There wasn’t time, she couldn’t take the time, to study and approve each dessert as it was completed. Later, Summer would think of the hours as assembly line work. At the moment, she was too pressed to think. Julio and Georgia had been the dessert chefs. It was now up to her to do the work of two people in the same amount of time.

She ignored the menu and went with what she knew she could make from memory. The diners that evening were in for a surprise, but as she finished topping the second Black Forest cake, Summer decided it would be a pleasant one. She arranged the cherries quickly, cursing the need to rush. Impossible to create when one was on such a ridiculous timetable, she thought, and muttered bad temperedly under her breath.

By six, the bulk of the baking was done and she concentrated on the finishing touches of a line of desserts designed to satisfy an army. Chocolate icing there, a dab of cream here, a garnish, a spoon of jam or jelly. She was hot, her arms aching. Her once-white apron was streaked and splashed. No one spoke to her, because she wouldn’t answer. No one approached her, because she tended to snarl.

Occasionally she would indicate with a wave of her arm a section of dishes that were to be taken away. This was done instantly, and without a sound. If there was talk, it was done in undertones and out of her hearing. None of them had ever seen anything quite like Summer Lyndon on a roll.

“Problems?”

Summer heard Blake speak quietly over her shoulder but didn’t turn. “Cars are made this way,” she mumbled, “not desserts.”

“Early reports from the dining room are more than favorable.”

She grunted and rolled out pastry dough for tarts. “The next time I’m in Hawaii, I’m going to look up Julio and Georgia and knock their heads together.”

“A bit testy, aren’t you?” he murmured and earned a lethal glare. “And hot.” He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “How long have you been at it?”

“Since a bit after four.” After shrugging his hand away she began to rapidly cut out pastry shells. Blake watched, surprised. He’d never seen her work quickly before. “Move.”

He stepped back but continued to watch her. By his calculations, she’d worked on the menus in the windowless storage room for more than six hours, and had now been on her feet for nearly three. Too small, he thought as a protective urge moved through him. Too delicate.

“Summer, can’t someone else take over now? You should rest.”

“No one touches my desserts.” This was said in such a strong, authoritative voice that the image of a delicate flower vanished. He grinned despite himself.

“Anything I can do?”

“I’ll want some champagne in an hour. Dom Perignon, ’73.”

He nodded as an idea began to form in his mind. She smelled like the desserts lined on the counter in front of her. Tempting, delicious. Since he’d met her, Blake had discovered he possessed a very demanding sweet tooth. “Have you eaten?”