Free Summer Desserts by Nora Roberts Page A

what a man like Blake expected. Surprising him would give her a great deal of pleasure. Infuriating him would give her even more.
    When the knock came, Summer glanced around idly before unfolding her legs. Taking her time, she rose, stretched, then moved to the door.
    For the second time, Blake wished he’d had a camera to catch the look of blank astonishment on her face. She said nothing, only stared. With a hint of a smile on his lips, Blake tucked his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. There was no one, he reflected, whom he’d ever gotten more pleasure out of outwitting. So much so, it was tempting to make a career out of it.
    “Dinner ready?” He took an appreciative sniff of the air. “Smells good.”
    Damn his arrogance—and his perception, Summer thought. How did he always manage to stay one step ahead of her? Except for the fact that he wore tennis shoes—tattered ones—he was dressed almost identically to her. It was only more annoying that he looked every bit as natural, and every bit as attractive, in jeans and a T-shirt as he did in an elegant business suit. With an effort, Summer controlled her temper, and twin surges of humor and desire. The rules might have changed, but the game wasn’t over.
    “ My dinner’s ready,” she told him coolly. “I don’t recall inviting you.”
    “I did say eight.”
    “I did say no.”
    “Since you objected to going out—” he took both her hands before breezing inside “—I thought we’d just eat in.”
    With her hands caught in his, Summer stood in the open doorway. She could order him to leave, she considered. Demand it… And he might. Although she didn’t mind being rude, she didn’t see much satisfaction in winning a battle so directly. She’d have to find another, more devious, more gratifying method to come out on top.
    “You’re very persistent, Blake. One might even say pig-headed.”
    “One might. What’s for dinner?”
    “Very little.” Freeing one hand, Summer gestured toward the take-out box.
    Blake lifted a brow. “Your penchant for fast food’s very intriguing. Ever thought of opening your own chain—Minute Croissants? Drive Through Pastries?”
    She wouldn’t be amused. “You’re the businessman,” she reminded him. “I’m an artist.”
    “With a teenager’s appetite.” Strolling over, Blake plucked a drumstick from the box. He settled on the couch, then propped his feet on the coffee table. “Not bad,” he decided after the first bite. “No wine?”
    No, she didn’t want to be amused, was determined not to be, but watching him make himself at home with her dinner, Summer fought off a grin. Maybe her plan to insult him hadn’t worked, but there was no telling what the evening might bring. She only needed one opening to give him a good, solid jab. “Diet soda.” She sat down and lifted the can. “There’s more in the kitchen.”
    “This is fine.” Blake took the drink from her and sipped. “Is this how one of the greatest dessert chefs spends her evenings?”
    Lifting a brow, Summer took the can back from him. “ The greatest dessert chef spends her evenings as she pleases.”
    Blake crossed one ankle over the other and studied her. The flecks in her eyes were more subtle this evening—perhaps because she was relaxed. He liked to think he could make them glow again before the night was over. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Does that extend to other areas?”
    “Yes.” Summer took another piece of chicken before handing Blake a paper napkin. “I’ve decided your company’s tolerable—for the moment.”
    Watching her, he took another bite. “Have you?”
    “That’s why you’re here eating half my meal.” She ignored his chuckle and propped her own feet on the table beside his. There was something cozy about the setting that appealed to her—something intimate that made her wary. She was too cautious a woman to allow herself to forget the effect that one kiss had had on her. She was too