Summer Desserts by Nora Roberts

“I’ve brought you the list of changes of equipment and suggestions we spoke about.”
    “Fine.” He saw her turn her head as B.C. rose from his chair. And he saw the gleam light his father’s eyes as it always did when he was in the company of a beautiful woman. “Summer Lyndon, Blake Cocharan, II. B.C., Ms. Lyndon will be managing the kitchen here at the Philadelphia Cocharan House.”
    “Mr. Cocharan.” Summer found her hand enveloped in a large, calloused one. He looks, she realized with a jolt, exactly as Blake will in thirty years. Distinguished, weathered, with that perennial touch of polish. Then B.C. grinned, and she understood that Blake would still be dangerous in three decades.
    “B.C.,” he corrected, lifting her fingers to his lips. “Welcome to the family.”
    Summer shot Blake a quick look. “Family?”
    “We consider anyone associated with Cocharan House part of the family.” B.C. gestured to the chair he’d vacated. “Please, sit down. Let me get you a drink.”
    “Thank you. Perhaps some Perrier.” She watched B.C. cross the room before she sat and laid the folder on her lap. “I believe you’re acquainted with my mother, Monique Dubois.”
    That stopped him. B.C. turned, the bottle of Perrier still in his hand, the glass in the other still empty. “Monique? You’re Monique’s girl? I’ll be damned.”
    And so he might be, B.C. thought. Years before—was it nearly twenty now?—during a period of marital upheaval on both sides, he’d had a brief, searing affair with the French actress. They’d parted on amicable terms and he’d reconciled with his wife. But the two weeks with Monique had been…memorable. Now, he was in his son’s office pouring Perrier for her daughter. Fate, he thought wryly, was a tricky sonofabitch.
    If Summer had suspected before that her mother and Blake’s father had once been lovers, she was now certain of it. Her thoughts on fate directly mirrored his as she crossed her legs. Like mother, like daughter? she wondered. Oh, no, not in this case. B.C. was still staring at her. For a reason she didn’t completely understand, she decided to make it easy for him.
    “Mother is a loyal client of Cocharan Houses; she’ll stay nowhere else. I’ve already mentioned to Blake that we once had dinner with your father. He was very gracious.”
    “When it suits him,” B.C. returned, relieved. She knows, he concluded before his gaze strayed to Blake’s. There he saw a frown of concentration that was all too familiar. And so will heif I don’t watch my step, B.C. decided. Hot water, he mused. After twenty years I could still be in hot water. His wife was the love of his life, his best friend, but twenty years wasn’t long enough to be safe from a transgression.
    “So—” he finished pouring the Perrier, then brought it to her “—you decided against following in your mother’s footsteps and became a chef instead.”
    “I’m sure Blake would agree that following in a parent’s footsteps is often treacherous.”
    Instinct told Blake that it wasn’t business she spoke of now. A look passed between his father and Summer that he couldn’t comprehend. “It depends where the path leads,” Blake countered. “In my case I preferred to look at it as a challenge.”
    “Blake takes after his grandfather,” B.C. put in. “He has that cagey kind of logic.”
    “Yes,” Summer murmured. “I’ve seen it in action.”
    “Apparently you made the right choice,” B.C. went on. “Blake told me about your éclairs.”
    Slowly, Summer turned her head until she was facing Blake again. The muscles in her stomach, in her thighs, tightened with the memory. Her voice remained calm and cool. “Did he? Actually, my specialty is the bombe.”
    Blake met her gaze directly. “A pity you didn’t have one available the other night.”
    There were vibrations there, B.C. thought, that didn’t need to bounce off a third party. “Well, I’ll let you two get on with your