To save herself time, she’d set up a small office in a storage room off the kitchen. There, she could oversee the staff and the beginnings of the remodeling while having enough privacy to work on what was now her pet project.

Avoiding Blake had been easy because she’d kept herself so thoroughly busy. And it appeared he was just as involved in some complicated corporate deal. Buying out another hotel chain, if rumor were fact. Summer had little interest in that, for her concentration focused on items like medallions of veal in champagne sauce.

As long as the remodeling was going on, the staff remained in a constant state of panic or near panic. She’d come to accept that. Most of the kitchens she’d worked in were full of the tension and terror only a cook would understand. Perhaps it was that creative tension, and the terror of failure, that helped form the best meals.

For the most part, she left the staff supervision to Max. She interfered with the routine he’d established as little as possible, incorporating the changes she’d initiated unobtrusively. She’d learned the qualities of diplomacy and power from her father. If it placated Max at all, it wasn’t apparent in his attitude toward Summer. That remained icily polite. Summer shrugged this off and concentrated on perfecting the entrées her kitchen would offer.

Calf’s Liver Berlinoise. An excellent entrée, not as popular certainly as a broiled filet or prime rib, but excellent. As long as she didn’t have to eat it, Summer thought with a smirk as she noted it down.

Once she’d organized the meat and poultry, she’d put her mind to the seafood. And naturally there had to be a cold buffet available twenty-four hours a day through room service. That was something else to work out. Soups, appetizers, salads—all of those had to be considered, decided on and confirmed before she began on the desserts. And at the moment, she’d have traded any of the elegant offerings jotted down in front of her for a cheeseburger on a sesame seed bun and a bag of chips.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.” Blake leaned against the doorway. He’d just completed a grueling four-hour meeting and had fully intended to go up to his suite for a long shower and a quiet, solitary meal. Instead, he’d found himself heading for the kitchen, and Summer.

She looked as she had the first time he’d seen her—her hair down, her feet bare. On the table in front of her were reams of scrawled-on paper and a half-empty glass of diluted soda. Behind her, boxes were stacked, sacks piled. The room smelled faintly of pine cleaner and cardboard. In her own way, she looked competent and completely in charge.

“Not hiding,” she corrected. “Working.” Tired, she thought. He looked tired. It showed around the eyes. “Been busy? We haven’t seen you down here for the past couple of weeks.”

“Busy enough.” Stepping inside, he began to poke through her notes.