“Often.”

“And you? Don’t you delegate?”

“That depends.”

“I wondered why Blake Cocharan, III himself would take the time and trouble to woo a chef into his organization.”

He was certain she was laughing at him. More, he was certain she wanted him to know it. With an effort, he suppressed his annoyance. “This project is a personal pet of mine. Since I want only the best for it, I take the time and trouble to acquire the best personally.”

“I see.” The limo glided smoothly to the curb. Summer handed Blake her empty glass as the driver opened her door. “Then how strange that you would even mention LaPointe if only the best will serve you.” With the haughty grace a woman can only be born with, Summer alighted. That, she thought smugly, should poke a few holes in his arrogance.

The Cocharan House of Philadelphia stood only twelve stories and had a weathered brick facade. It had been built to blend and accent the colonial architecture that was the heart of the city. Other buildings might zoom higher, might gleam with modernity, but Blake Cocharan had known what he’d wanted. Elegance, style and discretion. That was Cocharan House. Summer was forced to approve. In a great many things, she preferred the old world to the new.

The lobby was quiet, and if the gold was a bit dull, the rugs a bit soft and faded looking, it was a deliberate and canny choice. Old, established wealth was the ambience. No amount of gloss, gleam or gilt would have been more effective.

Taking Summer’s arm, Blake passed through with only a nod here and there to the many “Good evening, Mr. Cocharans” he received. After inserting a key into a private elevator, he led her inside. They were enveloped by silence and smoked glass.

“A lovely place,” Summer commented. “It’s been years since I’ve been inside. I’d forgotten.” She glanced around the elevator and saw their reflections trapped deep in gray glass. “But don’t you find it confining to live in a hotel—to live, that is, where you work?”

“No. Convenient.”

A pity, Summer mused. When she wasn’t working, she wanted to remove herself from the kitchens and timers. She’d never been one—as her mother and father had been—to bring her work home with her.

The elevator stopped so smoothly that the change was hardly noticeable. The doors slid open silently. “Do you have the entire floor to yourself?”

“There’re three guest suites as well as my penthouse,” Blake explained as they walked down the hall. “None of them are occupied at the moment.” He inserted a key into a single panel of a double oak door then gestured her inside.

The lights were already dimmed. He’d chosen his colors well, she thought as she stepped onto the thick pewter-toned carpet. Grays from silvery pale to smoky dominated in the low, spreading sofa, the chairs, the walls. With the lights low it had a dreamlike effect that was both sensuous and soothing.