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Bet on My Heart
J.M. Jeffries
They're turning up the heat! French-trained chef Donovan Russell needs a change–a big one. So he's trading in his five-star Parisian kitchen for the restaurants at his grandmother's up-and-coming Reno casino. Donovan's cooking techniques are flawless. It will be culinary perfection…as soon as he convinces his spirited and unconventional new pastry chef to follow his rules!Hendrix Beausolies never follows recipes. Her desserts are a mouthwatering riot of complex flavors, each more delicious than the last. Where Donovan is all structure and precision, Hendrix cooks with instinct and experimentation. But when someone starts sabotaging their kitchens, they are forced to work together… Will they discover a shared passion for more than just food?


They’re turning up the heat!
French-trained chef Donovan Russell needs a change—a big one. So he’s trading in his five-star Parisian kitchen for the restaurants at his grandmother’s up-and-coming Reno casino. Donovan’s cooking techniques are flawless. It will be culinary perfection...as soon as he convinces his spirited and unconventional new pastry chef to follow his rules!
Hendrix Beausolies never follows recipes. Her desserts are a mouthwatering riot of complex flavors, each more delicious than the last. Where Donovan is all structure and precision, Hendrix cooks with instinct and experimentation. But when someone starts sabotaging their kitchens, they are forced to work together... Will they discover a shared passion for more than just food?
When she finished putting the ganache on the rolls, she popped one onto a plate and handed it to Donovan. “Try this.”
He took an experimental bite, chewed thoroughly and looked up at her. “Heavenly. You put apples in the rolls. What’s in the ganache? It tastes different.”
“Unsweetened apple cider,” she answered promptly. “Just a little to get the right taste.” She slid a roll onto a plate for herself and then took a bite. “It’s almost there. Maybe some candied walnut. Or...crystalized dates.”
He nodded as he took another bite. “The adventurous eater would try the ones with dates, but the average eater isn’t going to want dates on their cinnamon rolls, they’ll just want butter.”
“I agree butter is great, but people use too much of it, and it clouds the taste of their foods.”
“That’s how people are.”
She didn’t respond as she finished her roll. She licked the fork and found Donovan watching her.
“I like to eat,” she said, “and I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“I like women who eat.”
“In your business, you should.” She took his plate and put it in the sink, then opened the refrigerator to remove her bowl of chilled dough already formed into individual balls to start the crusts for her pies.
He reached over to touch her face. She remained still as he gently wiped a bit of ganache from the corner of her lip. Then he licked his finger. He smiled at her, and she tilted her head, walked closer to him and kissed him.
Dear Reader (#ulink_44498e24-6f14-563a-9e97-aa56a5f31258),
Jackie can’t cook. But she can eat. Miriam sort of cooks, but really prefers restaurant dining with no dishes to clean afterward.
Regardless, food is an absolute necessity. We cannot exist without it, despite our love-hate relationship with it. Somewhere along the historical road regarding food, it has evolved into love. We gift people at various holidays and celebrations with cake, pies, donuts and other sweet concoctions to savor these important moments.
Food brings together two very different people in this story. Donovan Russell follows the rules. For him, food is about perfection. Hendrix breaks the rules. She puts together disparate flavors and makes them work. Join Hendrix and Donovan as they discover a passion for each other that is much, much better than chocolate.
Much love,
Jackie and Miriam
J.M. Jeffries
Bet on My Heart
J.M. Jeffries


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE and MIRIAM live in Southern California. When they aren’t writing, Jackie is trying to take a nap and Miriam plays with her grandchildren. Jackie thought she wanted to be a lawyer until she met Miriam and decided to be a writer instead. Miriam always wanted to be a writer from her earliest childhood when she taught herself to read at age four. Both are avid readers and can usually be found with their noses in a book, or, now that it’s the twenty-first century, their eReaders. Check out their blog at jmjeffries.com (http://jmjeffries.com).
Jackie: Thank you, Cheesecake Factory, for your Red Velvet White Chocolate cheesecake. With a little nudge, I can always get Miriam to have a planning session there.
Miriam: Thank you to Mars, Incorporated for white-chocolate M&M’s. Jackie thinks she’s enticing me to the Cheesecake Factory, but I’m just happy because I don’t have to clean the kitchen. Also, a huge kiss to my newest grandson, Warrick Aurelian Pace, born August 2014. Big hugs to my granddaughter, Kathryn, who provides me with unending amusement. And a fist bump to my grandson, Frederik, who thinks he’s getting too old for kisses. And to my children, you are both always in my heart.
Contents
Cover (#u0a073c48-50c4-5fdb-ab98-b44dd8867638)
Back Cover Text (#u102d6087-8a18-523f-a5df-bd23ca355cff)
Introduction (#u5e596751-5068-53b5-973d-c24a1bd1d402)
Dear Reader (#u93c699a8-2e18-51be-a3f4-848f6e035b91)
Title Page (#uc68a2372-23bf-5f87-b59d-cbf084c6d6ef)
About the Author (#uc85a73ca-9745-5d92-9f19-68d45fb042a0)
Dedication (#u4459d9d3-9846-5bb7-8455-06ab953aafa4)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_7282c845-a622-5c5e-8ba6-f95cd7df2c33)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_4c719a8e-d0cd-550b-86f9-8717326ef20b)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_a835035f-6cc6-5e38-ab02-a8b3acab623c)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_faef5e59-28af-5a0e-bdad-5d15819fe686)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_308e1e85-623c-51e5-9f1a-9d9d7f25a593)
Hendrix Beausolie took a deep, calming breath. You can do this, she told herself, clutching her tote with her pastry samples inside. She heard the crackle of the newspaper ad in her pocket. She needed this job.
The Casa de Mariposa had made a startling reincarnation in the past few months and was now being touted as one of the premier hotels and casinos in Reno. The hotel had buzzed with excitement from the moment she entered the lobby.
One last look in the mirror showed her makeup was still flawless, which was a bit shocking considering how seldom she wore it. Her black-and-white 1940s retro dress skimmed her curvy figure and her black hair was still carefully styled in neat victory curls around her face. You can do this, she mentally repeated her mantra. She practiced her speech one last time, took a deep breath and turned back to the restroom door. She yanked it open, stepped into the lobby and headed toward the restaurant.
The restaurant was busy with the lunch crowd. A good sign. She marched across the floor, through the door into the kitchen and stopped in panic. Aromatic smells of food cooking greeted her, as did the sounds of waitstaff shouting orders and the line cooks at their stations flipping sizzling steaks, tossing salad or standing in front of tables slicing and dicing. Controlled chaos.
“Watch yourself” came a voice from the side.
She stepped away from the doors to avoid a waitress with a tray balanced in the air on one hand. “I have an appointment...”
The waitress grinned. “All the way to the back at the very end of the kitchen and down the hall. First door on the left.” She slipped through the door into the bustling restaurant.
Hendrix squared her shoulders and made her way to the back of the kitchen deftly avoiding people while muttering “coming through behind you.” The corridor opened in front of her and she paused to gather herself. She took another deep breath, stepped up to the door the waitress had directed her to and knocked.
“Enter” came a deep, authoritative voice.
Hendrix pushed open the door and stepped into a large office with a kitchen composed of gleaming stainless-steel appliances on one side and on the other a desk set in front of rows of bookcases containing what looked to be every cookbook in the world. She had a hard time pulling her gaze away in order to focus on the man behind the desk.
He stood at her entrance with a half smile on his face. He was tall. Taller than she was, and she was five-ten. In the two-inch heels she wore, her eyes were almost level with his. He was good-looking with wide-spaced brown eyes and short-cropped hair. His white jacket was a startling contrast to his mocha-colored skin.
So this was Donovan Russell, chef extraordinaire, most recently living in Paris but now currently revamping the menus at all the hotel’s restaurants located on the property. He’d been written up in Reno Today, an article Hendrix had studied for days, in an attempt to figure out what would impress him.
In person, he looked much younger than the photo accompanying the article. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty to her twenty-seven years of age. And Cordon Bleu trained. That part both impressed and intimidated her. She was totally in awe of anyone who had been trained in that mecca of French cuisine.
“I’m Hendrix Beausolie.” She put her tote down on his desk and held out her hand ready to launch into her speech.
“Just show me what you have,” he said interrupting her thoughts.
“I...” Startled by his brusqueness, she reached into her tote and brought out the container. She was deeply proud of her samples—a fruit tart, a couple of mini pies and her favorite cakes, including the champagne cake she’d developed for her best friend’s wedding. She opened the container and lifted out a tray setting it down in front of him. Each tiny sample contained all the hope and love she had inside of her for creating delicious pastries. She bit the inside of her lip, awaiting his next move.
He stared at her offerings. “They look pretty.”
“Pretty doesn’t seem to impress you.” She almost bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say that. Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth closed and nod. Her grandmother always said her smart remarks would get her in trouble one day. She hoped it wouldn’t be today, but sometimes she couldn’t stop the words from passing through her lips.
He stared at her, taking in her dress, her hair, and her face. “You’re not a prima donna are you?”
“I thought about being a prima ballerina.” She stood on point and smiled at him. “But I grew too tall.”
He almost smiled. She could work with that.
“I don’t need a baller—”
She picked up a morsel of champagne cake and pushed it gently in to his mouth. His eyes opened wide in surprise at her audacity, but he chewed. Then paused for a moment, his eyes studying her, and chewed again. Before he could say anything else, she popped a second piece into his mouth.
“Wow...” he said after he’d swallowed, but before he could go on, she popped a tiny fruit tart into his mouth. “I...”
“Don’t talk,” she said. “Just eat.” She waited for him to gulp down the tart. Before she could insert another one of her scrumptious little desserts into his mouth, he held up a hand, walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.
Then he sat down at his desk and watched her expectantly. She laid out each morsel in front of him and indicated where he should start. Between each bite, he drank water to cleanse his palate. Hendrix sat down and watched his face transform from doubt to delight and finally to amazement. She wondered how many pastry chefs he’d already interviewed. She intended to be the last one. She needed this job.
“What’s in this?” He said as the last bite of champagne cake filled his mouth. “I can taste the white chocolate and the champagne. What else?” His tone was still brusque, but he looked intrigued.
“A touch of raspberry, champagne, white chocolate and my secret ingredient.” Her secret ingredient was a tiny amount of cinnamon and maple syrup. Her grandmother had told her the tastes would never mesh, but they did when added in the right amounts. She liked the lingering aftertaste of the cake.
“The tart,” he said.
“Kiwi, pineapple, blueberries and raspberries with a bourbon and chocolate sauce.” Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t tell from the look of concentration on his face whether or not he liked it. She tried not to show how nervous she was. She’d learned to cook from her grandmother, and a childhood spent with globe-trotting parents had introduced her to the flavors of the whole world.
He leaned back in his chair and studied her. She gripped her hands tightly together to keep from shaking.
“Give me your background.”
She wet her lips with her tongue. “My parents own an import-export business and I spent most of my childhood traveling and learning to eat different cuisines. I went to high school in San Francisco where my grandmother taught me to bring all the flavors together in her tea shop. I majored in chemistry in college and since then I’ve worked a number of places—most recently a bakery here in Reno and before that a restaurant in San Francisco and my grandmother’s tea shop.” Her grandmother’s tea shop was named Hippie, Tea and Me. She usually avoided telling people that. Sure, her grandmother was an aging hippie, but her tea shop on Fisherman’s Wharf was still in high demand. Usually standing-room only.
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Chemistry!”
She shrugged. “I like to blow things up.” In her mind, food was a lot like chemistry with tastes that blew up when the right amounts were put together.
He burst out laughing. “I blew up my grandmother’s kitchen trying to get a high school science project to work right.”
“I blew up the dean’s golf cart. I needed it for an experiment and...well...things happen.” She raised her hands not adding that she’d almost been expelled until her parents replaced the golf cart with a luxury model and added a generous donation to the science department. She had the feeling her father was still chuckling about it.
He burst out laughing again. Then he frowned. “What did you say your name was?”
“Hendrix. Hendrix Beausolie.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You’re hired. You’ll be in charge of the complete dessert menu for two restaurants, one a sit-down, dine-in and the other a diner in the lobby. When can you start?”
“Immediately,” she said, relieved. She’d left her last job at Mitzi’s Cake Magic rather abruptly. Even though she’d given him her references a week ago, she had the feeling he hadn’t checked them. Should she be worried?
He nodded. “Report to Human Resources right away. I’ll call them and let them know you’re on your way. And be here tomorrow morning at four.”
He mentioned a salary that made Hendrix gulp. She almost asked if he really meant to offer her so much money, double what Mitzi paid her, but clamped her mouth tight so it wouldn’t get her into trouble.
She started packing up the uneaten pastries, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Leave them.”
She swallowed and nodded, unable to talk. She picked up her tote and fled. She briefly glanced back to see him digging in to what was left and chewing thoroughly as though trying to guess what was in each of her sample offerings.
* * *
Donovan had been bored. He’d interviewed several pastry chefs and not one had shown him anything interesting. Until Hendrix walked in looking sassy and just plain different. He didn’t know what he’d expected from her, but she’d blown him away.
Donovan ate every last sample left on the little tray, even using his finger to lick up the crumbs. Oh, my God, he thought. He didn’t know what was better, Hendrix or her cake. He could identify the main ingredients, but the subtle, pleasant aftertastes were harder. She’d used more than just bourbon and chocolate in the tart’s sauce. And the tiny pie, which he thought was mainly key lime, had something else, some undertone that had a slightly spicy aftertaste yet was still completely and totally delicious. Better than any samples from previous interviewees and he’d interviewed too many to even keep count.
Just from the way Hendrix walked, he knew she was different with her odd black-and-white dress, black shoes and hair curled like she’d just stepped out of a poster from the 1940s. She was sexy, classy and had a look of fun in her amber-colored eyes. He liked her. He wasn’t sure why, but that combination excited him. The way her food did.
Each one of Hendrix’s samples had contained surprising undertones, and he knew she was never going to give him any more information on the ingredients she used other than the obvious. Yet her samples had been outstanding. Just thinking about them gave him a thrill.
And she was gorgeous. The sight of her heading into his office looking nervous and half terrified had rocked him. He’d gone into despair over the thought of finding just the right person to take over the pastry station after the last pastry chef had so unceremoniously quit. He’d wanted someone surprising and Hendrix was certainly that.
He sat back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the empty tray. He’d been looking for unique and found it, though he already knew she would be a headache. Just from looking at her and eating her samples, he could tell she wasn’t a team player. But if she could deliver quality every time, she’d really help put the restaurants on the map.
Donovan gazed around his combination office and kitchen. He was proud of it. Originally the office had been a small storage room, but he’d knocked out a wall and converted the expanded space into an industrial kitchen where he could experiment. He loved having his own private kitchen designed to his specifications. He loved every gleaming surface from the cabinets to the large worktable in the center with stools along one end so he could easily serve food when he and his brothers had a few food sessions on their guy nights. He’d even given cooking lessons to his new sister-in-law, Lydia, and his soon to be sister-in-law, Nina.
A knock sounded. He opened the door to find a portly man standing in the hallway. The man looked as though he’d just eaten a bowl of prunes. His mouth was pinched and his eyes were tired. He held up an ID wallet. Donovan tried not to groan. He’d been under scrutiny from the health department since his arrival.
“Come in,” Donovan said. “How can I help you?”
The man glanced down at his tablet computer. “I’m Larry Deacon. I’m replacing your last health inspector. I’m just checking to make sure you’re in compliance with the repairs you were ordered to make at the last inspection.”
Donovan nodded. “I don’t think I missed anything.” The last inspection had been meticulous, with the inspector citing him over the most mundane things that had nothing to do with food handling, such as improperly storing dirty towels.
“I’ll take a look around and meet you back here,” Deacon said.
Donovan watched him return to the kitchen. Every time he had an inspection new violations were found. He would correct them, but sometimes he felt the health department was out to crucify him. He was pretty thick-skinned but at times the inspections seemed personal.
His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Donovan Russell.”
“Donovan,” his ex-wife chirped. “How did you manage to keep the linen supplier on schedule? You never had a problem with him.”
He tried not to groan. Even though he and Erica had been divorced for several years, she couldn’t seem to get over no longer being married to him. “Erica, I always say please and thank you.” Not that Erica was rude, but she definitely considered service personnel to be beneath her.
“Could you just call him for me?” she pleaded.
A former model, Erica had looks, drive and determination. What she didn’t have was patience. “No.”
“Donovan,” she cried.
“We opened the restaurant six years ago. You know how everything works.” Most of the everyday details had always been her job. And now that he’d sold her his half of the restaurant and moved to Reno, she called him over the most agonizingly silly things.
“But I don’t have your touch.” A tiny whine crept into her voice.
“Being polite is your first order of business.” He closed his eyes trying to maintain his temper. After a couple of deep breaths, he was able to get beyond his irritation. “Erica, you need to hire a general manager to run the restaurant.” A general manager would intercede for her and help keep everything running smoothly. “I gave you the names of people to call. Have you called anyone?”
She avoided his question. “You didn’t need one.” Erica’s voice was soft and wheedling.
Donovan took another deep, calming breath. “But you do.”
She drew her breath in sharply. “Donovan, can’t you just come back to Paris? Your grandmother doesn’t need you and I do. Nobody goes to a hotel to eat the food. And Reno is just a Podunk little town. It’s not like Rome or New York or Paris.”
He swallowed his irritation. “Erica, I’m not coming back to Paris. You can run the restaurant. I left you all the recipes. And you know how to cook.” For someone who didn’t eat, she was a darn good cook.
“Please, Donovan,” she begged.
“No.” He didn’t understand why she thought she wasn’t experienced enough to run a restaurant, or why she was so clingy. Her neediness was one of the reasons why they were no longer married. Her need to be admired, petted and supported had tired him out.
For an intelligent woman, Erica was kind of lazy. She always wanted other people to do everything for her. At first Donovan had been enchanted by her little-girl helplessness. But once they were married, her inability to care for herself got old pretty quick. He’d kept expecting her to grow up, but that never happened. They’d both been relieved to end their marriage after only a year.
He’d opened the restaurant, and her ability to be a charming hostess drew crowds. People returned because the food was outstanding, perfect in taste and presentation. Erica was the center of attention and loved it. The restaurant had been a success. She understood how to run it. He’d even explained everything patiently, writing out a schedule of what to order when and when to expect delivery. He thought she’d be fine on her own, but she wasn’t.
“Erica, I have to go.”
“Donovan,” she cried, and burst into tears. “I don’t know what to do. One of the line cooks quit and I need a new sous chef.”
“I’ll call François about the linen delivery,” he said. “And I’ll have Marie Odile Arceneau call you. She’ll make a terrific general manager and you can go back to being the hostess.” Erica hadn’t made this much of a fuss when they’d divorced.
She stopped crying with not even a residual sniff. “You’ll call him right away?”
“I’ll call him right away.”
She hung up without another word. She’d gotten what she’d wanted and was done with him. But he had the feeling that he would never completely be rid of her. He wanted to go forward and she wanted to go back. And to think he’d once thought her helplessness charming.
The health inspector returned. “You have some changes you need to make, Mr. Russell.” He handed him a list of violations. “You have a month to make corrections.”
He took the papers and just stared at the list. One of the mixers was broken—again. Two temperature gauges in the refrigerators were missing and several first-aid kits were empty. A fire extinguisher wasn’t properly seated in its cradle. One of the line cooks had improperly stored his utensils, which was something Donovan had warned him about repeatedly. And the deep-fryer station should be cleaner. “I will get on these immediately.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose trying to release his irritation. All these violations added up to make him look careless.
Mr. Deacon’s mouth grew even more pinched. “I’ll be back in a month.”
Donovan rubbed his eyes. He had too much work to do and not enough time.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Russell,” Deacon said. “You’re a first-rate chef and you know how a kitchen is supposed to operate. You have too many violations, and I can’t help thinking someone doesn’t like you. These violations aren’t enough to shut you down and you still have an A rating, but I feel the need to warn you that these violations can’t go on indefinitely.”
Donovan had no answer. He’d come to the same conclusion himself, but that didn’t mean he could ignore health regulations. He prided himself on himself on the cleanliness of his kitchen. He’d never had so many violations in his entire career. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Fill up those first-aid kits. If I were you, I’d keep extra kits around just to replace the ones that seem to be losing their contents.”
“Will do.” Donovan watched the man leave and pulled himself to his feet. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and dragged a bag out. He’d started keeping medical supplies on hand and had begun checking the first-aid kits every morning when he arrived. How the kits ended up empty, he didn’t know. Even Scott, Donovan’s older brother who specialized in security, was shaking his head over the mystery. He’d installed surveillance cameras that covered almost every inch of kitchen and still the mixers seemed to break when no one was nearby. Temperature gauges in the cold storage areas disappeared. He’d even found cleaning supplies near food prep areas, which was a huge violation.
He picked up his phone and dialed his brother to let him know about the latest inspection and what it had revealed. Something had to be done. Eventually, the health department would get tired of these violations and shut him down. He couldn’t let that happen.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b23f1ad8-d20a-541f-995f-33e3f09a4fb8)
“I got the job,” Hendrix said to her grandmother, Olivia Prudhomme Beausolie. She cradled her phone against her shoulder while she sprinkled food into her fish tank. Her tiny little fish rushed to the surface to eat. She’d never been a cat or dog person. Animals had fur and fur traveled into every corner of a house. Her kitchen was immaculate.
She’d rented the cottage because the cheerful blue-and-white kitchen was huge while the rest of the cottage was tiny. The owner had liked to cook and knocked out a wall to create one large room from two smaller ones, doubling the size of the kitchen and then retrofitting the expansion with industrial appliances. The problem was that as a rental, the kitchen was a detraction unless the space was rented by someone who cooked and didn’t mind the small living room and bedrooms at the front. That someone had been Hendrix after the cottage had stood empty for a number of months.
“A hotel!” Olivia said. “Why a big hotel? I thought you were happy with Mitzi Baxter. You had told me she and her bakery were wonderful.”
“Mitzi’s kids didn’t like me. They thought I was going to take over and force them out.” Mitzi Baxter had offered to sell half the bakery to Hendrix, but a stroke had seriously damaged her health and her daughters had taken over. Quitting had probably not been the smartest action, but Hendrix couldn’t stand the way Lisa and Susan had hovered over her as though worried she’d steal a cup of flour and some raisins. “This way, I’m making double the money and can set something aside to open my own bakery.” Opening her own bakery had been her original goal. Rows of cakes, pies and tarts filed through her mind. Someday, she promised herself.
“Sound’s exciting,” her grandmother said, though she sounded doubtful.
“It does, though I think he’s going to be a little dictator. The executive chef is Cordon Bleu trained and you know how rigid they can be when you breathe around their food. Hopefully, as a pastry chef, our paths won’t be crossing that much. He’s even planning to give me my own kitchen so my desserts don’t get contaminated by the odors in the main kitchen.” Though for the moment, she’d be sharing his kitchen since he wouldn’t have one ready for her just yet.
“That’s good. He won’t be standing over you. I know you work best when left alone.” Her grandmother sounded amused. “I’m proud of you, Hendrix.”
“Thank you.” Hendrix grinned.
“Are you going to keep your experimenting to a minimal?” her grandmother asked.
Hendrix liked to dabble in the kitchen and see what she could come up with. The problem was, she often forgot what she did since she seldom wrote things down and too often couldn’t reproduce what she’d done. “I plan to stick to my established recipes. I know them by heart, and I’ll wait until I’m thoroughly certain he won’t get upset before I start mixing things up.” She tried to be more methodical about what she did, but too often she’d be caught up in the thought of the taste without paying attention to amounts. She liked having little surprises in her cakes. Her champagne cake had a very basic structure to which she added different ingredients in order to create more subtle tastes.
“Give your boss a chance to know you before you go creating things you can’t duplicate,” Olivia advised.
“I’ll rein it in.”
“Hendrix Marie Beausolie,” her grandmother said with an undertone of amusement, “sometimes you just have to play along to get what you want.”
True, Hendrix thought to herself, though she was shocked that her antiestablishment, unconventional grandmother would tell her that. Her grandmother had spent her life doing the unexpected and delighting in the fallout that followed.
Hendrix had to keep her goal of having her own bakery foremost in her mind. She would do anything for her dream.
They disconnected and Hendrix called her mother next. Her parents were world travelers searching for unique items for their import-export business. Currently, they were in Tanzania on a buying trip. She couldn’t reach them, her call going straight to voice mail. She tried to calculate the time and figured her parents must be sleeping. She left a message telling them the good news. Her mother would get back to her when she had time.
* * *
The night manager had given her a white jacket and a toque with the hotel logo on them. She looked odd with the jacket fitting a touch too tightly over her bright yellow dress.
“I know I promised you a kitchen,” he said, when he greeted her at the beginning of her shift, “but I don’t have one ready just yet. I hope you don’t mind sharing my office with me for a month or two while I’m getting yours ready.”
“This is good,” she said her eyes narrowing as she appraised the kitchen.
He was proud of the stainless-steel appliances, walk-in refrigerators with wheeled racks, industrial mixers and a worktable that looked to be ten feet long.
“The fire extinguisher holders are empty,” she said.
Donovan sighed. He opened a closet, pulled out two boxes, opened them and hung the fire extinguishers where they belonged making a mental note to let Scott know that this had happened—again.
He then handed her a recipe box. “These are the recipes I want you to use. The ones in the last divider, I developed to appeal to people on a variety of different diets—they accommodate guests with allergies and diabetes and those on gluten-free diets. The ones in the front are more traditional dessert recipes.”
“Okay,” she said taking the box gingerly. “What about my recipes?”
“I want you to incorporate your recipes, as well.” He opened the box to show her the neat sections of index cards inside. He pulled a few out and spread them over the surface of the work table.
Her lovely lips pursed. “But...but this is Reno. People don’t come here to diet.”
“People who come to Reno want safe fun. They don’t want to die from a nut allergy because you used almond paste and didn’t declare it. We want our guests to come back.” Alive, he added silently.
“I suppose so,” she said with a tiny frown.
He watched her turn his statement around in her head. Her face was as expressive as it was beautiful.
The casino was open twenty-four hours a day, which meant the kitchen was open twenty-four hours a day. The night crowds didn’t eat as much as the day crowds, but they still wanted good food.
She twitched a bit, her shoulders rolling. She scratched at her long neck. Was she nervous? Donovan studied her closely. She didn’t look particularly uncomfortable, but neither did she seem to be at ease. He handed her a clipboard with the day’s needs on it. She glanced at it.
Donovan watched her for a moment and decided she would be fine. He’d already shown her where the baking supplies were stored.
“I have some errands to run,” he said. “If you need anything, here’s my cell phone number. Just give me a call if you have any problems, or...if...you just need to talk.”
She seemed surprised when he handed her a piece of paper with his cell number scrawled across it.
“Thank you,” she said frowning slightly.
As he left, his last glimpse was of her standing in front of the huge table sorting through the recipes in the box with a slight frown on her face.
He headed to his car. He had an appointment with a rancher and then a butcher. As he opened the door, he paused. He’d given her his private cell phone number. No one had it except his family and the restaurant managers. Why did he do that?
He stepped out into the morning air. The sun was just cresting the horizon. The air was cool and crisp. He sat in his car for a moment.
To be honest, she was sort of cute and a little quirky. And she’d looked a little lost when she’d first shown up this morning. She’ll be fine, he told himself as he started the car, backed out of his parking spot and drove out of the parking lot. She’ll be fine.
* * *
For her first day on the job, Hendrix wore her bright yellow vintage 1950s dress fashioned after one of Coco Chanel’s classic chemise dresses. It was her good-luck dress and she’d worn it for her first day on every job since she’d found it in a hidden store a block from her grandmother’s tea shop.
Hendrix spread the cards out in front of her trying not to wince. Boring. The recipes weren’t bad, just too conventional for her taste. Yet, her grandmother had warned her to play along. Could she? Was the compromise worth the job?
She sorted through the recipes, setting aside those she thought had possibilities. Would he really notice if she added something to give them an extra pop of flavor? She flipped open her laptop to check out information on food allergies and then began adjusting the recipes to her own ideas of what they should taste like without using ingredients that might cause allergic reactions.
The jacket itched. She scratched at her shoulders. Maybe she should just make them the way he preferred. And then when he liked her, and he was going to like her, she could start flipping ingredients around, nothing extreme. She wouldn’t be outrageous. She would play it safe. Yeah, I can do that.
She made a list of ingredients, pushed a wheeled cart to the storage area and filled it with what she needed to get started. Once back in the kitchen, she started work despite the itching from the scratchy jacket. She wanted her own jacket. This one didn’t fit right and she was going to be a hot mess by the end of the day.
For the next few hours, she made cakes, rolled out dough for pies, peeled fruit for fillings, made custard and crème brûlée. She filled the ovens with the aromatic smells of a dozen different pastries. On the side, she made cupcakes. Her special cupcakes filled with nuts, vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of ginger. She could do most things Donovan’s way, but she needed one thing for herself.
The door opened and Donovan stepped into his office. A small, white-haired woman accompanied him. She had the look of an empress with her head held high, her brown eyes soft and mysterious and her tiny, slender figure elegantly dressed in a blue silk, formfitting sheath. The woman was so different from her own grandmother, Hendrix paused in rolling out the dough for another pie to stare.
The elderly woman approached. “You must be Hendrix. Donovan has done nothing but rave about your baking. When do we get to try something?”
“Hendrix, this is my grandmother,” Donovan explained.
“Everyone calls me Miss E.,” the tiny woman explained.
Hendrix watched as Miss E. eyed a nearby cupcake. Hendrix had been decorating them with white icing and little fondant butterflies. Mariposa did mean butterfly, didn’t it? she thought. She would have to get a Spanish-English dictionary and check.
“Here.” Hendrix thrust a cupcake at Miss E.
Miss E. grabbed the cupcake, peeled the paper wrapping away and bit down into it. A surprised look appeared on her face. “This is wonderful. Are they going to be on the menu today?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to cook up something that—” Hendrix caught herself in time “—that...was a little different.” A little unexpected, she mentally added. She’d followed Donovan’s directions, but the cakes and pies were dreadfully average. She’d resisted the desire to inject surprising ingredients to alter the flavors—almost. She couldn’t help adding a little something extra to his apple-custard tarts and chocolate mousse.
“We discussed the menu,” Donovan said with a sharp glance at Hendrix, who fidgeted, scratching at her wrists.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Hendrix asked Miss. E.
“No food allergies.” Miss E. broke off a piece of the cupcake and handed it to him. “Try this.”
As he popped it into his mouth, Hendrix thought about running away and hiding.
He chewed and frowned. He chewed a bit more. “This is good.” His sharp glance took in Hendrix’s face.
“I’m trying,” Hendrix burst out. “I’m trying to cook the cakes and pies you wanted, but I can’t. They’re boring. They’re too conventional. They’re—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.
Donovan stared at her. “You can do better?”
Hendrix swallowed hard. Why couldn’t she just stay silent for a change. “Your recipes are fine. I made them.” She opened the refrigerator to show the pies and cakes cooling on different shelves. “Try one. You’ll see.” She started scratching again.
“You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.
“This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”
Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”
“It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”
“This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.
“It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.
“Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”
Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”
“No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.
She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.
“Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.
“I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?
“Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”
Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”
Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.
* * *
“I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.
“She’s going to be just fine.”
“Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”
“I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”
Donovan glared at her helplessly. “But...”
“You used to be so experimental and creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”
“Miss E...”
She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”
“I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”
“Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”
“This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”
“I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”
Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.
He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.
Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”
She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”
“I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.
“I know I’m a little unorthodox...”
“Is that the word you like to use?”
She smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “No one has ever complained about the end result. I have a process and I know it’s not always easy to understand. You have your own process. As much as we put spices, herbs and other ingredients into our food, we put our personality in, too.”
She was shooting down every argument he could muster before the words left his mouth. “If you would give me a minute, I could express my concerns.”
“Do you have any more?”
Defeated, he shrugged, “Not really.”
She walked over and patted him on the arm. “That’s how teachers teach chemistry in school. How to think logically and blow something up spectacularly.”
“There will be no blowing up of anything in my kitchen. Ever.”
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I’m cool with that.”
“I hear you.” He didn’t quite believe her. He had the feeling his grandmother was right. He’d be cleaning gunk off the ceiling at three in the morning.
“You don’t trust me yet, but you will.” She turned back, walked over to the ovens and started opening them. Watching her move around the kitchen, it was almost as if she was dancing. There was joy in every movement as she pulled out pie after steaming pie and set them on the counter to cool.
The most amazing scents washed over Donovan. He knew without one shred of evidence she hadn’t followed his directions as explicitly as he’d demanded. Was that a look of guilt on her face?
She disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. She was unsettling and unconventional. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. This kitchen was his domain. He needed to get her into her own kitchen. That way if she didn’t follow instructions, he wouldn’t know. He would see the end result and wouldn’t have to agonize on how she got there.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_2f759d19-a690-5251-ae4e-9a64dabb1d42)
Hendrix walked out into the hot noon sun. Reno was so different from San Francisco, which was cool during the day and downright cold at night. Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he’d ever experienced was a summer spent in San Francisco. She missed the fog, the activity, even the culture. If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.
Having survived her first week with Donovan was a relief. She hadn’t blown anything up or set fire to the kitchen. She decided she deserved a little treat. She climbed into her VW bug with the ladybug paint job, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. She headed for her favorite vintage fashion store after a quick stop at her house for some cupcakes she’d frozen for Hazel, the owner of Vintage Fashions. They’d be defrosted by the time she arrived.
Hazel Winston’s vintage shop was a small store set in a tiny, out-of-the-way strip mall. She was a tall, curvy blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a penchant for vintage fashion. The store itself was small and felt cluttered with a dozen racks of clothes, shelves of vintage accessories and boxes of gently used shoes. On the walls, Hazel had hung lattice and there she kept her most recent acquisitions. She was an expert on fashion from the forties and fifties and her passion showed in the white tulle Balenciaga wedding gown that floated in ethereal splendor on the most prominent wall in the store.
Hendrix gazed longingly at the Balenciaga wedding gown, but the price was too steep. Plus, she’d first need a man in her life, and that wasn’t part of the picture she had for her future.
Hazel dropped what she was doing and rushed over. She wore a pale yellow dress with a black-and-white polka dot neckline and cuffs—vintage Oleg Cassini.
“Did you bring my cupcakes?” Hazel demanded holding out a hand.
Hendrix handed over the box. “Hazel, do you have my dress?”
“I have three for you.” Hazel placed the box on the counter and, after a small peek inside, she led the way to the back of the store. “Thank you for the cupcakes. They look wonderful.”
“This is why I love you.” Hendrix followed her. “You love my cupcakes.”
“Everyone loves your cupcakes.”
Hendrix had been supplying her friend with baked goods for a couple years. Part of Hazel’s clientele came just for a quick snack while browsing the store.
Hazel grabbed the three dresses she’d found and hung each one over a hook on the wall. Hendrix was immediately drawn to a navy blue dress with embroidered yellow daisies on the halter top and a full skirt that flowed out over a white crinoline. She barely looked at the other two. One, a Dior form-fitting street dress of gray-and-green serge was almost as cute. The third dress was a black, pleated Coco Chanel silk dress with creamy white contrasting silk at the neck, cuffs and hem that would look heavenly on a romantic date.
“I’m celebrating my first week on my new job.” She began to unbutton her yellow dress once she was in the dressing room.
“You didn’t insult a customer or set fire to the kitchen, did you?”
Hendrix laughed. “I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Just an annoying executive chef. “I sort of miss talking to them.” She didn’t miss the complaints. No matter how good something was, one person would be dissatisfied. “And for your information, I only set fire to a stove once when I was adding butter rum to a chocolate sauce and some splashed over the rim of the pot.”
Hazel laughed. “Where’s the new job?” Hazel held out her hand for Hendrix’s dress.
“Hotel de Mariposa,” Hendrix answered as she pulled the navy blue halter dress over her head and settled it around her curves. The designers in the fifties really understood how to accent a woman’s natural curves, which was one of the reasons she loved vintage fashion so much. She wasn’t forced to slide her curves into current fashions designed for girls who looked like sticks.
“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.
Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.
She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.
“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.
Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.
She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.
* * *
“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.
Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.
“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.
“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.
“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”
Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”
She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”
Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?
“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”
“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”
Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”
“That’s my grandmother.”
“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”
“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.
Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”
Donovan couldn’t refuse. She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.
“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.
Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”
Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother had told him food would bring people in. People came for the gambling and stayed for the extras. Having the tart featured at Piquant would also put the Mariposa on the map of food connoisseurs looking for the newest food experience.
He had two thoughts. First he had to sample the tart. Second he had to talk to Hendrix and find out what she did.
“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.
“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.
Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.
He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.
His brother Scott walked into his office, a half-eaten brownie in his hand. “Hey, bro. When did your dessert skills get so good? This is damn snacky.” He held up a brownie.
“I can make a dessert.”
Scott studied him. “What you can do with a steak is akin to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. But desserts? Not so much. Do not make me remind you of the ‘what’ cake.”
Donovan almost shuddered. He remembered the “what” cake too clearly. The “what” cake was Donovan’s first attempt to make a cake by himself when he was eight years old. Everything had gone according to the recipe, but when he took the cake out of the oven, the top layer looked more like a ramp than a perfectly domed cake. He tried to use icing to correct the slant, but the icing turned out too wet and kept sliding off. Miss E. wouldn’t allow them to waste the cake and made them eat it. Donovan’s oldest brother, Hunter looked at the cake and said, “what cake is that?”
“I’ve improved.”
“Right.” Scott just grinned.
Donovan grabbed the brownie and took a bite. The flavors practically exploded on his tongue. The brownie was a light yet dense chocolate extravaganza with undertones that made his mouth water. The basic recipe was his, but she’d added something to it. What was the last bit of flavor? Maple! No, not maple. Caramel? Maybe. And a touch of something else he couldn’t identify. Damn, the brownie was good. More than good, decadent. More than decadent—it was food fit for the gods.
The woman could cook. First her tart was going to put him on the foodie radar and now her brownie was touched by hands of angels. If this was only a small indication of what Hendrix was capable of, he was going to have to live with her kookiness.
“I have to get two more to take home to Nina,” Scott said.
“Nina is going to spin this, isn’t she?”
“This brownie is going to be on a billboard.”
Donovan could see the billboard in his mind and tried not to shudder. He did like his soon to be sister-in-law, but her mind never shut down. Donovan had already had one meeting with her in which she’d lain out her campaign to make the restaurants a five-star attraction. Nina was a bulldozer, jamming ideas at him every chance she got, making him want to run back to Paris.
His food had been the star of his restaurant in Paris. His reputation was his food. He wanted it to be the star of the casino, but Hendrix’s desserts were eclipsing him. First, Lenore Abernathy and now Scott raved about the desserts but said nothing about the food. He would have to up his game. His food needed to outshine the desserts. How? He didn’t know yet. His philosophy was all about slow and steady winning the race. When he developed a dish, he spent days thinking about it and weeks experimenting. His process was drawn out, painstaking and emotionally exhausting. And in one week, Hendrix, who just seemed to throw things together without thinking, had bested him.
Scott punched him on the arm. “Where did you just go in your head?”
“Thinking. Thinking...about...scallops.” He wasn’t certain he could tell his brother his ego had just gotten a big old kick in the butt. That would be unmanly.
“Really. Scallops. You didn’t have a scallops look on your face.”
Donovan frowned at his brother. Finally, he shrugged. “Since we’re grown-ups, I’ll confess. Hendrix Beausolie, the new pastry chef, made the brownies. And her desserts are better than my food and I don’t I like it.” His ego was definitely taking a huge hit.
Scott grinned. “That’s my brother—always has to be the prettiest one at the dance, or no one is going to have any fun.”
“I’m not going feel ashamed that my ego is dented. Maybe a little healthy competition is just what I need.” In school, his instructors had told him he had a gift for food. He’d studied hard and worked hard developing his technique. To have another person with no formal training and a haphazard approach outshine him was just plain insulting. In Paris, he made it to the top in a city of outstanding chefs. Reno wasn’t exactly the food Capitol of the world and he hardly expected to find any real competition. He’d accepted the challenge of building a dynasty with his family because he’d known, despite his reservations, that his grandmother was on to something.
Hunter and Scott thought Miss E.’s winning the Mariposa was a fluke. Donovan, being the youngest, had spent a lot of time studying his grandmother. He’d watched Miss E. manipulate them all into getting what she wanted. There would never be a middle-of-the-road goal for the Russell clan.
He’d watched his grandmother channel them all into the careers they’d entered once she’d figured out where their interests lay. Kenzie and Hunter were the artistic ones. Scott had had the potential to be either a cop or a master criminal, but Miss E. put him on the right road. And as for him, she’d known he enjoyed puttering with food and tastes. Even as a child, he loved to cook. She was a good cook herself, but her food was an expression of her love for her grandchildren, rather than just a skill set.
He wondered what food meant to Hendrix. Donovan got pleasure out of watching people eat his food and be transported by the combination of tastes and the artistic presentation. He suspected Hendrix wasn’t interested in watching people eat, she wanted to play with tastes more to amuse herself than for accolades. And she liked to eat. He’d seen her dip a finger into batter and taste it. He’d also noticed how she made small samples for herself, which she also ate before she pronounced whatever cake or pie or tart she’d made good enough to be served to the public.
He had to find out what she was doing, how she was doing it and how to channel her technique so that it would benefit everyone. She’d bruised his ego, but his ego wasn’t a fragile thing. Cooking wasn’t for sissies. One of his teachers at the Cordon Bleu once told him, to ensure success in this business you to have skin as thick as your ego is big. And Donovan had a very thick skin.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_bdc9d0f9-3151-5f8d-bab2-9f7d35825e4d)
Hendrix parked her car across the street from Mitzi’s bakery. She sat for a moment deep breathing, trying to get up the courage to pick up her last paycheck all while avoiding Mitzi’s two daughters.
Mitzi was only in her early seventies, and there was still a lot of life in her. Mitzi hadn’t wanted to retire, but she’d had a ministroke and seen the writing on the wall. So Hendrix had made an offer to buy half the bakery and Mitzi had accepted. Mitzi made plans to do some traveling, but then she’d had a major stroke and lapsed into a coma. Lisa and Susie had promised they would keep the bakery on its feet, but then told Hendrix the buy-in deal was off because there was no physical contract to support her assertion that Mitzi wanted to sell her half the bakery. Hendrix had been furious. To have her dream within reach and then removed had left her ready to spit nails. Instead, she’d walked out and never returned.
She felt guilty for jumping ship. She owed Mitzi, but she couldn’t stand Mitzi’s daughters and knew her heart wouldn’t be in her baking. And not loving her work would be worse than making crappy food.
Hendrix pushed open the door. The overhead blower, designed to keep flies out, activated.
The bakery wasn’t large. Five small tables were arranged along the window in the front with the bakery case. The register and prep area took up almost the entire back half of the room. No one stood behind the register and Hendrix tried not to frown. Lisa and Susie should have known better than to leave the register untended. Mitzi had been robbed once by a man who’d simply reached over, pushed the open button and grabbed the tray when the drawer slid open.
Besides the smell of yeasty baked goods, the added aroma of coffee filled the room. A couple of Mitzi’s regulars sat at the tables. They all turned and looked at her.
“Hendrix,” Josie Richland yelled. “Are you back? Please say you’re back. Please, please, please.” She folded her hands in prayer. Josie was a tall, slim woman in her midthirties with pale hair bleached almost white by the sun. Her skin was an attractive tan, testament to her many hours a week jogging so she could eat Hendrix’s champagne cake.
Hendrix was too surprised to say anything. She just shook her head and stared at the other woman who ran across the old tile floor to fling her arms around Hendrix.
“What’s wrong?” Hendrix said.
“The champagne cake sucks. The strudel is obnoxious and the cupcakes are like rocks. The only decent thing here is the coffee. Mitzi and you aren’t here anymore, and the bakery is sliding into oblivion.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please tell us where you’ve landed so we can change over. We’ve just been hanging around hoping to catch you.”
“I came to get my last check,” Hendrix explained. “Where is everyone?”
“Lisa is God knows where. Susie’s probably in the alley smoking. Billy is in the back getting beans for a fresh batch of coffee. And don’t worry—we were watching the register for him. I know you always said never to leave it unattended. Though I doubt there’s much money in it.” Josie looked sad.
Billy pushed through the double doors leading into the back carrying a bag of coffee. “Sorry it took so long. Lisa and Susie haven’t ordered supplies for over a week. This is the last bag.” He held up the coffee. His gaze lit up when he saw Hendrix. “Are you back? Cause if you aren’t, you need to find a way to get me out of here.”
Billy attended Reno Community College and studied restaurant management. Hendrix was never sure how he would get a job with his dark Goth look, tats and piercings, even if he did have charm and he was the best assistant baker she’d ever had. What that man could do with bread was what Miles Davis did with a trumpet. Sheer heavenly magic.
In the past week, her desserts were proving to be very popular, and eventually she would need an assistant. Billy would be great. He didn’t complain about the four-to-noon work hours or the hot ovens or even the occasional burns. As long as she worked around his school schedule, he was good to go.
She would talk to Donovan. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Where do you work now?” Josie asked.
“At the Mariposa.”
“I’ve heard they have this famous Parisian chef overseeing the restaurant.”
“Yeah,” Hendrix said, “with his big Paris ego.” Should she have said that?.
Josie laughed. “Has he tried your champagne cake?”
“He has...”
“And that wasn’t enough for him to put up with your...eccentricities.”
“We’re still learning to dance,” Hendrix admitted.
“I thought I heard you out here,” Lisa called out from the back. She pushed through the half doors that led to the baking area. Unlike her mother who was comfortably round and soft, Lisa was all thin, hard edges. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back from a narrow face and her dark blue eyes glared at Hendrix suspiciously.
“I came for my check,” Hendrix explained.
Lisa opened the register, pulled the drawer out of the tray and took out an envelope. “Here’s your check, but you need to tell us where all the recipes are before I give it to you. Especially the champagne cake. We can’t find anything.”
“You can’t withhold my check.” She snatched it out of Lisa’s hand.
“If you walk out of this store without giving me the recipes, I’ll cancel it before you can get to the bank.”
Hendrix’s eyes narrowed. “You realize that’s against the law. And I have all these witnesses.”
Josie gave Lisa a death stare and even Billy puffed up his chest preparing to go on the offensive.
Lisa seemed unimpressed. “So sue me.”
She turned to leave. “Bye.” She wasn’t going to be intimidated by this woman.
Lisa grabbed her. “Where are the recipes? They belong to this bakery.”
“The recipes belong to me. And you can get a champagne cake recipe off the internet if you need one.”
Lisa’s blue eyes tightened. “You developed them while you worked here, which means they belong to us.”
“No. They’re mine.” Hendrix pointed to her head. “But they could have been yours if you’d taken my offer and let me buy half the bakery.”
Fury filled Lisa’s eyes. “Those recipes are mine.” She turned and stomped toward the back.
Josie grinned. Billy looked as if he wanted to hide somewhere. He needed this job and he wasn’t about to antagonize Lisa too much. Hendrix patted Billy’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I’ve only been there a week, but once I’m settled in, I’ll see if I can get you a job in the restaurant.”
Billy nodded and returned to making the coffee.
Josie looked around. “I kind of hate leaving this place. We had some good times here, but it appears to have turned into a hostile customer environment.”
“You all need to come over to the Mariposa,” Hendrix told the few people left in the bakery. “I’ll cook you up something special. We have a cute little diner that serves the best hamburgers in town.”
“We’ll see you there,” Josie said after giving Hendrix a hug.
A few of the other customers nodded.
Hendrix felt bad about the decline in the bakery. She’d put a lot of work into the place and loved it. With Mitzi unable to communicate, her two daughters had decided to keep it all. The bakery had made good money. But from the look of it now, it was barely breaking even.
She was angry and sad—sad for Mitzi and angry with her daughters. They had taken a successful business and scuttled it. Hendrix knew Lisa and Susie thought if they could get her recipes they could lure back customers. They didn’t understand that the bakery was more than just cakes, doughnuts and pies—it was customers, atmosphere and soul. The food had been the heart and Mitzi had been the soul.

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