Page 8 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Carlos nodded. “As you wish, Your Highness. We’ll get going straight away. Can I ask Anton to bring you anything? A beer perhaps, or wine?”
Adrien shook his head. “No… I’ll have dinner at eight. But I don’t want to be disturbed until then.”
The skipper left the cabin, and Adrien lay down on the bed, staring up at the pine-clad ceiling above as he felt the gentle movement of the yacht, its motor powering into life. Through the cabin window, he could see the marina drifting past, the Monaco strip, with its restaurants and hotels drifting further away. He breathed a sigh of relief at leaving it all behind. Out here, on the sea, no one could get at him.
Pulling out his cellphone, his finger hovered over the power button, but tossing it aside, he decided to wait. It would all be there waiting for him when he switched it on, but for now, he closed his eyes, as the rhythmic purr of the engine, and gentle movement of the waters, lulled him to sleep.
When Adrien awoke, the sun was setting. The bottle of wine he’d shared with Giuseppe at lunch had done its work. According to the digital clock on the television, he’d slept for almost six hours. Yawning, he sat up, stretching out his arms and smiling to himself at the thought of having taken a nap.
Just like father does. Maybe I really am getting old…
Rising from the bed, he glanced out of the cabin window, where the setting sun was casting a shimmering golden light across the sea. It was calm, and the shore was a distant haze, drifting pastas the yacht cruised along the coast. At last, Adrien felt as though he’d escaped. Monaco, the press, his parents, the expectations… all of it was far behind him, and he was looking forward to the coming days, when he’d do nothing but swim and relax on the deck in the sunshine.
And not turn on the phone.
It was almost time for dinner. Adrien showered and changed, putting on a fresh shirt and his lagoon-blue jacket and white deck trousers. He scented himself with aftershave, the fragrant scent of orange blossom filling the cabin as he did so, and put on his gold watch — a gift from his parents on his thirtieth birthday. He was hungry and wondered what the chef had prepared for him that night.
He certainly knows how to cook langoustines.
Out on the deck, a pleasant scent filled the air — was it seafood again? Standing looking out across the Mediterranean, Adrien smiled to himself. The papers could print what they wanted for the next few days. He didn’t care.
“Good evening, Your Highness. Something to drink, perhaps?” the steward asked, and Anton turned to find him standing at the door leading to below deck.
“Some champagne, I think. Whatever Mr. Bellagio drinks.”
The steward gave a curt nod, disappearing below deck and returning a few moments later with a chilled glass of champagne. Adrien stood for a few moments looking out to sea. They were cruising past Le Sémaphore, rounding the headland towards Nice. He could see the lights of the Grand Hotel du Cartola, where he’d once spent a memorable weekend with a Swiss business analyst…
“Dinner won’t be long, Your Highness,” Anton said.
“Thank you. Tell the chef I thought his langoustines were excellent. I hope there’s more to come,” Adrien said.
The steward smiled. “I’ll tellher,Your Highness.”
Adrien was surprised, though there was no reason why he should’ve been. Women could be chefs — womenwerechefs. He smiled to himself at his mistake, thinking of Giuseppe’s compliments about the woman cooking his dinner below deck.
Now I know why he was so complimentary.
But the comment still stood — the langoustines had been excellent, and Adrien was looking forward to seeing what tonight’s offering would bring. His palate was varied. He liked clean, simple Mediterranean food — a welcome relief from the rich, cream- and cheese-laden cuisine of Flandenne with its German and French influences. But at boarding school in England, he’d developed a taste for the sort of dishes such institutions specialized in — there was nothing better than a steamed sponge pudding. Taking another sip of champagne, he sat down at the table, laid for one, imagining the chef in the galley below. He wondered if she was anything like the maid — curious about him. People usually were.
As long as she keeps cooking like she did at lunchtime —that was all that mattered.
CHAPTER 5
CLAIRE
“He’s ready now,” Anton said, poking his head around the door into the galley.
Claire breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I thought it was going to be ruined,” she exclaimed, hastily removing the sauce she’d made from the stove.
Tonight, she was serving a rack of lamb. It had been resting under foil, and now she sliced into it, praying it was pink, but not raw.
“That looks delicious,” Anna-Marie said, as Claire hurried to plate up the dish.
She was serving the lamb with ratatouille, and a sauce made with anchovies — given Mr. Bellagio was away. For dessert, there was a lemon mousse with lavender-scented cookies.
“It’s ready to go up, and… oh, wait a moment. The potatoes,” Claire exclaimed, snatching the plate back from Anna-Marie and almost falling over in her haste.
The kitchen felt even smaller than usual, crammed as it was with supplies for the coming days. Claire had made pommes soufflées — discs of potato that, when cut just right, and deep fried at the correct temperature, puffed up into deliciously crisp shells. Fortunately, they weren’t ruined either, and arranging several on the plate, Claire handed it back to Anna-Marie with a satisfied look.
