The Billionaire's Secret (6 page)

“They’re beautiful,” she said, wishing she could trace the patterns.

“Wait until you try one. They are pretty, yes, but they also taste divine. Our sourdough is nothing like the kind from your San Francisco, though, and Andre will tell you why.”

“Giving away all my secrets, Belle?” a man asked from behind them.

Margie wrested her gaze away from the bread to look at him. Andre appeared to be in his early forties, and was completely bald in that sexy way Michael Jordan and Patrick Stewart were. His body had the muscular build of a man who kneaded dough for a living. And his smile was pure gold with a dimple winking out mischievously in his right cheek.

“Andre! It’s so good to finally meet you,” she said.

He crossed the room and kissed her on both cheeks with an enthusiasm that made her laugh.

“You say that now.” His wink had Belle rolling her eyes. “Let us hope you feel the same way at the end of your apprenticeship.”

“Let me know if I need to tell him to…how do you say it in English?” Belle said. “Reverse back?”

It took a moment for her to understand. “Throttle back.”

“I only want to share everything I know with her,” Andre said, throwing his arms out with gusto.

“It’s only ten days, Andre,” Belle reminded him. “He is as eager as a child.”

“We will make the most of our time, Margie,” Andre said. “Brian tells me I must have you teach me how you make your cinnamons rolls while you’re here. He said I would revolutionize Paris with the recipe.”

“Brian is sweet to say so.” She eyed the man’s white apron, which was streaked with flour and dried dough. Soon she would look like that every day too. “I would be happy to show you, Andre. The recipe is from the owner of the bakery I am buying. It’s been in her family for generations.”

“As have my recipes,” he said, gesturing grandly to the wall. “Our bread is like a living, breathing family tree of our ancestors. In the quiet hours of the night, I can feel their spirits gather around me as I help them live on through my work. You will see.”

She shivered. “That actually gave me chills.”

Belle patted her arm. “Don’t worry about our baking spirits. They mean no harm.”

Her chills weren’t due to fear, but rather the realization that these people
understood
her. On a primal level, Margie understood people had baked bread for millennia. Bread had nourished humankind since after the first hearth fires were lit. And when bread was unavailable, people starved.

“Bread is life,” she echoed. “I believe that.”

“Good,” Andre said, laying a hand on her shoulder and peering into her eyes. “You have an old soul. I can see that. You make good bread because of it.”

She flushed. “An old soul?”

“You see things. In people. In life. Bread is your way of giving back to the world, no?”

Something powerful rose in her chest, an emotion she could not name. She thought of what she’d told Evan last night over dinner. “I…yes…bread taught me so much, and now I want to give back through my bakery.”

Andre pulled Belle in close with his other hand, and the three of them formed a circle. “I knew you would feel the ancient power of the yeast, of the leavening, of the baking. You must in order to become a master. We are going to do great things together while you are in Paris, Margie.”

“I’m…my heart is about ready to burst with gratitude,” she said to them, and they both hugged her. “You speak my language. I know that sounds weird since English is my first language, and French is yours. But making bread and baking it—”

“Is a language all its own. It’s magical, no?” Andre asked. “We are going to make some beautiful magic together, ma petite, Margie, from Dare Valley.”

Though her parents and the people in the circle she’d been born into had never understood her—or cared to—since leaving them, she’d slowly found other people who fed her soul, so to speak. These people were going to feed her soul. She just knew it.

“You must try one of our punitions,” Belle said, breaking the circle and dashing over to the display in the corner.

When she darted back, Margie took the special French shortbread cookie from her. “Thank you.”

“I mix the ingredients and form the shapes,” Andre said, slapping his chest. “Belle adds her magic by sprinkling them with fairy dust, and the ancestors stoke the fire for our creations so they will be baked to perfection.”

The punition simply melted in Margie’s mouth. “Oh! Oh my!” she said when she could finally speak.

Andre gave a dirty little laugh. “That’s what Belle says when we are home, and the children are asleep.”

“Oh, Andre,” Belle said, slapping him playfully on the arm. “You are a scoundrel. A rogue.”

He waggled his brows. “And you love it, ma petite.”

His wife’s beaming smile was answer enough. “Ignore us. He is…how do you say it in English? Friskier than usual? He has been waiting for your arrival with much anticipation. No one likes to teach like Andre does.”

“I am eager to learn all you wish to show me,” she answered as he grabbed her hand and led her to the door that could only lead to the bakery.

“We must have a tour, ma cherie,” he said to his wife. “We will return when the ancestors are satisfied.”

“That might be a while.” Belle laughed. “I will remain here to sell our bread.”

Andre led Margie behind the door, and the second she stepped inside, she was engulfed by the familiar scents of bread: sour, sweet, yeast, and baking.

“We have two levels where we work,” Andre said, gesturing to the stainless steel counters. “Here we have the preparation area for the croissants and pain au chocolat. You see the machine in the corner. Do you know how to use it?”

She shook her head, eying the massive press that rolled the croissant dough into its famously thin layers. “Not yet. I wanted the kitchen to be ready before mine arrived.”

“No problem, ma cherie. I will teach you how to use it. It is easy. You simply have to make love to the bread.” His brown eyes twinkled. “You know how to make love to the bread, right?”

Margie didn’t embarrass easily, but she could feel her cheeks heating. “Ah…I think so.”

Andre made a kneading motion with his hands. “You stroke it and stroke it until it surrenders with a sigh.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll…try and remember that.”

His brow knit in puzzlement. “It is perhaps different for a woman. Belle!”

His wife poked her head through the swinging door. “Oui?”

“How do women bakers make love to the bread? I am trying to tell Margie, but I think it is different.”

Belle gave him a seductive smile and winked at Margie. “You work it hard when it needs it, and you gently caress it when it wants to resist. And you do it all with love so it always rises to your touch.”

Andre grabbed Belle to him and gave her a soft kiss. “That is why I love this woman.”

Instead of feeling like a voyeur, Margie felt like she was seeing the highest version of a relationship. Here Andre and Belle were, working together in the bakery they shared, loving each other, and supporting each other’s dreams. It was so lovely to behold.

“How many children do you have?” she asked when Belle gave Andre a playful shove so he’d let her go.

“Three,” she said with a wide smile. “This one here wants five, but he has moments of insanity. I blame it on all the yeast he inhales.”

“I’ll have to remember to use that excuse the next time I’m having a moment,” she said.

“Yeast is better than PMS,” Belle said with a glance at Andre. “I hate that line.”

“Me too,” she easily agreed. Howie had blamed her moods on PMS, and it had angered her to no end. In truth, his secret drug problem had not been the only fissure in their relationship.
Evan would never say something so simplistic or unkind
, she thought, surprised to realize she was comparing them.

The bell rang, and Andre pulled Belle in for another fast kiss. “We installed the bell so she can sneak back here and steal kisses from me when customers aren’t around.”

“Ingenious, no?” Belle asked Margie before disappearing through the door.

“Now,” Andre said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where we make the real magic.”

The stairs leading down to what was essentially a basement were steep, and like when she was using her hobbit bathroom door, she had to duck down to avoid hitting her head.

The heat in the room they entered poured over her body like a wave of molten fire. The ovens in the back were lit and baking row after row of golden brown baguettes. The thick smell of yeast hung in the air, and she inhaled deeply. Detecting a hint of something fruity and sour, she looked at the flour-dusted stainless steel counters for the source, but didn’t see it.

“This is Fabian and Ronan, my two assistants. Meet Margie from America.”

“Enchante,” they both said.

“Enchantee,” she replied.

“They don’t speak English,” Andre said. “You told me you have some French.”

She winced. “It’s really rusty, but I hope to practice while I’m here if you can stand to hear me bungle the words.”

“Speak away,” Andre said. “We will help you find the right words. But we will use English for instruction, I think, so you miss nothing.”

She nodded.

“Now, this is where we make the bread. We have a few signature breads everyone who visits us expects to see. But every once in a while, especially around a holiday or if I’m feeling inspired, we will make something special. I don’t use any starters like some bakers do. My people were farmers, and our recipes are done differently. Our farm loaf uses potato water from the yellow potatoes Belle buys in the market and boils before she closes the bakery for the night. The red bucket in the corner is for the water we drain from the cooked potatoes once they cool.”

He gestured to the wall opposite the wall of ovens. Sure enough, a couple of massive buckets stood on the stainless steel counter next to the huge industrial bread mixers.

“It is empty now,” he said, picking up the bucket and shaking it before setting it aside. “This bucket however—the green one—is almost always full. Our sourdough bread is made from the water of the apples and pears we cut up into quarters and leave for three days. The natural yeast forms on the top in white bubbles, and when it is ready, we discard the fruit and use the water to mix with the ingredients. The water we use is warm, not like the cold water used to make your San Francisco sourdough. Pretty simple, no? Our process here is not difficult. And while yours is very dense, ours is light and airy with a floral essence all its own.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” she said, intrigued. “I’ve researched bread starters, and honestly, I find them rather intimidating. I like the idea of using potato water or fruit water to give a bread flavor and leavening.”

“Here, try some.”

He grabbed a baguette resting in one of the many trays in a bakery rack that stood six feet tall. Breaking off a chunk, he handed the end to her. The other two bakers stopped cleaning the empty baking pans to watch her. She took her first bite and sighed. While she loved San Francisco sourdough, the texture and taste resembled play dough. This was…something uniquely different, and she knew in that moment, she was going to bring this recipe back to Dare Valley and bake it at Hot Cross Buns.

“This is incredible, Andre,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sourdough more.”

He slapped his chest. “You stick with me, Margie. I will show you all my magic, and you will show me yours.”

Fabian and Ronan laughed and said something in French about the whole bakery being filled with magic, but that was all she caught of their interplay.

“I don’t think I have as much magic as you do, Andre,” she said, tearing off another piece of bread and savoring it. Bread like this made butter seem superfluous, and she knew most French people ate their bread plain.

“You have more magic inside you than you realize, ma petite,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I will help you remember this.”

Unable to look away, she only nodded, chewing slowly.

“Now, as you can see, we have five industrial mixers. Four are for a specific type of bread unless I’m making a special. I labeled them to help you while you’re here.” He pointed to the handwritten labels taped to the bottoms of the mixers. “Two are used for traditional baguette since we supply some of Paris’ finest restaurants. Then one is for baguette sourdough and our farm bread with the potato water. The last I use for treats like the punitions. Remember?”

“Yes,” she answered, recalling the buttery shortbread. “I’ve got it.”

He moved on to the stainless steel counters and picked up a baker’s blade—a wicked-looking curved razor blade, which looked to be glued to the end of a pen. Evan would get a kick out of the invention, she thought, and couldn’t wait to tell him about it.

“This is the baker’s weapon,” Andre said, making slashing motions with it like he was wielding a small dagger. “It is how you differentiate yourself as a baker and put your stamp on the bread you sell. In Paris, this is very important.”

“This has to do with the patented bread types, right?” she asked.

“In some cases,” he said, reaching behind him on another line of stacked trays and pulling off a beautiful ball of dough. “Feel this.”

“I haven’t washed my hands,” she said, looking around for a sink.

“Did you not put a hunk of bread in your mouth?” He rolled his eyes. “The ovens will burn off any germs, ma petite. Do not be so nervous. Touch it.”

He almost made it sound like an invitation to sin. She poked the dough with her finger. It gave to her touch unlike any other dough she’d ever felt. Bubbles formed where she’d made contact.

“Tell me you have not felt anything softer.”

“I haven’t. Truly.”

“My bread lives and breathes like a human being,” he said. From anyone else it would have sounded crazy, but he meant it. On some level, she felt the same way about her own baking, although she would have described it differently.

“This is love,” he said and kissed the dough. “Now, let me show you how I wield my weapon.” He abruptly laughed and looked toward the ceiling. “Belle would call me…how do you say? On the carpet? For talking like that to a lady. But we bakers are a pretty dirty lot. Our bread dough reminds us of breasts, and it is our life’s work to craft a recipe that makes the perfect breast so we can play with it in the dark hours of the night. No wonder the priests used to make the bakers go to confession once a week.”