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gestured her inside.
    The lights were already dimmed. He’d chosen his colors well, she thought as she stepped onto the thick pewter-toned carpet. Grays from silvery pale to smoky dominated in the low, spreading sofa, the chairs, the walls. With the lights low it had a dreamlike effect that was both sensuous and soothing.
    It might have been dull, even bland, but there were splashes of color cleverly interspersed. The deep midnight blue of the drapes, the pearl-like tones of the army of cushions lining the sofa, the rich, primal green of an ivy tangling down the rungs of a breakfront. Then there were the glowing colors of the one painting, a French Impressionist that dominated one wall.
    There was none of the clutter she would have chosen for herself, but a sense of style she admired immediately. “Unusual, Mr. Cocharan,” Summer complimented as she automatically stepped out of her shoes. “And effective.”
    “Thank you. Another drink, Ms. Lyndon? The bar’s fully stocked, or there’s champagne if you prefer.”
    Still determined to come out of the evening on top, Summerstrolled to the sofa and sat. She sent him a cool, easy smile. “I always prefer champagne.”
    While Blake dealt with the bottle and cork, she took an extra moment to study the room again. Not an ordinary man, she decided. Too often ordinary was synonymous with boring. Summer was forced to admit that because she’d associated herself with the bohemian, the eccentric, the creative for most of her life, she’d always thought of people in business as innately boring.
    No, Blake Cocharan wouldn’t be dull. She almost regretted it. A dull man, no matter how attractive, could be handled with the minimum of effort. Blake was going to be difficult. Particularly since she’d yet to come to a firm decision on his proposition.
    “Your champagne, Ms. Lyndon.” When she lifted her eyes to his, Blake had to fight back a frown. The look was too measuring, too damn calculating. Just what was the woman up to now? And why in God’s name did she look so right, so temptingly right, curled on his sofa with pillows at her back? “You must be hungry,” he said, astonished that he needed the defense of words. “If you’d tell me what you’d like, the kitchen will prepare it. Or I can get you a menu, if you’d prefer.”
    “A menu won’t be necessary.” She sipped more cold, frothy French champagne. “I’d like a cheeseburger.”
    Blake watched the silk shift as she nestled into the corner of the sofa. “A what?”
    “Cheeseburger,” Summer repeated. “With a side order of fries, shoestring.” She lifted her glass to examine the color of the liquid. “Do you know, this was a truly exceptional year.”
    “Ms. Lyndon…” With strained patience, Blake dipped his hands in his pockets and kept his voice even. “Exactly what game are you playing?”
    She sipped slowly, savoring. “Game?”
    “Do you seriously want me to believe that you, a gourmet, a cordon bleu chef, want to eat a cheeseburger and shoestring fries?”
    “I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.” When her glass was empty, Summer rose to refill it herself. She moved, he noted, lazily, with none of that sharp, almost military motion she’d used when cooking. “Your kitchen does have lean prime beef, doesn’t it?”
    “Of course.” Certain she was trying to annoy him, or make a fool of him, Blake took her arm and turned her to face him. “Why do you want a cheeseburger?”
    “Because I like them,” she said simply. “I also like tacos and pizza and fried chicken—particularly when someone else is cooking them. That sort of thing is quick, tasty and convenient.” She grinned, relaxed by the wine, amused by his reaction. “Do you have a moral objection to junk food, Mr. Cocharan?”
    “No, but I’d think you would.”
    “Ah, I’ve shattered your image of a gastronomic snob.” She laughed, a very appealing, purely feminine sound. “As a chef, I can tell you that rich sauces