It amused Summer, and rather pleased her, that her mother had that stunning effect on people. She could see Max standing, staring, with a kitchen spoon in one hand that dripped sauce unheeded onto the floor. And, of course, Monique knew how to make an entrance. It might be said she was a woman made for entrances.

She smiled slowly—it almost appeared hesitantly—as she stepped in, bringing the scent of Paris and spring with her. Her eyes were more gray than her daughter’s and, despite the difference in years and experience, held more innocence. Summer had yet to decide if it was calculated or innate.

“Perhaps someone could help me?”

Six men stepped forward. Max came perilously close to allowing the stock from the spoon to drip on Monique’s shoulder. Summer decided it was time to restore order. “Mother.” She brushed her way through the circle of bodies surrounding Monique.

“Ah, Summer, just who I was looking for.” Even as she took her daughter’s hands, she gave the group of male faces a sweeping smile. “How fascinating. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a hotel kitchen before. It’s so—ah—large, oui?”

“Please, Ms. Dubois—madame.” Unable to contain himself, Max took Monique’s hand. “I’d be honored to show you whatever you’d like to see. Perhaps you’d care to sample some of the soup?”

“How kind.” Her smile would have melted chocolate at fifty yards. “Of course, I must see everything where my daughter works.”

“Daughter?”

Obviously, Summer mused, Max had heard nothing but violins since Monique walked into the room. “My mother,” Summer said clearly, “Monique Dubois. This is Max, who’s in charge of the kitchen staff.”

Mother? Max thought dumbly. But of course the resemblance was so strong he felt like a fool for not seeing it before. There wasn’t a Dubois film he hadn’t seen at least three times. “A pleasure.” Rather gallantly, he kissed the offered hand. “An honor.”

“How comforting to know my daughter works with such a gentleman.” Though Summer’s lip curled, she said nothing. “And I would love to see everything, just everything—perhaps later today?” she added before Max could begin again. “Now, I must steal Summer away for just a short time. Tell me, would it be possible to have some champagne and caviar delivered to my suite?”

“Caviar isn’t on the menu,” Summer put in with an arch look at Max. “As yet.”

“Oh.” Prettily, Monique pouted. “I suppose some pâté, or some cheese would do.”

“I’ll see to it personally. Right away, madame.”

“So kind.” With a flutter of lashes, Monique slipped her arm through Summer’s and swept from the room.

“Laying it on a bit thick,” Summer muttered.

Monique threw back her head and gave a bubbling laugh. “Don’t be so British, chérie. I just did you an enormous service. I learned from the delightful young Cocharan this morning that not only is my daughter an employee at this very hotel—which you didn’t bother to tell me—but that you had a few internal problems in the kitchen.”