A pity, he thought as he watched her build the meringue rings. A woman, he felt, was wasted without a man—just as a man was wasted without a woman. He’d shared himself with many.

Once over kirsch cake and Chablis, she’d loosened up enough to tell him that she didn’t think that men and women were meant for permanent relationships. Marriage was an institution too easily dissolved and, therefore, not an institution at all but a hypocrisy perpetuated by people who wanted to pretend they could make commitments. Love was a fickle emotion and, therefore, untrustworthy. It was something exploited by people as an excuse to act foolishly or unwisely. If she wanted to act foolish, she’d do so without excuses.

At the time, because he’d been on the down end of an affair with a Greek heiress, Carlo had agreed with her. Later, he’d realized that while his agreement had been the temporary result of sour grapes, Summer had meant precisely what she’d said.

A pity, he thought again as Summer took out the previously baked rings from beneath the counter and began to build the shell. If he didn’t feel about her as he would about a sister, it would be a pleasure to show her the…appealing side of the man/woman mystique. Ah, well—he settled back—that was for someone else.

Keeping an easy monologue with the camera and the studio audience, Summer went through the stages of the dessert. The completed shell, decorated with strips of more meringue and dotted with candied violets was popped into an oven. The one that she’d baked and cooled earlier was brought out to complete the final stage. She filled it, arranged the fruit, covered it all with rich raspberry sauce and whipped cream to the murmured approval of her audience. The camera came in for a close-up.

“Brava!” Carlo stood, applauding as the dessert sat tempting and complete on the counter. “Bravissima!”

Summer grinned and, pastry bag in hand, took a deep bow as the camera clicked off.

“Brilliant, Ms. Lyndon.” Simon rushed up to her, whipping off his earphones as he came. “Just brilliant. And, as always, perfect.”

“Thank you, Simon. Shall we serve this to the audience and crew?”

“Yes, yes, good idea.” He snapped his fingers at his assistant. “Get some plates and pass this out before we have to clear for the next show. Aerobic dancing,” he muttered and dashed off again.

“Beautiful, cara,” Carlo told her as he dipped a finger into the whipped cream. “A masterpiece.” He took a spoon from the counter and took a hefty serving directly from the vacherin. “Now, I will take you to lunch and you can fill me in on your life. Mine—” he shrugged, still eating “—is so exciting it would take days. Maybe weeks.”

“We can grab a slice of pizza around the corner.” Summer pulled off her apron and tossed it on the counter. “As it happens, there’s something I’d like your advice about.”

“Advice?” Though the idea of Summer’s asking advice of him, of anyone, stunned him, Carlo only lifted a brow. “Naturally,” he said with a silky smile as he drew her along. “Who else would an intelligent woman come to for advice—or for anything—but Carlo?”