“Yes, Ms. Lyndon, you’re to go right through. He’s been waiting.”

Unsure if the last statement had been censure or warning, Summer continued down the hall to Blake’s door. She gave a peremptory knock before going in. “Good morning, Blake.”

When she entered, he set aside the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “Have trouble finding an elevator?”

“No.” Crossing the room, she chose a chair and settled down. He looked, she thought, as he had the first time she’d come into his office—aloof, aristocratic. This then was the perfect level for them to deal on. “This is one of the few hotels which has elevators one doesn’t grow old waiting for.”

“You’re aware what the term immediately means.”

“I’m aware of it. I was busy.”

“Perhaps I should make it clear that I don’t tolerate being kept waiting by an employee.”

“And I’ll make two things clear,” she tossed back. “I’m not merely an employee, but an artist. Secondly, I don’t come at the snap of anyone’s fingers.”

“It’s eleven-twenty,” Blake began with a mildness Summer instantly suspected. “On a workday. My signature is at the base of your checks. Therefore, you do answer to me.”

The faint, telltale flush crept along her cheekbones. “You’d turn my work into something to be measured in dollars and cents and minute by minute—”

“Business is business,” he countered, spreading his hands. “I think you were quite clear on that subject.”

She’d maneuvered herself successfully toward that particular corner, and he’d given her a helpful shove into it. As a result, her attitude only became more haughty. “You’ll notice I am here at present. You’re wasting time.”

As an ice queen, she was magnificent, Blake thought. He wondered if she realized how a change of expression, a tone of voice, could alter her image. She could be half a dozen women in the course of a day. Whether she knew it or not, Summer had her mother’s talent. “I received another dissatisfied call from Max,” he told her flatly.

She arched a brow and looked like royalty about to dispense a beheading. “Yes?”

“He objects—strongly—to some of the proposed changes in the menu. Ah—” Blake glanced down at the pad on his desk “—pressed duck seems to be the current problem, though several others were tossed in around it.”

Summer sat straighter in her chair, tilting up her chin. “I believe you contracted me to improve the quality of Cocharan House dining.”

“I did.”

“That is precisely what I’m doing.”

The French was beginning to seep into the intonation of her voice, her eyes were beginning to glow. Despite the fact it annoyed him, she was undeniably at her most attractive this way. “I also contracted you to manage the kitchen—which means you should be able to control your staff.”

“Control?” She was up, and the ice queeen was now the enraged artist. Her gestures were broad, her movements dramatic. “I would need a whip and chain to control such a narrow-minded, ill-tempered old woman who worries only about his own egocentricities. His way is the only way. His menu is carved in stone, sacrosanct. Pah!” It was a peculiarly French expletive that would have been ridiculous coming from anyone else. From Summer, it was perfect.