She could remember every frustrating, annoying contact she’d had with the beady-eyed, undersized LaPointe. As she carefully coated the outside of the cake with crushed berries, Summer considered giving him a glowing recommendation. It would teach that sneaky American a lesson to find himself stuck with a pompous ass like LaPointe. While her thoughts raged, her hands were delicately smoothing the berries, rounding out and firming the shape.

Behind her one of the assistants dropped a pan with a clatter and a bang and suffered a torrent of abuse. Neither Summer’s thoughts nor her hands faltered.

Smug, self-assured jerk, she thought grimly of Blake. In a steady flow, she began layering rich French cream over the berries. Her face, though set in concentration, betrayed anger in the flash in her eyes. A man like him delighted in maneuvering and outmaneuvering. It showed, she thought, in that oh-so-smooth delivery, in that gloss of sophistication. She gave a disdainful little snort as she began to smooth out the cream.

She’d rather have a man with a few rough edges than one so polished that he gleamed. She’d rather have a man who knew how to sweat and bend his back than one with manicured nails and five-hundred-dollar suits. She’d rather have a man who…

Summer stopped smoothing the cream while her thoughts caught up with her consciousness. Since when had she considered having any man, and why, for God’s sake, was she using Blake for comparisons? Ridiculous.

The bombe was now a smooth white dome waiting for its coating of rich chocolate. Summer frowned at it as an assistant whisked empty bowls out of her way. She began to blend the frosting in a large mixer as two cooks argued over the thickness of the sauce for the entree.

For that matter, her thoughts ran on, it was ridiculous how often she’d thought of him the past few days, remembering foolish details…. His eyes were almost precisely the shade of the water in the lake on her grandfather’s estate in Devon. How pleasant his voice was, deep, with that faint but unmistakable inflection of the American Northeast. How his mouth curved in one fashion when he was amused, and another when he smiled politely.

It was difficult to explain why she’d noticed those things, much less why she’d continued to think of them days afterward. As a rule, she didn’t think of a man unless she was with him—and even then she only allowed him a carefully regulated portion of her concentration.

Now, Summer reminded herself as she began to layer on frosting, wasn’t the time to think of anything but the bombe. She’d think of Blake when her job was finished, and she’d deal with him over the late supper she’d agreed to. Oh, yes—her mouth set—she’d deal with him.

Blake arrived early deliberately. He wanted to see her work. That was reasonable, even logical. After all, if he were to contract Summer to Cocharan House for a year, he should see firsthand what she was capable of, and how she went about it. It wasn’t at all unusual for him to check out potential employees or associates on their own turf. If anything, it was characteristic of him. Good business sense.