After the brief, objective glance, his gaze was drawn irresistibly back to her face. Classic, naked and undeniably sensuous. The mouth alone would make a man’s blood move. Blake ignored what he considered an automatic sexual pull.

“Blake Cocharan to see Ms. Lyndon.”

Summer’s left brow rose—a sign of surprise. Then her lips curved slightly—a sign of pleasure.

Plump, he wasn’t, she observed. Hard and lean—racketball, tennis, swimming. He was obviously a man more prone to these than lingering over executive lunches. Balding, no. His hair was rich black and thick. It was styled well, with slight natural waves that added to the attractiveness of a cool, sensual face. A sweep of cheekbones, a firm line of chin. She liked the look of the former that spoke of strength, and the latter, just barely cleft, that spoke of charm. Black brows were almost straight over clear, water-blue eyes. His mouth was a bit long but beautifully shaped. His nose was very straight—the sort she’d always thought was made to be looked down. Perhaps she’d been right about the outward trimmings—the Italian shoes, and so forth—but, Summer admitted, she’d been off the mark with the man.

The assessment didn’t take her long—three, perhaps four, seconds. But her mouth curved more. Blake couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was a mouth a man, if he breathed, wanted to taste. “Please come in, Mr. Cocharan.” Summer stepped back, swinging the door wider in invitation. “It’s very considerate of you to agree to meet here. Please have a seat. I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something in the kitchen.” She smiled, gestured and disappeared.

Blake opened his mouth—he wasn’t used to being brushed off by servants—then closed it again. He had enough time to be tolerant. As he set down his briefcase he glanced around the room. There were fringed lamps, a curved sofa in plush blue velvet, a fussily carved cherrywood table. Aubusson carpets—two—softly faded in blues and grays—were spread over the floors. A Ming vase. Potpourri in what was certainly a Dresden compote.

The room had no order; it was a mix of European periods and styles that should never have suited, but was instantly attractive. He saw that a pedestal table at the far end of the room was covered with jumbled typewritten pages and handwritten notes. Street sounds drifted in through the window. Chopin floated from the stereo.

As he stood there, drawing it in, he was abruptly certain there was no one in the apartment but himself and the woman who had opened the door. Summer Lyndon? Fascinated with the idea, and with the aroma creeping from the kitchen, Blake crossed the room.

Six pastry shells, just touched with gold and moisture, sat on a rack. One by one Summer filled them to overflowing with what appeared to be some rich white cream. When Blake glanced at her face he saw the concentration, the seriousness and intensity he might have associated with a brain surgeon. It should have amused him. Yet somehow, with the strains of Chopin pouring through the kitchen speakers, with those delicate, slim-fingered hands arranging the cream in mounds, he was fascinated.