”
A pity, Summer mused. When she wasn’t working, she wanted to remove herself from the kitchens and timers. She’d never been one—as her mother and father had been—to bring her work home with her.
The elevator stopped so smoothly that the change was hardly noticeable. The doors slid open silently. “Do you have the entire floor to yourself?”
“There’re three guest suites as well as my penthouse,” Blake explained as they walked down the hall. “None of them are occupied at the moment.” He inserted a key into a single panel of a double oak door then gestured her inside.
The lights were already dimmed. He’d chosen his colors well, she thought as she stepped onto the thick pewter-toned carpet. Grays from silvery pale to smoky dominated in the low, spreading sofa, the chairs, the walls. With the lights low it had a dreamlike effect that was both sensuous and soothing.
It might have been dull, even bland, but there were splashes of color cleverly interspersed. The deep midnight blue of the drapes, the pearl-like tones of the army of cushions lining the sofa, the rich, primal green of an ivy tangling down the rungs of a breakfront. Then there were the glowing colors of the one painting, a French Impressionist that dominated one wall.
There was none of the clutter she would have chosen for herself, but a sense of style she admired immediately. “Unusual, Mr. Cocharan,” Summer complimented as she automatically stepped out of her shoes. “And effective.”
“Thank you. Another drink, Ms. Lyndon? The bar’s fully stocked, or there’s champagne if you prefer.”
Still determined to come out of the evening on top, Summer strolled to the sofa and sat. She sent him a cool, easy smile. “I always prefer champagne.”
While Blake dealt with the bottle and cork, she took an extra moment to study the room again. Not an ordinary man, she decided. Too often ordinary was synonymous with boring. Summer was forced to admit that because she’d associated herself with the bohemian, the eccentric, the creative for most of her life, she’d always thought of people in business as innately boring.
No,
