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 componentswere 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.
