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  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

  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 attrac
tive 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.

  Hendrix wanted to visit Mitzi, but the daughters had first told the hospital and later the nursing home that she wasn’t allowed in. That hurt. Mitzi was family the same way Hendrix’s parents and grandmother were family.

  Working at the hotel was more anonymous. She didn’t interact with the customers. She did her job and went home keeping her dream of owning her own bakery alive. But that’s not how she liked to work. She wanted to be part of something intimate and special. She loved baking for people, which was why she wanted her own place. She wanted something like her Grandma’s tea shop.

  She stepped out into the swelteringly hot afternoon, anxious to get home. An idea for a mango cream pie circled in her mind, and she wanted to try it out right away.

  She pulled into her driveway surprised to find a strange car parked in front of her home. She was even more surprised to find Donovan sitting on her front porch in the scorching heat. Her heart started racing and she wondered what he wanted. That man didn’t even sweat and he smelled so delicious. It bothered her that she liked finding him waiting for her at her house.

  “What is that?” he asked pointing at her car. “It’s painted like a ladybug.”

  “How else would a VW bug be painted?” She glanced back at her car. The moment she’d seen the red ladybug VW sitting on the used car lot, she’d known she had to have it. It suited her personality so perfectly, she bought it on the spot. Even though she’d had to spend a large amount having the engine rebuilt. She turned back to Donovan. “You didn’t come here to ask me about my car. Can I help you with something?” She opened the front door and cool air greeted her.

  He held out a brownie as he followed her into the dark living room. “What did you do to my brownie recipe?”

  Oops! He’d found out. She tackled her answer while leading the way down the long narrow hall to her bright, oversize kitchen.

  “Wow,” Donovan said, “what a nice kitchen.”

  “That’s why I rented the house.” She hung her purse and keys on a hook behind the pantry door. “The previous owner
liked to cook. She upgraded the kitchen and knocked out a wall to make it a huge room. Unfortunately, the upgrade didn’t match the rest of the cottage and she had a hard time selling it. So she turned it into a rental and I found it,” Hendrix said, pleased that she had.

  “Why do you have pink flamingoes in the kitchen?” He stared at an assortment of flamingoes leaning against the wall.

  “The rental agent won’t let me put them in the front yard. He said they were tacky.” She shrugged into an white apron with flamingoes embroidered on it and started pulling the ingredients she’d need for the mango pie—butter, flour, cream, sugar and a fresh mango. “What do you want to know about the brownies?”

  “Why did you change in my recipe?” His voice was harsh and angry.

  He looked kind of cute when he was angry. She tilted her head to watch him. He pushed the brownie at her and she bit into it. She chewed letting the flavors mingle on her tongue. “A touch of bourbon and sea salt caramel.”

  “Bourbon. Do you put bourbon in everything?”

  “No. Sometimes I use butter rum. And tequila’s only good if you have something fruit based. I’ve used beer in some pies.” She handed the brownie back to him.

  He stared at it as though it were an alien artifact. “Why did you change the recipe after I asked you not to?”

  Her shoulders slumped. Guilt flooded her, quickly replaced by frustration. “Honestly, I tried to follow your directions, but every recipe you gave me is so by the book, there’s...” There’s no oomph. “There’s no...” She groped for the right word, but it eluded her. “What don’t you like?”

  “I...I...” His face twisted. And then he sighed. “It’s the best brownie I’ve ever had.” He slumped against the worktable in the center of the kitchen looking defeated.