Too used to his father to be anything but amused, Blake inclined his head. “Adequate, thanks.”

With a short laugh, B.C. downed the rest of his drink. “Adequate’s a disgrace to the Cocharan name. We do everything in superlatives.”

Blake drew out a cigarette. “I’ve heard stories.”

“All true,” his father told him, gesturing with the empty glass. “One day I’ll have to tell you about this dancer in Bangkok in ’39. In the meantime, I’ve heard you plan to do some face-lifting right here.”

“The restaurant.” Blake nodded and thought of Summer. “It promises to be…fascinating work.”

B.C. caught the tone and began to gently probe. “I can’t disagree that the place needs a little glitzing up. So you hired on a French chef to oversee the operation.”

“Half French.”

“A woman?”

“That’s right.” Blake blew out smoke, aware which path his father was trying to lead him down.

B.C. stretched out his legs. “Knows her business, does she?”

“I wouldn’t have hired her otherwise.”

“Young?”

Blake drew on his cigarette and suppressed a smile. “Moderately, I suppose.”

“Attractive?”

“That depends on your definition—I wouldn’t call her attractive.” Too tame a word, Blake thought, much, much too tame. Exotic, alluring—those suited her more. “I can tell you that she’s dedicated to her profession, an ambitious perfectionist and that her éclairs…” His thoughts drifted back to that intoxicating interlude. “Her éclairs are an experience not to be missed.”

“Her éclairs,” B.C. repeated.

“Fantastic.” Blake leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely fantastic.” He kept the grin under control as his buzzer sounded again.

“Ms. Lyndon is here, Mr. Cocharan.”

Monday morning, he thought. Business as usual. “Send her in.”

“Lyndon.” B.C. set down his glass. “That’s the cook, isn’t it?”

“Chef,” Blake corrected. “I’m not sure if she answers to the term ‘cook.’”

The knock was brief before Summer walked in. She carried a slim leather folder in one hand. Her hair was braided and rolled at the nape of her neck so that the hints of gold threaded through the brown. Her suit in a deep plum color was Chanel, simple and exquisite over a high-necked lace blouse that rose to frame her face. The strict professionalism of her attire made Blake instantly speculate on what she wore beneath—something brief, silky and sexy, the same color as her skin.

“Blake.” Following her own self-lecture on priorities, Summer held out her hand. Impersonal, businesslike and formal. She wasn’t going to think about what happened when his mouth touched hers. “I’ve brought you the list of changes of equipment and suggestions we spoke about.”

“Fine.” He saw her turn her head as B.C. rose from his chair. And he saw the gleam light his father’s eyes as it always did when he was in the company of a beautiful woman. “Summer Lyndon, Blake Cocharan, II. B.C., Ms. Lyndon will be managing the kitchen here at the Philadelphia Cocharan House.”

“Mr. Cocharan.” Summer found her hand enveloped in a large, calloused one. He looks, she realized with a jolt, exactly as Blake will in thirty years. Distinguished, weathered, with that perennial touch of polish. Then B.C. grinned, and she understood that Blake would still be dangerous in three decades.