Summer Desserts
Contents ( 15)
Summer Desserts
Nora Roberts
Could a cordon bleu chef be a junk-food addict? The more Blake Cocharan learned about Summer Lyndon, dessert chef extraordinaire, the more intrigued he became—and the more determined he was to hire her. Blake wanted the Best, and Summer looked extremely good to him. Her superb credentials were icing on the cake.
Summer was accustomed to traveling around the world, creating the perfect ending to perfect meals. But Blake had a unique appeal. Summer found herself responding to the challenge, both professionally…and personally… For the first time, Summer was planning a meal from start to finish—and creating a perfect ending all her own.
To Marianne Shock,
for the cheerful and clever last-minute help.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
Her name was Summer. It was a name that conjured visions of hot petaled flowers, sudden storms and long, restless nights. It also brought images of sun-warmed meadows and naps in the shade. It suited her.
As she stood, hands poised, body tensed, eyes alert, there wasn’t a sound in the room. No one, absolutely no one, took their eyes off her. She might move slowly, but there wasn’t a person there who wanted to chance missing a gesture, a motion. All attention, all concentration, was riveted upon that one slim, solitary figure. Strains of Chopin floated romantically through the air. The light slanted and shot through her neatly bound hair—rich, warm brown with hints and tints of gold. Two emerald studs winked at her ears.
Her skin was a bit flushed so that a rose tinge accented already prominent cheekbones and the elegant bone structure that comes only from breeding. Excitement, intense concentration, deepened the amber flecks that were sprinkled in the hazel of her eyes. The same excitement and concentration had her soft, molded lips forming a pout.
She was all in white, plain, unadorned white, but she drew the eye as irresistibly as a butterfly in full, dazzling flight. She wouldn’t speak, yet everyone in the room strained forward as if to catch the slightest sound.
The room was warm, the smells exotic, the atmosphere taut with anticipation.
Summer might have been alone for all the attention she paid to those around her. There was only one goal, one end. Perfection. She’d never settled for less.
With infinite care she lifted the final diamond-shape and pressed the angelica onto the Savarin to complete the design she’d created. The hours she’d already spent preparing and baking the huge, elaborate dessert were forgotten, as was the heat, the tired leg muscles, the aching arms. The final touch, the appearance of a Summer Lyndon creation, was of the utmost importance. Yes, it would taste perfect, smell perfect, even slice perfectly. But if it didn’t look perfect, none of that mattered.
With the care of an artist completing a masterpiece, she lifted her brush to give the fruits and almonds a light, delicate coating of apricot glaze.