Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so abrupt. Summer understood injured feelings and fragile egos. She might have handled it better. Yes, she might have—with a weary sigh, she rubbed her temple—if she wasn’t feeling a bit injured and fragile herself. Your own fault, she reminded herself; then propping her elbows on the table, she dropped her head into the cupped hands.

Now that it was tomorrow, she had to face the consequences. She’d broken one of her own primary rules. Never become intimate with a business associate. She should have been able to shrug and say rules were made to be broken, but… It worried her more that it wasn’t that particular rule that was causing the turmoil, but another she’d broken. Never let anyone who could really matter get too close. Blake, if she didn’t draw in the lines now and hold them, could really matter.

Drinking more coffee and wishing for an aspirin, she began to go over everything again. She was certain she’d been casual enough, and clear enough, the night before over the lack of ties and obligations. But when they’d made love again, nothing she’d said had made sense. She shook her head, trying to block that out. That morning they’d been perfectly at ease with each other—two adults preparing for a workday without any morning-after awkwardness. That’s what she wanted.

Too many times, she’d seen her mother glowing and bubbling at the beginning of an affair. This man was the man—this man was the most exciting, the most considerate, the most poetic. Until the bloom faded. Summer’s belief was that if you didn’t glow, you didn’t fade, and life was a lot simpler.

Yet she still wanted him.

After a brief knock, one of the kitchen staff stuck his head around her door. “Ms. Lyndon, Mr. Cocharan would like to see you in his office.”

Summer finished off her rapidly cooling coffee. “Yes? When?”

“Immediately.”

She lifted a brow. No one summoned her immediately. People requested her, at her leisure. “I see.” Her smile was icy enough to make the messenger shrink back. “Thank you.”

When the door closed again she sat perfectly still. These were working hours, she reflected, and she was under contract. It was reasonable and right that he should ask her to come to his office. That was acceptable. But she was still Summer Lyndon—she went to no one immediately.

She spent the next fifteen minutes deliberately dawdling over her papers before she rose. After strolling through the kitchen, and taking the time to check on the contents of a pot or skillet on the way, she went to an elevator. On the ride up, she glanced at her watch, pleased to note that she’d arrive nearly twenty-five minutes after the call. As the doors opened she flicked a speck of lint from the sleeve of her blouse, then sauntered out.

“Mr. Cocharan would like to speak to me?” She gave the words the intonation of a question as she smiled down at the receptionist.