by Holly Rayner
Maggie wasn’t blind; attractive men crossed her path not infrequently, not that it did her any good. She worked when other people traditionally scheduled dates, which meant she never went on dates of her own. Dating, much less a real relationship, wasn’t something she had the time to pursue.
Not that she expected anything from her date with the Prince. He was—after all—royalty, and he lived thousands of miles away. Sure, the party would be interesting and Maggie was pretty sure she would have fun. She’d made up her mind to enjoy the evening, whatever happened.
The Prince looked up and his face broke out into a brilliant smile that sent a rush of warmth through Maggie. The appreciative look he gave her didn’t hurt, either.
Okay, she was definitely going to have fun, even if it was just for a few hours.
Raffaele said a few words to the driver, then bowed to Maggie as he opened the door to the limo for her.
“Chef Bechet, your carriage awaits.”
Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t know princes opened their own car doors.” She made her tone teasing and smiled to show him she appreciated the gesture.
“Ah, but tonight is about you, and I am here to make your evening a wonderful one.”
Maggie grinned. “In that case, you should probably call me Maggie.”
The Prince laughed. “Indeed. But only if you call me Raffa.”
Maggie slid into the car. “Not Raffaele?”
He slid into the car next to her and closed the door. “If you like, but my closest friends call me Raffa.”
“Mm-hmm. What does your mother call you?” Maggie asked jokingly.
Raffaele chuckled. “Her darling youngest child, the light of her life, and the bane of her existence.”
“Oh, that I certainly understand.”
Raffaele gave her an interested look. “You’re the youngest?”
Maggie shook her head. “Only child. My parents are wonderful and supportive, and despair of me ever having a life outside the kitchen.”
He nodded. “I’ll make sure you have a good story to tell them, then.”
Maggie laughed. “Thank you. The fact that I’m attending a Mardi Gras party with a prince is a good start.”
Raffaele reached for something and held it out to her. Maggie realized it was a gorgeous mask, a deep green with gold filigree and purple ribbons falling from the edges of the upturned corners.
She took the mask reverently and turned it over, looking at the detail.
“It’s lovely,” she breathed.
“We’re attending a masquerade party, in case that wasn’t obvious. And I think what makes it lovely is that you’ll be wearing it.”
Maggie looked up at him and he looked back, and she could have sworn that there were visible sparks in the air where their eyes met. She ducked her head, studying the mask again.
“I love Mardi Gras. It’s my favorite holiday.”
“What do you normally do to celebrate?”
Maggie laughed. “Lately? I prepare elaborate meals for other people.”
She recognized that she sounded a bit defensive, so she looked up at him to explain.
“I love being a chef, but it does mean that I’m in the kitchen for most holidays. I make it possible for everyone else to have a celebration out.”
Raffaele nodded, and she could see the understanding in his eyes.
“When you’re in charge, you have the responsibility to make sure that others’ needs are met first.”
“Exactly.”
Maggie thought for a moment. She could see that he understood what she was trying to say.
“What it’s like, being royalty?” She realized how the question might sound to him, and she tried to explain. “You have a lot of responsibility, right? That must be a lot of pressure.”
Raffaele nodded. “It is, but I won’t deny that it is also a lot of fun.”
Maggie studied him for a moment and then asked a tentative question.
“Do you have to attend court?”
Raffaele laughed. “Yes. And it’s my least favorite thing.”
“Are you kidding? Why?”
“All the formality and bowing and standing around…”
Maggie shook her head. “You bowed to me.”
“Ah, but you are deserving of that honor.”
Maggie could see him thinking about that statement, as he shrugged and tilted his head.
“As is my uncle, to be honest. He’s a good king. But I enjoy that other countries have more…democratic forms of expression.”
Maggie bit her lower lip. “Can I ask—”
Raffaele raised one eyebrow. “Have I met the twin princes?”
She threw up a hand. “Every time I go to the grocery store, they’re in the tabloids! Really, I don’t believe most of that garbage. But you have to have some great royal club stories.”
Raffaele looked haughty and said, “The first rule of royal club is that you don’t talk about royal club.”
Maggie leaned back against the seat and laughed. “That sounds like chef club.”
Raffaele leaned toward her and grinned. “I’ll trade you story for story. You must have some good ones.”
“Oh, I do. After culinary school, I spent time in a few different restaurants before I came home. Chef club is a real thing, my friend.”
Raffaele huffed in agreement.
“So is royal club. Weddings, funerals, official events—any time we get together, it can get interesting.” He tilted his head. “Though it’s hard to keep anything a secret when cameras follow you everywhere.”
Maggie grimaced in sympathy. “That doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”
“I’ve learned to deal with it. Sometimes, if you give them what they expect, they leave you alone the rest of the time.”
Maggie gave him a questioning look, so he tried to explain.
“For example, I attended an elaborate house party in Monaco before I flew here. There are pictures of me arriving there and—” he hesitated a bit, “pictures of me dancing rather enthusiastically to a live band on the beach.”
Maggie thought he might be a little embarrassed by that last detail, so she teased him to show it didn’t bother her.
“Were you dancing with the band?”
The Prince gave her a raised eyebrow and she held out one hand.
“I mean, there’s a big difference between dancing as part of the audience while a live band plays—” she flipped her hand over, “and climbing up on stage and dancing with the band members.”
She wrinkled her nose in thought.
“Though, maybe that’s a royal thing—getting to dance with the band without them throwing you off stage.”
Raffaele laughed and Maggie was pleased that she’d prompted that warm sound.
“I may have been tempted to climb on stage, but no, I stayed safely in the crowd. And because the paparazzi got those pictures, I don’t think they bothered to get any when I left the party.”
Maggie had a thought. “Were there photographers outside BienVille tonight?”
Raffaele nodded. “Two. I’m guessing locals, since they were actually respectful.” He studied her. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
Maggie thought it was sweet that he sounded worried about what she thought.
“I don’t mind. As long as they weren’t bothering you.”
Raffaele shook his head. “I’m used to it.”
“Can I ask why you ate alone tonight? I’m sure any number of people would have given their right arm for a chance to dine with you.”
He thought about his answer and Maggie could see that he took her question seriously.
“It’s not that I don’t want company. But I do sometimes like to try new restaurants out while I’m alone. I can focus on the food that way, instead of having to keep up my end of the conversation.”
“You really love food, don’t you?”
Raffaele nodded at her.
“It’s the one escape I have fr
om being Prince Raffaele Caldini. As a prince, I’m encouraged to patronize the arts, and I’ve chosen the food world because it doesn’t matter who I am. Chefs cook for me like they would cook for anyone else.”
Maggie let that slide, knowing that in some ways, he was right. A chef that was committed to their craft would cook for a prince the same way they would cook for anyone—to do less would dishonor the process.
“You must have had celebrities in your restaurant before?”
Maggie shrugged. “A few, but you are without a doubt the first honest-to-goodness royal BienVille has hosted.”
Raffaele thought for a moment. “I won’t be the last.”
Maggie admired his certainty. She knew that his word could make a difference in the restaurant’s bookings, and she didn’t think he was saying that simply because she was his date for the evening.
She leaned closer to him, deciding to share a story of her own.
“So, this one time, a famous New York chef came into the restaurant…”
Raffaele leaned toward her and nodded.
“He spent half an hour looking over the menu. And then, he asked why I didn’t have gumbo with filé listed on the menu.”
Raffaele gave her a confused expression. “That’s Cajun, isn’t it? Instead of Creole?”
Maggie smiled, delighted that he knew the difference.
“Yes, exactly! And he was so offended that we didn’t do what he thought we were supposed to do.”
“How did you handle that?”
Maggie could tell that he was genuinely curious.
“I asked him if I could just prepare something for him, off the menu. I fixed him my mother’s favorite dishes and then sat with him to explain the difference between Cajun and Creole.”
“Did he appreciate that?”
Maggie lifted a shoulder.
“Once he got past the fact that he didn’t know everything, yeah.”
“You mentioned cooking with your parents. Did they have another restaurant?”
“Same one. They retired three years ago and I took over. I updated the menu, made it more of an upscale place than a little neighborhood shop.”
“What did your parents cook before you took over?”
“A little bit of Creole, a little bit of Cajun, a little bit of other traditional Southern food. It’s really only been in the last few years that a restaurant could focus on one type of food and succeed.”
“Did you always want to cook Creole food?”
Maggie thought before she answered.
“I’m proud of my heritage and the food my family has always cooked. But…I did go through a rather rebellious phase before I got to culinary school. I wanted to cook anything else but my family’s food.”
Raffaele leaned toward her.
“Please tell me this rebellious phase also involved questionable choices in clothing and music.” He grinned to show her he was teasing.
Maggie laughed. “There may have been a few outfits I am less than proud of now.”
Raffaele nodded. “My mother threw out my favorite jacket when I was sixteen because there was a story in the tabloid press about it.”
Maggie winced. “So, growing up as royalty isn’t all sunshine and rainbows?”
Raffaele shook his head, but smiled.
“I had a few difficult moments, but the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks.” He nodded out the window. “Like this one.”
Maggie followed his gaze out the window to one of the biggest houses she’d ever seen. “Well, that’s definitely a benefit,” she replied in awe.
Chapter 3
Maggie
The limo drove slowly up a long, semicircular driveway, giving Maggie a chance to look at the setting for the party. The mansion was huge—the stone walls made it look more like a castle than a house—and it sparkled with lights.
Both Maggie and Raffaele donned their masks, his dark gold with a black ribbon and a black fleur-de-lis embossed on the side. Raffaele helped her tie the purple ribbons on her mask, and Maggie got goosebumps on her arms as his fingers brushed across her hair.
Purple and green decorations lined the driveway, and bright torches stood every few feet leading up to the massive double doors. Light spilled out from each window and when they got out of the car, Maggie could hear music from what sounded like a small orchestra.
Raffaele held his arm out and Maggie took it. As they approached the heavy oak doors, they swung open and a butler greeted them both with a bow.
“Sir, madam, welcome. You’ll find your hosts in the ballroom, or you may take supper out in the courtyard.”
The butler gestured to another man dressed in black-and-white, who offered Raffaele and Maggie glasses of champagne.
Raffaele inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”
He took the glasses and gave one to Maggie, before raising his glass in a silent toast; she smiled and did the same. As she drank from the glass, Maggie thought how easy it would be to get used to being met by a butler at every door with a glass of champagne.
This party was definitely not her normal scene, though. More diamonds sparkled on ears, necks, and wrists here than she’d ever seen, even with her upscale clientele at BienVille. Maggie was pretty sure she saw more than one couture dress (and wouldn’t Anna, her maître d’, be proud of her for recognizing a couture dress), and all the men were dressed in sharp tuxedoes that could have been a fashion show in and of themselves.
Maggie allowed Raffaele to escort her through the house. She trusted him to lead her where they needed to go, so she let herself look around and marvel at the gorgeous house and beautiful people. She tried not to look like a country mouse gawking at the opulence, but she was pretty sure she squeaked on seeing one of her favorite actresses standing near an ornate bar covered in champagne glasses and silver plates of strawberries.
Raffaele leaned close to her ear. “I’ll introduce you later.”
Maggie gave him a wide-eyed look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He grinned at her, the expression reaching his eyes even through his mask. She grinned back and relaxed. If there was ever a time for a regular girl from New Orleans to rub elbows with royalty and celebrities, Mardi Gras was it.
The holiday had always been Maggie’s favorite. Although most people thought of Mardi Gras in New Orleans as one big debauched party, Maggie knew better. Sure, the festival was a celebration, but at least if you were a local, it was one that was more about food and music and crazy costumes and family. Only tourists came to the city to get drunk and pass out on Bourbon Street.
Her favorite part was the food—the idea of indulging in rich comfort foods in the cold February season appealed to her, but she also loved the traditional favorites. That’s why she always included king cake on the menu at her restaurant during the season, and anyone who found the baby in their slice got a special gift certificate to the restaurant.
She hadn’t been out to celebrate Mardi Gras properly in years. She was always in the kitchen at BienVille. Although she would try to sneak out for a few minutes to catch one of the local parades during the day, it wasn’t the same as being able to attend the parties. Maggie hadn’t realized until now how much she missed the bright whirl of the festival. Being on Raffaele’s arm made it all the more exciting, and she was so happy she’d said yes to attending the party with him.
They walked down white marble steps into the ballroom, where fairy lights decorated climbing cast iron trellises around the edges of the room and thousands of purple, yellow, and green flowers filled towering vases. There was indeed a small orchestra playing on an elevated stage, while couples whirled around the dance floor in a bright swirl of colors.
Raffaele steered her to a couple standing off to the side of the room, where they were greeting guests.
“Prince Raffaele!” the woman held out her arms.
Raffaele kissed each of her cheeks carefully, not wanting to disturb her mask.
“Donna, thank you
so much for the invitation.” Raffaele turned to the man and shook his hand firmly. “Thomas, it’s good to see you.”
“Likewise, Your Highness. Thank you for gracing our home.”
Raffaele waved off the flattery. “I’m delighted to be here. May I present my companion? This is Chef Maggie Bechet, from New Orleans’ finest eatery, BienVille.”
Maggie shook the hands of both their hosts, squashing an impulse to curtsy.
“Thank you for opening your home tonight. I’m thrilled to be here.”
Donna smiled at her. “We’re happy you’re here. Please enjoy the party, both of you.”
Raffaele nodded once and offered Maggie his arm again.
As they moved away, Maggie asked, “How do you know our hosts?”
“Thomas does business with a company based in Spiaggi. He and Donna have stayed at the palace a few times, and they always talk about the Mardi Gras party they throw every year. This year, they insisted I come.”
Maggie took all that in. “I can safely say I’ve never been at a party where the hosts knew royalty.”
Raffaele bumped her arm playfully.
“You know royalty,” he said, raising his eyebrows to emphasize his point.
Maggie tilted her head.
“So I do.” She smiled at him. “Not something I ever expected to be able to say.”
Raffaele smiled back at her and Maggie almost missed his next words because she was so distracted by that dazzling smile.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. At her puzzled look, Raffaele added, “I know how you chefs are. Cook all night and never stop to eat dinner yourself. Just because I had a fabulous meal tonight doesn’t mean you did.”
Maggie laughed, surprised at his knowledge yet again.
“Too true, and I am just a tiny bit starving.”
“Well, then,” Raffaele pointed her in the direction of the courtyard. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
As they walked through the house, it seemed they couldn’t go two feet without someone calling a greeting to the Prince or coming up to them to say hello and introduce a date. Maggie thought the constant attention might get old, even as flattering as it was.
