His quick grin made her eyes narrow. “My function is to organize your kitchen, which means making it as efficient and creative as I know how. Once the nuts and bolts of that are done, I’ll beef up your menu.”
“And this—” he flipped through the five typed sheets “—is all necessary for that?”
“I don’t bother with anything that isn’t necessary when it comes to business. If you don’t agree,” she said as she rose, “we can terminate the agreement. Hire LaPointe,” she suggested, firing up. “You’ll have an ostentatious, overpriced, second-rate kitchen that produces equally ostentatious, overpriced and second-rate meals.”
“I have to meet this LaPointe,” Blake murmured as he stood. “You’ll get what you want, Summer.” As a satisfied smile formed on her lips, he narrowed his eyes. “And you damn well better deliver what you promised.”
The fire leapt back, accenting the gold in her irises. And as he saw it, he wanted.
“I’ve given you my word. Your middle-class restaurant with its mediocre prime rib and soggy pastries will be serving the finest in haute cuisine within six months.”
“Or?”
So he wanted collateral, Summer thought, and heaved a breath. “Or my services for the term of the contract are gratis. Does that satisfy you?”
“Completely.” Blake held out a hand. “As I said, you’ll have precisely what you’ve asked for, down to the last egg beater.”
“A pleasure doing business with you.” Summer tried to draw her hand away and found it caught firm. “Perhaps you don’t,” she began, “but I have work to do. You’ll excuse me?”
“I want to see you.”
She let her hand remain passively in his rather than risk a struggle she might lose. “You have seen me.”
“Tonight.”
“Sorry.” She smiled again, though her teeth were beginning to clench. “I have a date.”
She felt the quick increase in pressure of his fingers over hers and was perversely pleased. “All right, when?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen every day, and some evenings, to oversee the remodeling. You need only ride the elevator down.”
He drew her closer, and though the desk remained between them, Summer felt that the ground beneath was a bit less firm. “I want to see you alone,” he said quietly. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers slowly, one by one. “Away from here, outside of business hours.”
If Blake Cocharan, II had been anything like Blake Cocharan, III in his youth, Summer could understand how her mother had become so quickly, so heatedly involved. The yearning was there, and the temptation—but she wasn’t Monique. In this case, she was determined history would not repeat itself. “I’ve explained to you why that’s not possible. I don’t enjoy covering the same ground twice.”
“Your pulse is racing,” Blake pointed out as he ran a finger across her wrist.
“It generally does when I become annoyed.”
“Or aroused.”
Tilting her head, she sent him a killing look. “Would you amuse yourself with LaPointe in this way?”
Temper stirred and he suppressed it, knowing she wanted him to be angry. “At the moment, I don’t care whether you’re a chef or a plumber or a brain surgeon. At the moment,” he repeated, “I only care that you’re a woman, and one that I desire very much.”
She wanted to swallow because her throat had gone dry but fought off the need. “At the moment I am a chef with a specific job to do. I’ll ask you again to excuse me so I can begin to do it.”
This time, Blake thought as he released her hand. But, by God, this time was the last time. “Sooner or later, Summer.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed as she picked up her leather folder. “Perhaps not.” In one quick gesture, she zipped it closed. “Enjoy your day, Blake.” As if her legs weren’t weak and watery, she strolled to the door and out.
Summer continued to walk calmly through the outer office,over the plush carpet, past the busy
“And this—” he flipped through the five typed sheets “—is all necessary for that?”
“I don’t bother with anything that isn’t necessary when it comes to business. If you don’t agree,” she said as she rose, “we can terminate the agreement. Hire LaPointe,” she suggested, firing up. “You’ll have an ostentatious, overpriced, second-rate kitchen that produces equally ostentatious, overpriced and second-rate meals.”
“I have to meet this LaPointe,” Blake murmured as he stood. “You’ll get what you want, Summer.” As a satisfied smile formed on her lips, he narrowed his eyes. “And you damn well better deliver what you promised.”
The fire leapt back, accenting the gold in her irises. And as he saw it, he wanted.
“I’ve given you my word. Your middle-class restaurant with its mediocre prime rib and soggy pastries will be serving the finest in haute cuisine within six months.”
“Or?”
So he wanted collateral, Summer thought, and heaved a breath. “Or my services for the term of the contract are gratis. Does that satisfy you?”
“Completely.” Blake held out a hand. “As I said, you’ll have precisely what you’ve asked for, down to the last egg beater.”
“A pleasure doing business with you.” Summer tried to draw her hand away and found it caught firm. “Perhaps you don’t,” she began, “but I have work to do. You’ll excuse me?”
“I want to see you.”
She let her hand remain passively in his rather than risk a struggle she might lose. “You have seen me.”
“Tonight.”
“Sorry.” She smiled again, though her teeth were beginning to clench. “I have a date.”
She felt the quick increase in pressure of his fingers over hers and was perversely pleased. “All right, when?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen every day, and some evenings, to oversee the remodeling. You need only ride the elevator down.”
He drew her closer, and though the desk remained between them, Summer felt that the ground beneath was a bit less firm. “I want to see you alone,” he said quietly. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers slowly, one by one. “Away from here, outside of business hours.”
If Blake Cocharan, II had been anything like Blake Cocharan, III in his youth, Summer could understand how her mother had become so quickly, so heatedly involved. The yearning was there, and the temptation—but she wasn’t Monique. In this case, she was determined history would not repeat itself. “I’ve explained to you why that’s not possible. I don’t enjoy covering the same ground twice.”
“Your pulse is racing,” Blake pointed out as he ran a finger across her wrist.
“It generally does when I become annoyed.”
“Or aroused.”
Tilting her head, she sent him a killing look. “Would you amuse yourself with LaPointe in this way?”
Temper stirred and he suppressed it, knowing she wanted him to be angry. “At the moment, I don’t care whether you’re a chef or a plumber or a brain surgeon. At the moment,” he repeated, “I only care that you’re a woman, and one that I desire very much.”
She wanted to swallow because her throat had gone dry but fought off the need. “At the moment I am a chef with a specific job to do. I’ll ask you again to excuse me so I can begin to do it.”
This time, Blake thought as he released her hand. But, by God, this time was the last time. “Sooner or later, Summer.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed as she picked up her leather folder. “Perhaps not.” In one quick gesture, she zipped it closed. “Enjoy your day, Blake.” As if her legs weren’t weak and watery, she strolled to the door and out.
Summer continued to walk calmly through the outer office,over the plush carpet, past the busy
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