“A sandwich a few hours ago,” she said testily. “Do you think I could eat at a time like this?”

He glanced at the sumptuous array of cakes and pastries. He could smell delicately roasted meats, spicy sauces. Blake shook his head. “No, of course not. I’ll be back.”

Summer muttered something, then fluted the edges of her pastry shells.

Chapter Seven

By eight o’clock, Summer was finished, and not in the best of humors. For nearly four hours, she’d whipped, rolled, fluted and baked. Often, she’d spent twice that time, and twice that effort, perfecting one single dish. That was art. This, on the other hand, had been labor, plain and simple.

She felt no flash of triumph, no glow of self-satisfaction, but simply fatigue. An army cook, she thought disdainfully; it was hardly different from producing the quickest and easiest for the masses. At the moment, if she never saw the inside of another egg again, it would be too soon.

“There should be enough made up to get us through the dinner hour, and room service tonight,” she told Max briskly as she pulled off her soiled apron. Critically she frowned at a line of fruit tarts. More than one of them were less than perfect in shape. If there’d been time, she’d have discarded them and made others. “I want someone in touch with personnel first thing in the morning to see about hiring two more dessert chefs.”

“Mr. Cocharan has already contacted personnel.” Max stood stiffly, not wanting to give an inch, though he’d been impressed with how quickly and efficiently she’d avoided what could easily have been a catastrophe. He clung tightly to his resentment, even though he had to admit—to himself—that she baked the best apricot tart he’d ever tasted.

“Fine.” Summer ran a hand over the back of her neck. The skin there was damp, the muscles drawn taut. “Nine o’clock tomorrow, Max, in my office. Let’s see if we can get organized. I’m going home to soak in a hot tub until morning.”

Blake had been leaning against the wall, watching her work. It had been fascinating to see just how quickly the temperamental artist had put her nose to the grindstone and produced.

She’d shown him two things he hadn’t expected—a speed and lack of histrionics when she’d been forced to deal with a less than ideal situation, and a calm acceptance of what was obviously a touchy area with Max. However much she played the role of prima donna, when her back was against the wall, she handled herself very well.

When she removed her apron, he stepped forward. “Give you a lift?”

Summer glanced over at him as she pulled the pins from her hair. It fell to her shoulders, tousled, and a bit damp at the ends from the heat. “I have my car.”

“And I have mine.” The arrogance, with that trace of aloofness was still there, even when he smiled.

“And a bottle of Dom Perignon, ’73. My driver can pick you up in the morning.”