Читать книгу Bet on My Heart - J.M. Jeffries - Страница 9

Chapter 1

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.