She opened her mouth to answer and found she didn’t know. Uncomfortable, she toyed with her soda. “You’re getting more personal, and off the point.”

“I don’t think so. You’re telling me we have to appeal to people who’re becoming sophisticated enough to make dishes that were once almost exclusively professionally prepared, as well as draw in clientele who might prefer a quick, less expensive meal around the corner. You, due to your profession and your taste, fall into both categories. What would a restaurant have to offer not only to bring you in, but to make you want to come back?”

A logical question. Summer frowned at it. She hated logical questions because they left you no choice but to answer. “Privacy,” she answered at length. “It isn’t an easy thing to accomplish in a restaurant, and of course, not everyone looks for it. Many go out to eat to see and be seen. Some, like myself, prefer at least the illusion of solitude. To accomplish both, you have to have a certain number of tables situated in such a way that they seem removed from the rest.”

“Easily enough done with the right lighting, a clever arrangement of foliage.”

“The key words are right and clever.”

“And privacy is your prerequisite in choosing a restaurant.”

“I don’t generally eat in them,” Summer said with a restless movement of her shoulders. “But if I do, privacy ranks equally with atmosphere, food and service.”

“Why?”

She began to push the papers together on her desk and stack them. “That’s definitely a personal question.”

“Yes.” He covered her hands with one of his to still them. “Why?”

She stared at him a moment, certain she wouldn’t answer. Then she found herself drawn by the quiet look and the gentle touch. “I suppose it stems back to eating in so many restaurants as a child. And I suppose one of the reasons I first became interested in cooking was as a defense against the interminable ritual of eating out. My mother was—is—of the type who goes out to see and be seen. My father often considered eating out a business. So much of my parents’ lives, and therefore mine, was public. I simply prefer my own way.”

Now that he was touching her, he wanted more. Now that he was learning of her, he wanted all. He should have known better than to believe it would be otherwise. He’d nearly convinced himself that he had his feelings for her under control. But now, sitting in the cramped storage room with kitchen sounds just outside the door, he wanted her as much—more—than ever.

“I wouldn’t consider you an introvert, or a recluse.”

“No.” She didn’t even notice that she’d laced her fingers with his. There was something so comfortable, so right about the gesture. “I simply like to keep my private life just that. Mine and private.”

“Yet, in your field, you’re quite a celebrity.” He shifted and under the table his leg brushed against hers. He felt the warmth glow through him and the need double.