Tempted By The Royal. Michelle Celmer

      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 to accommodate me in both respects.”

      “And is obviously discreet enough not to blink when you introduce her to your…friends.”

      He grinned. “I do trust Genevieve. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. But if you think this is part of my usual seduction routine, you’d be wrong. Because the truth is, I haven’t dated enough since the accident to even have a routine.”

      “And before?” she queried.

      “As both of my brothers can attest, there has never been a shortage of women eager to be seen on the arm of a prince. So yes, I dated, and probably more than my fair share. But finding a woman willing to stand by a man who was at sea more than on land was difficult. I can’t even remember how many relationships sank when I shipped out, but it was enough that I gave up even trying to make anything work beyond the period of my leave.

      “And after I resigned my commission, I didn’t meet anyone who made me even think beyond the short-term. Until you.”

      “We didn’t even have short-term,” she reminded him. “We had one night.”

      “We could have more.”

      Molly shook her head, with sincere regret. “But I appreciate the tour,” she said.

      She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he let the matter drop, as he seemed to do, because he only said, “Then you’re pleased with what you’ve seen of the country so far?”

      “I think it would be more appropriate to say I’m both amazed and dazzled.”

      He smiled. “As I said before, you are welcome to stay on after the wedding to enjoy a real vacation.”

      She shook her head regretfully. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid nothing here seems real. It’s like a postcard-perfect world and a zillion miles away from the realities of my life.”

      “Has your absence from the restaurant been a problem?” he asked.

      “Not at all.”

      “And it annoys you, at least a little, that all the gears are continuing to turn with the most important cog removed from the machine.”

      She laughed at his analogy—and because it was true. “It’s silly, I know, but you’re right.”

      “It’s not silly at all,” he denied. “We all like to feel as if we have a purpose in life, a reason for being, and it can be difficult to accept that we aren’t as essential as we believed.”

      She knew he was referring to his own life now, to the career that had abruptly been ended by his injury.

      “Do you ever accept it?” she asked, aware that she was prying but unable to stop herself. “Can you ever find another purpose?”

      There was more than a touch of wryness in his smile this time. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

      They continued to talk while they ate. The meal began with some kind of chilled soup that was a little bit spicy, followed by a main course of grilled sea bass—apparently one of Genevieve’s personal specialties—served with garlic lemon green beans and wild rice, and finished with an assortment of pastries, including slices of a baklava unlike anything Molly had ever tasted.

      Through it all, Eric made her feel so comfortable and at ease that when he asked if she wanted to take a walk on the beach after dinner, she didn’t even consider refusing.

      He left a pile of bills on the table that she guessed more than paid for the meal they’d shared. Then, after a quick stop in the kitchen to thank Genevieve for the incredible meal, they walked toward the water. The sun was only starting to set and the sky was a riot of glorious color. Eric took her hand to help her down the narrow steps that were a public access to the beach, and he didn’t let go when they reached the bottom. She didn’t protest or tug her hand away. It seemed silly to even consider doing so when they’d shared much deeper intimacies.

      They hadn’t gone far, however, before she realized that Fiona’s sandals weren’t very practical on sand, so Molly kicked them off and was pleased when Eric discarded his shoes and socks to walk barefoot with her. They strolled along the water’s edge, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but he never let go of her hand.

      They were almost back at the stairs when he stopped abruptly.

      “Look,” he whispered close to her ear.

      And her breath caught as she