“But he didn’t break you.”
Élise stayed silent.
He had broken her, but not because of their working relationship. That, she’d survived.
“I was eighteen years old and all I wanted to do was cook. He was a legend in Paris.” She shrugged. “Not just in Paris. There were no women working in his kitchen. He didn’t believe women could make great chefs. He believed we didn’t have the temperament, the stamina, the ‘balls.’ I told him I would take any job he would give me and do it better than a man.”
“And?”
“The first day he made me scrub the toilets.” It surprised her to discover she could talk about it so easily. “When I came back the next day he laughed and gave me the floor of the restaurant to clean. He used to say that running a successful business was about so much more than food and he was right, of course, although his way of making his point left a lot to be desired.”
“How long before he let you inside the kitchen?”
“One month exactly. It was a Saturday night and he was angry with everyone, screaming if a plate of food didn’t look exactly the way he’d envisioned it. Three of his staff were off sick with stress and then two of the young trainee chefs walked out. They’d had enough. I told him I could do the work of two. He told me I wouldn’t last a night working in the pressure of a busy kitchen.”
Sean leaned against the counter listening, the food forgotten. “I’m assuming you lasted a lot longer than that.”
“I was the only girl in a kitchen of twenty-two men. I had long hair then and I tied it back in a ponytail.” She remembered her mother brushing it when she was a child, long rhythmic strokes that had soothed her. “He used to drag me around the kitchen by that ponytail. He wanted me to cry. He wanted me to walk out so that he could prove once and for all that women are too soft for a kitchen.”
“Knowing you, you didn’t cry or walk out.”
“I cut off my hair.” And then she’d cried, silent tears as she hacked at her glossy hair with kitchen scissors while locked in the cramped toilet used only by staff.
His gaze slid to her hair. “You’ve worn your hair short ever since?”
“Yes. And finally he accepted that I wasn’t going to be scared away easily. He started to teach me. He was a genius, but that sort of temperament isn’t easy to handle. Often the recipe was in his head and he’d lose his temper if one of his team got it wrong.”
“He sounds half-crazy.”
“He was.” And dangerously charismatic. That temper could turn to charm in the blink of an eye and it was that charm and skill that made everyone dream of working with him.
She remembered the first time he’d smiled at her.
And she remembered the first time he’d kissed her.
She’d been dizzy with it, her longing for him so powerful it was almost physical pain. It had drugged her. Blinded her.
She hadn’t allowed herself to feel that way since.
Until now.
Her gaze slid to Sean’s. “The food is getting cold. We should eat.”
He carried the plates out to the deck. “So you stuck it out, got a world-class training and then left the bastard.”
Élise blinked and then realized he was still talking about the job. “Yes.” She put the bread down on the table. “That’s exactly what I did. Fortunately I met Jackson. He gave me the freedom to take what I’d learned with Pascal and develop my own style of cooking.”
“Are you still in touch with him?”
“Pascal?” She picked up the knife and sliced the bread. “No. He wasn’t the sentimental type. And neither am I.”
Not anymore. He’d killed that side of her.
“And you don’t yearn to go back to Paris? I’m still surprised you don’t miss the city.”
“I love mountains. When I was a little girl my mother used to take winter work in the Alps, cooking. I went with her. It was magical. Working for Jackson was more
of the same.”