Blake tapped his pen against the edge of his desk while he watched the performance. He was nearly tempted to applaud. “Is this what’s known as artistic temperament?”

She drew in a breath. Mockery? Would he dare? “You’ve yet to see true temperament, mon ami.”

He only nodded. It was tempting to push her into full gear—but business was business. “Max has worked for Cocharan for over twenty-five years.” Blake set down the pen and folded his hands—calm, in direct contrast to Summer’s temper. “He’s loyal and efficient, and obviously sensitive.”

“Sensitive.” She nearly spat the word. “I give him his prime rib and his precious chicken, but still, he’s not satisfied. I will have my pressed duck and my clamart. My menu won’t read like something from the corner diner.”

He wondered if he recorded the conversation and played it back to her, she’d see the absurdity of it. At the moment, though he had to clear his throat to disguise a chuckle, he doubted it. “Exactly,” Blake said and kept his face expressionless. “I’ve no desire to interfere with the menu. The point is, I’ve no desire to interfere at all.”

Far from mollified, Summer tossed her hair behind her shoulders and glared at him. “Then why do you bother me with these trivialities?”

“These trivialities,” he countered, “are your problem, not mine. As manager, part of your function is to do simply that. Manage. If your supervisory chef is consistently dissatisfied, you’re not doing your job. You’re free to make whatever compromises you think necessary.”

“Compromises?” Her whole body stiffened. Again, he thought she looked magnificent. “I don’t make compromises.”

“Being hardheaded won’t bring peace to your kitchen.”

She let out her breath in a hiss. “Hardheaded!”

“Exactly. Now, the problem of Max is back in your court. I don’t want any more phone calls.”

In a low, dangerous voice, she let out a stream of French, and though he was certain it was colloquial, he caught the drift. With a toss of her head, she started toward the door.

“Summer.”

She turned, and the stance reminded him of one of the mythical female archers whose aim was killingly true. She wouldn’t even wince as her arrow went straight through the heart. Ice queen or warrior, he wanted her. “I want to see you tonight.”

Her eyes went to slits. “You dare.”

“Now that we’ve tabled the first issue, it’s time to go onto the second. We might have dinner.”

“You tabled the first issue,” she retorted. “I don’t table things so easily. Dinner? Have dinner with your account book. That’s what you understand.”

He rose and approached her without hurry. “We agreed that when we’re away from here, we’re not business associates.”

“We’re not away from here.” Her chin was still angled. “I’m standing in your office, where I was summoned.”

“You won’t be standing in my office tonight.”

“I stand wherever I choose tonight.”

“So tonight,” he continued easily, “we won’t be business associates. Weren’t those your rules?”