she should pursue him, subtly—but not so subtly that he wouldn’t notice. Then when his ego was inflated, she’d…she’d totally ignore him. A fascinating idea.
“The first baked shell is in the center storage cabinet.”
“Yes, Simon, I know.” Summer patted the director’s hand while she went over the plan for flaws. It had a big one. She could remember all too clearly that giddy sensation that had swept over her when he’d nearly—just barely—kissed her a few evenings before. If she played the game that way, she just might find herself muddling the rules. So…
“The second is right beneath it.”
“Yes, I know.” Hadn’t she put it there herself to cool after baking? Summer gave the frantic director an absent smile. She could ignore Blake right from the start. Treat him—not with contempt, but with disinterest. The smile became a bit menacing. Her eyes glinted. That should drive him crazy.
“All the ingredients and equipment are exactly where you put them.”
“Simon,” Summer began kindly, “stop worrying. I can build a vacherin in my sleep.”
“We roll tape in five minutes—”
“Where is she!”
Both Summer and Simon looked around at the bellowing voice. Her grin was already forming before she saw its owner. “Carlo!”
“Aha.” Dark and wiry and as supple as a snake, Carlo Franconi wound his way around people and over cable to grab Summer and pull her jarringly against his chest. “My little French pastry.” Fondly he patted her bottom.
Laughing, she returned the favor. “Carlo, what’re you doing in downtown Philadelphia on a Wednesday morning?”
“I was in New York promoting my new book, Pasta by the Master.” He drew back enough to wiggle his eyebrows at her. “And I said, Carlo, you are just around the corner from the sexiest woman who ever held a pastry bag. So I come.”
“Just around the corner,” Summer repeated. It was typical of him. If he’d been in Los Angeles, he’d have done the same thing. They’d studied together, cooked together, and perhaps if their friendship had not become so solid and important, they might have slept together. “Let me look at you.”
Obligingly, Carlo stepped back to pose. He wore straight, tight jeans that flattered narrow hips, a salmon-colored silk shirt and a cloth fedora that was tilted rakishly over his dark, almond-shaped eyes. An outrageous diamond glinted on his finger. As always, he was beautiful, male and aware of it.
“You look fantastic, Carlo. Fantastico.”
“But of course.” He ran a finger down the brim of his hat. “And you, my delectable puff pastry—” he took her hands and pressed each palm to his lips “—esquisita.”
“But of course.” Laughing again, she kissed him full on the mouth. She knew hundreds of people, professionally, socially, but if she’d been asked to name a friend, it would have been Carlo Franconi who’d have come to her mind. “It’s good to see you, Carlo. What’s it been? Four months? Five? You were in Belgium the last time I was in Italy?”
“Four months and twelve days,” he said easily. “But who counts? It’s only that I lusted for your Napoleons, your eclairs, your—” he grabbed her again and nibbled on her fingers “—chocolate cake.”
“It’s vacherin this morning,” she said dryly. “and you’re welcome to some when the show’s over.”
“Ah, your meringue. To die for.” He grinned wickedly. “I will sit in the front row and cross my eyes at you.”
Summer pinched his cheek. “Try to lighten up, Carlo. You’re so stuffy.”
“Ms. Lyndon, please.”
Summer glanced at Simon, whose breathing was becoming shallower as the countdown began. “It’s all right, Simon, I’m ready. Get your seat, Carlo, and watch carefully. You might learn something this time.”
He said something short and rude and easily translated as they went their separate ways. Relaxed, Summer stood behind her work surface and watched the floor director count off the seconds. Easily ignoring the face Carlo made at her, Summer began the show, talking directly to the camera.
She took this part of her profession as seriously as she took creating the royal wedding cake for a European princess. If she were to teach the average person how to make something elaborate and exciting, she would do it well.
She did look exquisite, Carlo thought. Then she always did. And confident, competent, cool. On one hand, he was glad to find it true, for he was a man who disliked things or people who changed too quickly—particularly if he had nothing to do with it. On the other hand, he worried about her.
As long as he’d known Summer—good God, had it been ten years?—she’d never allowed herself a personal involvement. It was difficult for a volatile, emotional man like himself to fully understand her quality of reserve, her apparent disinterest in romantic encounters. She had passion. He’d seen it explode in temper, in joy, but never had he seen it directed toward a man.
A pity, he thought as he watched her build the meringue rings. A woman, he felt, was wasted without a man—just as a man was wasted without a woman. He’d shared himself with many.
Once over kirsch cake and Chablis, she’d loosened up enough to tell him that she didn’t think that men and women were meant for permanent relationships. Marriage was an institution too easily dissolved and, therefore, not an institution at all but a hypocrisy perpetuated by people who wanted to pretend they could make commitments. Love was a fickle emotion and, therefore, untrustworthy. It was something exploited by people as an excuse to act foolishly or unwisely. If she wanted to act foolish, she’d do so without excuses.
At the time, because he’d been on the down end of an affair with a Greek heiress, Carlo had agreed with her. Later, he’d realized that while his agreement had been the temporary result of sour grapes, Summer had meant precisely what she’d said.
A pity, he thought again as Summer took out the previously baked rings from beneath the counter and began to build the shell. If he didn’t feel about her as he would about a sister, it would be a pleasure to show her the…appealing side of the man/woman mystique. Ah, well—he settled back—that was for someone else.
Keeping an easy monologue with the camera and the studio audience, Summer went through the stages of the dessert. The completed shell, decorated with strips of more meringue and dotted with candied violets was popped into an oven. The one that she’d baked and cooled earlier was brought out to complete the final stage. She filled it, arranged the fruit, covered it all with rich raspberry sauce and whipped cream to the murmured approval of her audience. The camera came in for a close-up.
“Brava!” Carlo stood, applauding as the dessert sat tempting and complete on the counter. “Bravissima!”
Summer grinned and, pastry bag in hand, took a deep bow as the camera clicked off.
“Brilliant, Ms. Lyndon.” Simon rushed up to her, whipping off his earphones as he came. “Just brilliant. And, as always, perfect.”
“Thank you, Simon. Shall we serve this to the audience
