Chapter 32
Kinsley
Baking Helps Me Think
The video Alek sent wouldn’t stop looping through my head.
His mouth. That voice. That look. Torture.
Pure, maddening torture. I tossed my phone on the bed and pushed to my feet.
Baking. That was what I needed—flour, butter, focus.
If I was going to put together a proper list of hard and soft limits, I needed something to do with my hands. Something to slow my pulse.
I stepped into the hallway and waved down the maid who’d helped me unpack. “Renee, quick question for you.”
“Yes, of course. What can I help you with?”
“I’m wondering about the chef in this house?”
She cast a peculiar look my way. “Chef Bonfils is world-renowned. He attended the Westminster Catering College.”
I laughed. “No, I’m sure he is a wonderful chef. I was wondering if he allowed stragglers into his kitchen, or is he extremely territorial?”
She grimaced. “He’s actually quite a terror, and I’m afraid to say territorial would be an accurate description of him.”
“Oh, well, that’s unfortunate,” I mumbled.
“Yes, he has been known to make every one of his assistants cry. Even the current one still has at least one breakdown a week. Why are you asking?”
“I’d like to bake something—anything, really. When I get emotional, I sing, when I get anxious, I dance, and when I need to think things through, I bake.”
“Ah, I see. You have something you need to think through, then. I suppose you could give it a go, as long as you don’t mind crying.” She pointed toward the kitchen, and I followed her direction. How bad could it be? Right?
I walked in, and it was like a well-oiled machine.
Everything was meticulous. The appliances were spotless and shined like they were brand new.
It was an enormous kitchen. Neither Chef Bonfils nor his assistant had seen me yet, so I cleared my throat.
Chef Bonfils whirled around, then sized me up.
He was a tall, lanky man, probably around fifty, and had a full head of short gray hair.
He was wearing a full long-sleeved work shirt and apron. His black pants were perfectly creased, and the assistant sported the same look. He looked every bit the professional Renee boasted about.
“My kitchen is off-limits to the likes of you, young lady. I’ll have no spies in my space. Out.”
With a dramatic flourish, he whipped off the towel that had been draped over his shoulder and turned it into a weapon of dismissal, flapping it toward me like a flag of war. His thick French accent made the whole thing feel like I’d wandered into a live-action cartoon.
I bit back a chuckle as his assistant looked nervous.
“Chef, I can assure you—”
“Mrs. Patterson sent you, didn’t she? That evil woman, forever trying to one-up me. I will not have it.” An angry blush spread across his face.
“Not at all, Chef. I was hoping to make a dessert for Aleksandr tonight. He’s coming for dinner,” I said shyly, lowering my eyes.
“Master Alek has a very refined palette, and you look entirely too young to possess the skills necessary to bake anything other than silly American recipes. I’ve heard all about you.” He looked down his nose, wrinkling it almost.
“Please, Chef. I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll bake anything, you name it, and I’ll bake it, provided you have the ingredients.”
A mischievous look filled his eye. “Master Alek is fond of dacquoise.”
I rejoiced on the inside. It was one of Owen’s favorite desserts, one I knew I could nail. Pretending as though I was overwhelmed by his request, I put a nervous look on my face.
“I suppose I could try it.” I let my voice shake a little and looked at his assistant, who looked terrified, shaking her head ever so slightly like a warning. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“I will not help you with anything, and we will serve what you bake, no matter what it looks or tastes like.”
“Yes, Chef. I understand.”
He pointed to the pantry, and I ambled over and looked for the ingredients I would need, noting that it was organized exactly like Mrs. Patterson’s.
As I moved back out to the kitchen, I noticed ours at home was set up the same way.
This one was larger and had more items, but the organizational components were identical.
I became convinced that Mrs. Patterson was a former assistant and that he had taught her the proper way to organize and run a kitchen.
It gave me a leg up because I didn’t have to ask him where anything was.
I dashed about the kitchen, staying away from him.
He lapsed into French with his assistant, and I chuckled to myself.
I could understand everything he was saying, and boy, did he have a lot to say.
He was informing her I was not to be trusted.
Then told her to keep an eye on me at all times.
It was comical. You would think he was guarding secrets of biblical proportions.
As far as desserts went, a dacquoise was a rather complex cake.
It had spongy layers of almond or hazelnut meringue, and I went all out.
Choosing to make a hazelnut dacquoise, I opted to make it more elaborate with three different creams between the layers of meringue.
I went with a praline, whipped cream, and chocolate ganache.
Setting about my business, I ignored them, staying to my side of the kitchen. I cleaned, dried, and put away any utensils that I used. He harrumphed quite a few times but, mostly, let me do my thing.
I was completely in my element; my mind was on autopilot as I mixed and whipped. It gave me the perfect backdrop to start on my list of hard and soft limits. I didn’t have that many—not really.
The space baking provided in my brain gave me ample time to think about each of my Kings too. I wondered what they would have on their lists and how it would coincide with mine. My mind turned toward Ivan once more.
I’d never know what he liked. Not now. At least I could console myself that when it was time to go, my grieving would include one less man. Though I could still feel the familiar pangs of soreness in my breasts from our evening before. Three weeks. I could get over them, surely.
Spreading the different layers over the meringue, I continued constructing the dessert. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t realize I had an audience. I sang as I worked, getting lost in my emotions. Finally, I sprinkled the toasted hazelnuts over the top and stood back.
“Ms. Taylor?”
The familiar deep voice of Christopher King jolted me, and I jumped, feeling like I’d been caught doing something wrong. Looking up, I tried to read him. He looked so much like Alek. It was uncanny.
“What on earth are you doing in the kitchen?”
“Um, baking and thinking,” I blurted out.
His lips twitched, a faint sound catching in his throat. “Singing too.”
I flushed.
“I will have no dancing in here. I draw the line there,” Chef Bonfils said, speaking in English once more.
“Yes, of course, Chef. May I have permission to put this in the refrigerator now?”
“Hmm, I suppose so. It looks decent enough. Better hope it tastes good,” he said, taking the dessert and putting it into the refrigerator.
“Do you have a moment?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, of course.” I moved to wash the last of the dishes I had used and dried them, putting them away.
He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. My stomach tightened, and a rush of nervous heat crawled up my neck. What on earth would he need to talk to me about? I got the feeling that he and his wife were pretty open, so I was sure she’d filled him in on our earlier conversation.
One dramatic sweep of his hand was all it took. I walked out into the hall. I had to gallop almost to keep up with him. He didn’t speak, merely led me to the top floor. My heart was beating so hard that by the time we got there, I was sure he could hear it.
The library doors opened, and he guided me inside with a quiet gesture toward one of the chairs.
I straightened my back and folded my hands in my lap, fighting the tension growing inside.
My gaze dropped, pretending to study my clothes while I fought every urge to twist my hands.
When a low laugh broke the quiet, my head snapped up.
“You look every bit the schoolgirl who got caught smoking and has to see the headmaster.” His voice was deep and rich, his accent proper and bespoke of his station.
“I somewhat feel like one. However, I promise I don’t smoke,” I said, feeling bashful.
“My wife mentioned you seemed quite taken with the library here. I welcome you to check out any books other than those in the top two rows. Those are first editions and are my prized collection.”
“Oh,” I sighed in relief. He laughed once more at my reaction, and I relaxed a little as he told me his rules.
“I have a desk in here, although I rarely use it. I prefer to leave work at work and enjoy home in the manner it is intended. So, all that to say, you’re welcome in here anytime.”
“Thank you. I promise I’ll follow your rules. May I ask you a question?”
“Please.” He sat leaning against one of the desks as we talked.
“I noticed you have several Russian children’s books.”
“I do. As you know, my wife is Russian, and she insisted our children knew their heritage and history.”
“I wondered if you have The Flower of Seven Colors by Valentin Kataev. My mother used to read it to me every night.” I hadn’t had a chance to look too closely when Sophia had given me the tour.
“Be careful of your desires. They tend to come true,” he murmured.
“Wasn’t that a quote by Mikhail Bulgakov from The Master and Margarita?” I asked curiously. His bringing up the quote warmed me inside. The Flower of Seven Colors was all about being careful of your desires and wishes.
“Very good. You are well read, then?”
“I’d like to think I am. I’ve not had the privilege of reading as many books as you have here in your library, but maybe one day.”