“You specify brands.”

“Of course, I know what I like to work with.”

He only lifted a brow, thinking that procurement was going to grumble. “All new pots and pans?”

“Definitely.”

“Perhaps we should have a yard sale,” Blake mumbled as he went back to the sheet. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what a sautoir was or why she required three of them. “And this particular heavy-duty mixer?”

“Essential. The one you have is adequate. I don’t accept adequate.”

He smothered a laugh as he recalled his father’s view on adequate in relation to love lives. “Did you list so much of this in French to confuse me?”

“I listed in French,” Summer countered, “because French is correct.”

He made an indefinable sound as he passed over the next sheet. “In any case, I’ve no intention of quibbling over equipment in French or English.”

“Good. Because I’ve no intention of working with any less than the best.” She smiled at him and settled back. First point taken.

Blake flipped over the second sheet and went on to the third. “You intend to rip out the existing counters, have the new ranges built in, add an island and an additional six feet of counter space.”

“More efficient,” Summer said easily.

“And time-consuming.”

“In a hurry? You hired me, Blake, not Minute Chef.” His quick grin made her eyes narrow. “My function is to organize your kitchen, which means making it as efficient and creative as I know how. Once the nuts and bolts of that are done, I’ll beef up your menu.”

“And this—” he flipped through the five typed sheets “—is all necessary for that?”

“I don’t bother with anything that isn’t necessary when it comes to business. If you don’t agree,” she said as she rose, “we can terminate the agreement. Hire LaPointe,” she suggested, firing up. “You’ll have an ostentatious, overpriced, second-rate kitchen that produces equally ostentatious, overpriced and second-rate meals.”

“I have to meet this LaPointe,” Blake murmured as he stood. “You’ll get what you want, Summer.” As a satisfied smile formed on her lips, he narrowed his eyes. “And you damn well better deliver what you promised.”

The fire leapt back, accenting the gold in her irises. And as he saw it, he wanted.

“I’ve given you my word. Your middle-class restaurant with its mediocre prime rib and soggy pastries will be serving the finest in haute cuisine within six months.”

“Or?”

So he wanted collateral, Summer thought, and heaved a breath. “Or my services for the term of the contract are gratis. Does that satisfy you?”

“Completely.” Blake held out a hand. “As I said, you’ll have precisely what you’ve asked for, down to the last egg beater.”

“A pleasure doing business with you.” Summer tried to draw her hand away and found it caught firm. “Perhaps you don’t,” she began, “but I have work to do. You’ll excuse me?”

“I want to see you.”

She let her hand remain passively in his rather than risk a struggle she might lose. “You have seen me.”