She ran her finger down a porcelain ewer in delicate Chinese blue and white. “New?”

“Sì.”

“Medici?”

“But of course. A gift from a…friend.”

“Your friends are always remarkably generous.”

He grinned. “But then, so am I.”

“Carlo?”

The husky, impatient voice came from up the curving marble stairs. Carlo glanced up, then looked back at Summer and grinned again.

Summer removed her white fedora. “A friend, I take it.”

“You’ll give me a moment, cara.” He was heading for the steps as he spoke. “Perhaps you could go into the kitchen, make coffee.”

“And stay out of the way,” Summer finished as Carlo disappeared upstairs. She started toward the kitchen, then went back to take her suitcase with her. There wasn’t any use leaving Carlo with something like luggage to explain to his friend.

The kitchen was as spectacular as the rest of the house and as large as the average hotel room. Summer knew it as well as she knew her own. It was all in ebonies and ivories with what appeared to be acres of counter space. It boasted two ovens, a restaurant-sized refrigerator, two sinks and a dishwasher that could handle the aftermath of an embassy dinner. Carlo Franconi had never been one to do anything in a small way.

Summer opened a cabinet for the coffee beans and grinder. On impulse, she decided to make crêpes. Carlo, she mused, might be just a little while.

When he did come, she was just finishing up at the stove. “Ah, bella, you cook for me. I’m honored.”

“I had a twinge of guilt about disrupting your morning. Besides—” She slipped crêpes, pregnant with warm apples and cinnamon, onto plates. “I’m hungry.” Summer set them on a scrubbed worktable while Carlo pulled up chairs. “I should apologize for coming like this without warning. Was your friend annoyed?”

He flashed a grin as he sat. “You don’t give me enough credit.”

“Scusi.” She passed the small pitcher of cream. “So, we’ll be working together for Enrico’s birthday.”

“My veal, with spaghetti. Enrico has a weakness for my spaghetti. Every Friday, he is in my restaurant eating.” Carlo started immediately on the crêpe. “And you make the dessert.”

“A birthday cake.” Summer drank coffee while her crêpe cooled untouched. Suddenly, she had no appetite for it. “Enrico requested something special, created just for him. Knowing his vanity, and his fondness for chocolate and whipped cream, it was easy to come up with it.”

“But the dinner isn’t for two more days. You come early?”

She shrugged and toyed with her coffee. “I wanted to spend some time in Europe.”

“I see.” And he thought he did. She was looking a bit hollow around the eyes. A sign of romantic trouble. “Everything goes well in Philadelphia?”

“The remodeling’s done, the new menus printed. I think the kitchen staff is going to do very well. I hired Maurice from Chicago. You remember?”

“Oh, yes, pressed duck.”

“It’s an exciting menu,” she went on. “Just the sort I’d have if I ever decided to have a place of my own. I suppose I developed a bit of respect for you, Carlo, when I started to deal with the paperwork.”