Personal and professional, and that tangible line of demarcation. Yes, that’s the way she’d wanted it, but it wasn’t as easy for her to make the separation as she’d thought it would be. “Tonight,” she said with a shrug. “I may be busy.”

Blake glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly noon. We might consider this lunch hour.” He looked back at her, half smiling. Lifting a hand, he tangled it in her hair. “During lunch hour, there’s no business between us, Summer. And tonight, I want to be with you.” He touched his lips to one corner of her mouth, then the other. “I want to spend long—” his lips slanted over hers, softly “—private hours with you.”

She wanted it too, why pretend otherwise? She’d never believed in pretenses, only in defenses. In any event, she’d already decided to handle Max and the kitchen in her own way. Linking her hands around his neck, she smiled back at him. “Then tonight, we’ll be together. You’ll bring the champagne?”

She was softening, but not yielding. Blake found it infinitely more exciting than submission. “For a price.”

Her laugh was wicked and warm. “A price?”

“I want you to do something for me you haven’t done before.”

She tilted her head, then touched the tip of her tongue to her lip. “Such as?”

“Cook for me.”

Surprise lit her eyes before the laughter sprang out again. “Cook for you? Well, that’s a much different request from what I expected.”

“After dinner I might come up with a few others.”

“So you want Summer Lyndon to prepare your dinner.” She considered it as she drew away. “Perhaps I will, though such a thing usually costs much more than a bottle of champagne. Once in Houston I prepared a meal for an oil man and his new bride. I was paid in stock certificates. Blue chip.”

Blake took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I bought you a pizza. Pepperoni.”

“That’s true. Eight o’clock then. And I’d advise you to eat a very light lunch today.” She reached for the door handle, then glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “You do like Cervelles Braisées?”

“I might, if I knew what it was.”

Still smiling, she opened the door. “Braised calf’s brains. Au revoir.”

Blake stared at the door. She’d certainly had the last word that time.

The kitchen smelled of cooking and sounded like a drawing room. Strains of Chopin were muted as Summer rolled the boneless breasts of chicken in flour. On the range, the clarified butter was just beginning to deepen in color. Perfect. Stuffed tomatoes were already prepared and waiting in the refrigerator. Buttered peas were just beginning to simmer. She would sauté the potato balls while she sautéed the suprêmes.

Timing, of course, was critical. Suprêmes deVolaille à Brun had to be done to the instant, even a minute of overcooking and she would, like any temperamental cook, throw them out in disgust. Hot butter sizzled as she slipped the floured chicken into it.