to know him, the more facets she saw. He was a prince, a soldier, a hero. But mostly he was a good man, a man her baby would be proud to know was its father.
They walked along the streets of Port Augustine, browsed in the shops, drank espresso at an outdoor café, then walked some more before returning to the car.
“Getting hungry yet?” Eric asked as he drove toward the north coast.
“I am,” she admitted. “I didn’t think I’d want to eat for a week after the lunch Fiona and I had by the pool, but all that walking changed my mind.”
“All part of my plan,” he told her, “so that you can fully appreciate the experience of Tradewinds Ristorante. I promise you, Genevieve is a culinary genius.”
“You must be a frequent customer if you’re on a first-name basis with the chef.”
“She used to work at the palace,” he explained. “Her father still does. In fact, Marcel is the one who put together the sample menu for Fiona and Scott’s wedding.”
“So why did his daughter leave?”
“She wanted to succeed on the basis of her own work, build her own reputation.”
“Obviously she has,” Molly said, noting that the line of customers waiting to be seated extended outside of the door. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Please,” he chided. “My title is all the reservation I need.”
“I thought you were incognito today.”
“Not while my stomach is rumbling.” But instead of leading her to the front of the line, he guided her around to the back of the building and through an unmarked door.
She recognized the sounds of a busy kitchen—the clang of pots being shifted from prep area to burner to service counter, the rhythmic thunk of a blade chopping and dicing, the whir of a blender pulverizing. And the scents—mmm…the air was rich with flavors that were tangy and spicy and tart and sweet.
“What are you doing with that?” A woman’s voice rang with authority through the din, silencing all other murmurs of conversation.
The junior cook to whom the question had been directed flinched as he turned to face his boss’s wrath. “I was adding the béarnaise sauce.”
“Those potatoes are charred,” she pointed out in a cool voice, lifting the plate from the counter to inspect the offending spuds more closely. “And if you thought you could cover that up with the sauce, you were wrong.”
“But the order is for Prince Cameron and he does not like to be kept waiting.”
“He would like it even less if something came out of this kitchen that was not prepared to my exacting specifications.” And with that, she dumped the contents of the plate into the garbage.
The young apprentice flushed. “Of course, Mademoiselle.”
“You will apologize to His Highness for the wait and offer a round of complimentary drinks to his table while I prepare his meal properly.”
This directive was met with a brief nod before he hurried out of the kitchen to do his boss’s bidding, while the dark-haired woman set to work, muttering under her breath in French.
“The only thing missing is the crack of a whip,” Eric commented, loudly enough to ensure that he would be heard.
The tiny chef spun around, her brows drawn together in a scowl that immediately smoothed out when she identified the speaker. “Your Highness,” she said, her lips curving into a wide smile.
The words and quick curtsy might have been formal, the embrace they shared after was not. Eric kissed both of the woman’s cheeks, as Molly had learned was the European fashion, though with more enthusiasm than she thought was typical.
When he drew back, the chef’s cheeks were flushed—whether from the heat of the kitchen or the pleasure of Eric’s attention—Molly didn’t want to guess.
“There must be a full moon tonight—the royals are all coming out of the woodwork,” she teased.
“Please do not place me in the same category as my cousin.”
“My apologies, Your Highness.”
Her apology sounded more teasing than contrite and, judging from the way Eric’s eyes narrowed, he knew it. But he only drew Molly forward. “Genevieve, I’d like you to meet Molly Shea. Molly, this is the incomparable Mademoiselle Fleury, chef extraordinaire and proprietor of Tradewinds.”
Molly shook the proffered hand, and though the other woman’s smile was warm, she sensed that she was being as carefully measured as the ingredients for a soufflé.
“It’s always a pleasure to meet a friend of a friend,” Genevieve said.
“Likewise,” Molly murmured.
She felt Eric’s hand on her waist, his fingers curling over her hip. “Do you have a table for us?” he asked.
Genevieve rolled her eyes and turned to Molly. “He comes in at seven o’clock on a Saturday night and expects that I will have a table?”
Molly shrugged apologetically.
The chef shook her head. “You take too much for granted, Your Highness.”
“Because I know you would never disappoint me,” Eric said.
Genevieve sighed. “Paolo will make up the table on the balcony, so that you can have some privacy.”
He smiled and kissed both of her cheeks again. “Merci, mon ami.”
“C’est toujours mon plaisir.”
A few minutes later, Molly and Eric were escorted up a carved stone staircase. The restaurant was in a prime location overlooking the sparkling turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. The atmosphere on Genevieve’s private balcony was enhanced by the soft music floating up from the dining room below and the scents of jasmine and vanilla emanating from the pots of flowers set around the ledge.
The table was covered with a neatly pressed linen cloth that was as blue as the sea; the crystal sparkled and the silver gleamed in the flickering light of a trio of candles.
Molly couldn’t help but be impressed by the hastily assembled scene—and a little wary about the romantic ambience. They were casual acquaintances who had been one-time lovers and she hoped, for the sake of their child, that they might develop a friendship of sorts, but she wasn’t looking for anything more than that.
There was no doubt, however, that this scene had been set for romance, and it made her wonder how many other women he had brought here—how many dates he’d impressed with a replica of this very same setting. It shouldn’t matter; she told herself it didn’t matter. This—whatever this was between them—wasn’t a date.
But she couldn’t help but ask, “Come here often?”
“I enjoy my privacy as much as a good meal, and Genevieve is kind enough
