by Holly Rayner
Honoring history was something Raffaele understood, even if his family didn’t always think he did. Before he’d left on this trip, his father had once again asked him when he planned on getting more involved in the family business. The Prince supposed he was lucky to get away with only a discussion on business, instead of also having his parents ask when he planned to get married and start a family.
Raffaele hated to disappoint his father, but as the youngest member of Spiaggi’s royal family, he had a different perspective on things. He wasn’t required for many royal responsibilities, and he wasn’t interested in the family business. He also didn’t see a need to search for a wife. Of course, he wanted a family, but that started with finding a woman he instinctively meshed with, not with auditioning young ladies of good breeding.
What he was interested in was travel and restaurants. Preparing good food was a craft, and restaurants could be lucrative businesses. He’d mentioned to his father that he’d be interested in owning a restaurant, but so far, his father didn’t agree. His uncle, King Filippo, backed his brother—a restaurant was not a good use of Raffaele’s connections or education.
Raffaele knew he was lucky. Spiaggi was a small country, little known next to its much larger sovereign cousins in Europe. The tiny island nation just off the coast of Italy had a strong economy thanks to some high-value natural resources, and it was fairly self-sufficient due to a good climate, access to the Mediterranean, and—above all—good management by the royal family.
Raffaele’s family was beloved by the people of Spiaggi and he was constantly aware of the need to maintain a positive public image. He did enjoy the advantages of his position, indulging in the best of everything from hotels to clubs to a private jet. He was invited to the best events around the world, and given entry into the most exclusive places.
But what he most enjoyed was his access to the finest restaurants in the world. And although this was his first visit to New Orleans, he already knew exactly where he wanted to eat while in the city.
Raffaele had heard excellent things about this particular chef, whose take on French Creole with a farm-to-table spin had garnered accolades and awards for the restaurant. When he’d received an invitation to a party in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, he’d immediately made reservations.
Well, he’d had his secretary make reservations.
And it was a good thing I did, he thought as he stepped from the car into crowds of people lining the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. In this part of town, at this time of year, the restaurant was absolutely packed.
In spite of the fact that he knew he could, Raffaele would never disrespect a chef’s hard work by waltzing in and demanding a table without a reservation. After spending long hours in conversation with some of the world’s best chefs, he knew just how hard they worked to turn out first-class meals every night, and his unexpected presence could throw their whole evening off.
So, his secretary had made a reservation and communicated the fact that paparazzi would likely be waiting outside. Raffaele never asked for special consideration on the menu—he wanted to experience the chef’s cooking as they intended—but he did want the restaurant to be prepared for any potential disruption.
Since he was looking forward to this meal so much, he’d decided to dine alone. He wanted to enjoy a quiet meal before what was sure to be a loud, boisterous Mardi Gras party later that night. Raffaele was looking forward to the party—he liked loud, boisterous parties—and Mardi Gras in New Orleans was something he’d always wanted to be a part of.
He made his way up the stairs and through the entrance, smiling smoothly for the two people with cameras who were obviously waiting for his arrival. He was greeted just inside the front door by the maître d’, a beautiful older woman in a chic, eggplant-colored dress, her ebony hair smoothed back into a stylish chignon.
Her dark brown eyes barely widened when she saw him.
“Prince Caldini?” she asked, sounding like she greeted royals every day.
Raffaele turned his best royal smile on the older woman. He wasn’t surprised that she knew who he was. His picture graced the tabloids frequently, and of course, the reservation had been made in his name.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her smile told him she welcomed his politeness.
“Welcome to BienVille. Your table is ready; if you’ll please follow me.”
As they made their way through the dining room, the woman continued, “I hope you didn’t have any problems getting to the restaurant. Traffic downtown this time of year can be hectic.”
Raffaele simply replied, “I enjoyed having the time to see the city.”
Walking through the restaurant, Raffaele saw more than a few heads turn in his direction. He was used to the attention; being royalty, even from a tiny island nation in the Mediterranean, generally meant getting noticed.
The maître d’ sat him at a comfortable table in the corner, a spot from which he could see all the action, but had privacy. Raffaele appreciated the buzz of the restaurant as he glanced over the stylish menu she handed him.
“Your server will be here momentarily. Please do let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Raffaele’s server was a young man with bright red hair and a genial smile. He approached the table after giving Raffaele a minute to look over the menu.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to BienVille.” He picked up a glass bottle. “We have our made-in-house sparkling water, or I can bring your preferred choice of water.”
“Sparkling water will be fine, thank you.”
The server poured the water into a tall glass and set it on the table. “Would you like to hear the specials, or would you prefer to order a drink first?”
“The specials, please. I’ll order wine with dinner.”
“Excellent. Chef Bechet has prepared a muffuletta salad, which is a deconstructed take on a traditional muffuletta, an oyster pie, and a duck gumbo with andouille sausage. In addition, we are offering a Mardi Gras tasting menu tonight which includes each of those dishes along with a few other treats from the chef.”
“The tasting menu.”
Raffaele snapped the menu shut and his server grinned.
“Definitely the right choice. The specials are too good to pick just one.” The young man went back to his more polished presentation. “Our sommelier has paired each of the dishes with wine, or I can send him over if you’d like to order a bottle.”
“The wine pairing, please.”
Raffaele got another approving grin from his server.
“Excellent, sir.”
Raffaele watched the rest of the room from his perch, impressed both with the décor and the way the servers moved through the room. So many restaurants focused only on the food, forgetting that the best meals were feasts for all the senses.
His server returned quickly with a small, bright orange glass with a tiny curved handle on the side.
“An amuse-bouche from the chef, sir. Her crawfish bisque.”
He also placed a wine glass on the table and poured a white wine from a carafe into the glass.
“Please enjoy, sir.”
Raffaele was delighted by the small glass of bisque. And, with every subsequent dish, he grew more enamored with Chef Bechet’s cooking.
He took his time eating, savoring the amazing taste and texture of each dish. He chatted with his young server, asking him what it was like to work in the restaurant business, and if there was anything else in New Orleans he shouldn’t miss.
Brian, his server, poured the dessert wine and set down a plate with a trio of delicacies: a fruit-filled crêpe, a mini pecan pie, and a bright sliver of king cake.
Before Brian left, Raffaele asked, “Would it be possible for me to speak with the chef for a moment? I don’t want to take too much of her time, but I’d appreciate the opportunity to compliment her in person.”
Brian nodded. “I’ll be happy to check. Since we’re nearing the end of service, she may
have a moment.”
A few minutes later, a petite woman in chef’s whites approached the table. Her hair was pulled back, but wispy tendrils of dark brown hair escaped to frame her lovely face, and Raffaele realized as she stopped by the table that she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. He was almost too stunned to speak, but she smiled at him and he couldn’t help but smile back.
Raffaele hadn’t expected the chef to be this beautiful or this young. He thought she might even be younger than he was by a couple of years. He stood and gave her a small bow.
“Chef Bechet, please accept my most sincere compliments. Your food is exquisite and your restaurant is a gem in this lovely city.”
“Thank you. Please, call me Maggie,” she said amicably, and Raffaele could tell she was pleased by his compliment.
Raffaele gestured to the other end of the table. “Would you have a moment to join me?”
He could tell she was a little uncertain, but still, she sat down. He searched his normally charming brain for the right question to ask.
“How long have you been cooking?”
She smiled brilliantly. “Since I was sixteen. I worked for my parents first, although they didn’t let me do much more than peel and chop carrots and onions for the first few years.”
He grinned. “I take it you proved your worth eventually?”
Maggie nodded.
“I went away to culinary school with their blessing, and when they decided to retire three years ago, I came back to take over the restaurant. But even when I came home for school vacations, I always seemed to end up here.”
Raffaele gave her an understanding look. “Home has a way of drawing you back, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes a little too much. But I love the city, and I love this place.” She looked fondly around the room. “May I ask what your favorite dish was tonight?”
Raffaele leaned forward. “If I’m being honest…” She nodded, waiting for his critique. “All of them,” he said. “Each of them had something special, something unique. And taken together, it was truly an amazing meal.”
He thought about it. “I think my favorite element was how you elevated simple flavors to something extraordinary. You work with local farmers, don’t you?”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “You’ve done your homework.”
Raffaele smiled. “I’m fascinated by the work chefs do, and I appreciate those that support local food suppliers.”
Maggie nodded slowly. “I believe in working with what you have, and using local ingredients is a part of that.”
“I’m sure your ingredients are outstanding, but it’s what you turned them into that is truly unforgettable.”
Maggie blushed and Raffaele was charmed. He could tell she was searching for a way to turn the conversation back to him.
“Is this your first time in New Orleans?” Maggie asked, and Raffaele loved the way the name of the city rolled off her tongue.
He nodded.
“I’ve wanted to visit before, and when I had the opportunity to attend a Mardi Gras party here, I couldn’t say no.” He leaned back and grinned at her. “And I gained another reason to visit when I discovered there was a not-to-be-missed restaurant.”
Maggie blushed but also raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t come to the city just to visit my restaurant.”
He shrugged. “No, but I plan to make it a reason to come back.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at that.
“Would you like a tour of the kitchen? I’d be happy to show you a few tricks of Creole cooking.”
Raffaele was tempted to blow off the party and spend the evening with this enchanting woman, but then, he had another idea.
“I’m attending an event tonight, and unfortunately, I can’t miss it.” He noticed that she looked disappointed, and that made him feel he was making the right move. “However, please do me the honor of joining me. I’d greatly enjoy continuing our conversation.”
She sat back, surprised. Raffaele wondered for a moment if he’d overstepped.
“That’s sweet, thank you, but I really couldn’t.”
Raffaele took a deep breath. He hadn’t noticed a ring, but he did know that many chefs didn’t wear one while working.
“I don’t mean to suggest anything inappropriate, and of course, I understand if you have family you need to get home to.”
Maggie waved a hand.
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just me.”
Raffaele wondered at her blithe dismissal of his unspoken question on whether or not she was married or dating.
Maggie continued, “It’s only, I have so much work that needs to be done here, and it’s my restaurant, so it’s my responsibility.”
He leaned forward.
“You deserve a night to relax and enjoy the festivities. I can tell you work hard. When was the last time you took any time for yourself?”
She gave him a long look, then sighed. “Honestly, three years ago, before I took over the restaurant.”
Raffaele sat up straight.
“Then I insist! One night will not put you that behind, and it sounds as if you need some time to simply have fun.”
He could see she wasn’t persuaded, so he tried another tactic.
“If time off is not an option, think of it as a creativity boost. I imagine someone with your talents must find inspiration everywhere; I can guarantee that the event tonight will be inspiring!”
Maggie smiled at him. “When you put it like that, how can I say no? Yes, thank you. I would be delighted to go with you.”
“May I pick you up in an hour, say here, at the restaurant?”
“That would be perfect, yes.”
Raffaele smiled, thrilled. “Then I’ll see you in front in an hour.”
He stood as she did, and gave her another small but perfectly executed bow.
“Chef Bechet.”
The Prince watched as she hurriedly walked away, one hand on her hair, and then he smiled again at her as she looked back once over her shoulder.
Chapter 2
Maggie
Maggie liked talking to her customers, and part of the job was occasionally schmoozing BienVille’s guests, but she always felt a little weird when someone specifically asked to speak with her. It was too much like a performance, and she was never quite sure what to say.
But then she’d never had the chance to talk with a real live prince before, and he’d liked her food. So, when Brian had come back to the kitchen with the Prince’s request to speak with her, she had smoothed her hair and changed into the clean chef’s jacket she kept hanging in her tiny office for the moments when she went out into the dining room.
And now, she was going to a ball! Well, a party. But for all that she got out, even at Mardi Gras, it might as well be a ball.
When she glanced back at the Prince, he was still standing there. He smiled and she turned back around quickly and ducked into the hallway that would take her to the kitchen.
Good Lord, Maggie thought, that man is handsome. There was no way he didn’t spend hours at the gym, and his thick dark hair was a testament to good genetics, good grooming, and surely some higher power.
Ducking back into the kitchen, she found her sous chef.
“Hey, Joshua—all the plates are out, right?”
Joshua nodded. “We’re done serving, just a few tables left to settle and then we’re finished for the night.”
“Can you close things up?”
Joshua gave her a teasing look.
“Hot date?”
Maggie grinned. “As a matter of fact, I just got invited to a party tonight.”
Joshua whistled. “You go, girl.” She grinned at him and he started to shoo her off. “No, really—go! I’ve got things covered here. Go have some fun!”
“Thanks, Joshua!” She threw her jacket onto its peg and grabbed her things. “Call me if you have any problems.”
“We won’t. Don’t worry about us!” he shouted as he head
ed back into the kitchen.
Maggie rushed out the back of the restaurant. Fortunately, it was only a few blocks to her apartment. She could change and maybe tame her hair and still be back in time. She walked quickly, unable to stop smiling.
Somewhere in those few blocks, though, doubt started to creep in and she wondered if she was making a mistake. She really needed to take inventory, and why on earth would a prince want to spend time with her? She was going to be so out of place at the party, and he would be embarrassed to be seen in her company.
By the time she reached her apartment, Maggie had half talked herself out of going, but when she pulled her closet door open and flipped through everything there, she realized something important. She had one dress that was appropriate for a party, and that fact meant she desperately needed to get out more. If she didn’t go to this party, Maggie thought there was a good chance she might just give up and hide in the kitchen for the rest of her life, and she wasn’t ready to declare that an option.
Plus, the Prince had really great dimples when he smiled.
And he knew his food. Even just talking with him for a few minutes had made her want to spend more time with him. So, she was going to this party, even if she had to go in hours early tomorrow to make up for the lost work tonight.
Maggie quickly shucked her chef whites and took a fast shower, just enough to get the smell of the kitchen off her skin.
She shimmied into the dark purple dress and slipped on some heels. Her hair was wavy from the time spent curled up in a bun, so she simply brushed it lightly and left it down. After adding jewelry and mascara, she gave herself an approving look in the mirror. She might not be royalty, but she would do just fine.
Maggie made it back to BienVille in record time and found Raffaele waiting next to a limo. He was standing on the sidewalk chatting quietly with someone who Maggie assumed was the driver, based on the uniform.
She took a moment to admire the Prince as she approached. He was wearing a perfectly tailored maroon suit, complete with a gold pocket square. The color of the suit set off his dark hair and Maggie’s breath caught at how handsome he was.