Summer Desserts by Nora Roberts Page B

walked over and took a chair. It was hardly past noon, but it occurred to her that she’d been on her feet for almost six consecutive hours.
    “Handy that I happened to drop by when you were around,” she began, sliding her toes out of her shoes. “It simplifies this contract business. Since I’ve agreed to do it, we might as well get started.” Then there will be only three hundred and sixty-four days, she added silently, and sighed.
    He didn’t like her careless attitude about the contract any more than he liked her careless affection toward the Italian. Blake walked over to his desk and lifted a packet of papers. When he looked back at her, some of his anger drained. “You look tired, Summer.”
    The lids she allowed to droop lifted again. His first, his only, use of her given name intrigued her. He said it as though he was thinking of the heat and the storms. She felt her chest tighten and blamed it on fatigue. “I am. I was baking meringue at seven o’clock this morning.”
    “Coffee?”
    “No, thanks. I’m afraid I’ve overdone that already today.” She glanced at the papers he held, then smiled with a trace of self-satisfaction. “Before I sign those, I should warn you I’m going to order some extensive changes in the kitchen.”
    “One of the essential reasons you’re to sign them.”
    She nodded and held out her hand. “You might not be so amiable when you get the bill.”
    Taking a pen from a holder on his desk, Blake gave it to her. “I think we’re both after the same thing, and would both agree cost is secondary.”
    “I might think so.” With a flourish, she looped her name on the line. “But I’m not signing the checks. So—” she passed the contract back to him “—it’s official.”
    “Yes.” He didn’t even glance at her signature before he dropped the paper on his desk. “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”
    She rose, though she found her legs a bit reluctant to hold weight again. “We’ll have to put the seal on our bargain another time. I’ll be entertaining Carlo.” Smiling, she held out her hand. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”
    “It has nothing to do with business.” Blake took her hand, then surprised them both by taking her other one. “And I want to see you alone.”
    She wasn’t ready for this, Summer realized. She was supposed to begin the maneuvers, in her own time, on her own turf. Now she was forced to realign her strategy and to deal with the blood warming just under her skin. Determined not to be outflanked this time, she tilted her head and smiled. “We are alone.”
    His brow lifted. Was that a challenge, or was she plainly mocking him? Either way, this time, he wasn’t going to let it go. Deliberately he drew her into his arms. She fit there smoothly. It was something each of them noticed, something they both found disturbing.
    Her eyes were level on his, but he saw, fascinated, that the gold flecks had deepened. Amber now, they seemed to glow against the cloudy, changeable hazel of her irises. Hardly aware of what he did, Blake brushed the hair away from her cheek in a gesture that was as sweet and as intimate as it was uncharacteristic.
    Summer fought not to be affected by something so casual. A hundred men had touched her, in greeting, in friendship, in anger and in longing. There was no reason why the mere brush of a fingertip over her skin should have her head spinning. An effort of will kept her from melting into his arms or from jerking away. She remained still, watching him. Waiting.
    When his mouth lowered toward hers, she knew she was prepared. The kiss would be different, naturally, because he was different. It would be new because he was new. But that was all. It was still a basic form of communication between man and woman. A touch of lips, a pressure, a testing of another’s taste; it was no different from the kiss of the first couple, and so it went through culture and time.
    And the moment she experienced