The Forbidden Prince. Alison Roberts
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front that had canvas awnings over the footpath. The name of the café was printed on the dark terracotta canvas in big, white, cursive letters—Pane Quotidiano—the ‘Daily Bread’.
A short, middle-aged man with a long, white apron tied around an ample waist was lifting wrought-iron chairs from a stack to position around small tables. ‘Buongiorno, Marco.’
‘Buongiorno, Mika. Why are you so early?’
‘I’ve brought a friend—Rafe. He needs a job. Is Pierre still here?’
Marco threw his hands in the air and his huff of breath was exasperated. ‘He walked out yesterday, would you believe? Demanded his money and that was that.’ Raoul was receiving a shrewd glance. ‘You got any experience?’
‘I learn fast,’ Raoul replied in Italian—the language Mika was speaking with impressive fluency. ‘Try me.’
Marco had his hands on his hips now as he assessed Raoul.
‘He speaks English,’ Mika put in.
‘And French,’ Raoul added. And Dauphinesque, but that was hardly likely to be useful to the majority of tourists this café served, and he had no intention of giving anybody such a clue to his nationality.
‘Makes no difference.’ Marco shrugged. ‘All he needs to know is how to follow orders and work hard.’
‘Try me,’ Raoul said again. He should probably have added ‘please’ but, curiously, it rankled that he was being assessed and possibly found wanting. Not something he was used to, that was for sure.
‘One day,’ Marco said grudgingly. ‘You do a good job, I will hire you. Mess up and you won’t get paid for today.’
A glance at Mika gave him another one of those lightning-fast, telepathic messages. This was a good deal and, if he wanted the job, he’d better grab the opportunity.
Marco was clearly confident he had an extra set of hands for the day, at least.
‘Finish putting these chairs out,’ he told Raoul. ‘And then come back into the kitchen. Mika? Seeing as you’re here so early, make me a coffee.’
‘One macchiato coming right up.’ Mika didn’t seem bothered by the crisp order. She was looking delighted, in fact, by the way this job interview had panned out. She gave Raoul a quick thumbs-up sign as she disappeared into the café behind her boss.
His boss, too, if he could prove himself today. Raoul lifted a couple of the heavy chairs and carried them to the table on the far side of the outdoor area. As he went back for more, he caught sight of himself in the windows that hadn’t yet been folded back to open up the café to catch the breeze and what he saw made him catch his breath and look again.
He’d had to comb his hair with his fingers this morning so it was more tousled than he’d ever seen before. He’d rinsed out his only set of clothes and hung them over the tiny line outside the window of Mika’s room, so they were clean enough, but so wrinkled it looked as if he’d slept in them for a week. He’d noticed that the stubble on his jaw had felt a lot smoother yesterday but now he could see that it was beginning to look like a proper beard.
Nobody was going to recognise him. He barely recognised himself.
He wasn’t a prince here. Nobody had even asked him for a surname. He was just an ordinary guy called Rafe. And Rafe was on the way to finding his first paid employment.
Maybe he was delighted as well.
* * *
The trickle of breakfast customers had grown into a steady stream of holiday makers who preferred a relaxed brunch. Mika’s section today covered all the street tables so she had the added hazard of stepping around dogs lying by their owners’ chairs as she delivered plates of hot food or trays laden with coffee orders. Tables were being taken as soon as people stood up to leave so they had to be wiped down fast, and a new carafe of chilled water along with glasses provided.
She was almost too busy to wonder how Rafe was coping out the back but he entered her thoughts every time she cleared a table, being careful to scrape the plates and put all the cutlery on the top. Carrying the piles to the kitchen, she found herself scanning shelves to see where they were running low on supplies.
‘We’re going to need more water glasses soon. And don’t forget the lemon slices and sprigs of mint in the carafes.’
‘Okay.’ Rafe had a huge apron on and a dish brush in his hand. He started to push a pile of plates further towards the sinks so that Mika had room to put hers down.
‘Careful...’ Without thinking, Mika caught his hand. ‘Margaret’s left cutlery between the plates. That whole pile could topple and smash on the floor.’ She could feel the heat of his skin beneath her fingers. Had it been soaking in hot water for too long to feel as if it was burning her? Hastily, she pulled her hand away and scooped up the knives and forks on her top plate to put them into the big, sudsy bucket on the floor. Pierre, the last dish-washer, had trained her not to drop them too fast and splash his legs.
‘Thanks.’ Rafe cast an eye over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to annoy him again. He had to show me how to run the dishwasher twice.’
Mika smiled. ‘Gianni’s bark is worse than his bite. He’s a pretty good chef.’
‘Service... Table eight.’
‘Oh, that’s me...’ Mika turned swiftly, uncomfortably aware that she’d been distracted. ‘Behind,’ she called in warning on her way to the pass, as one of the other waitresses backed through the swing door with another tray of dirty dishes. Would she have room to dump them on the bench? Rafe was going to have to work faster if he wanted to get this job. He might not even get a break, at the rate he was going.
There were plenty of water glasses on the shelf the next time she settled new customers and every carafe was decorated with mint and lemon. This was good. Rafe hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d promised Marco that he was a fast learner. Mika delivered another tray of coffees to the table where her boss was sitting—as usual—with a couple of his mates, right on the footpath, so he could greet anyone else he knew and keep an eye on how the whole café was functioning. If things got really crazy, he would pitch in to help, or sometimes he would just wander around to check that everybody was enjoying their time in Positano’s best café. He had the best job, which was fair enough, given that he was the owner of the establishment.
Poor Rafe had the worst job but he seemed to be managing. Mika stopped worrying about him as the day sped on. It wasn’t her problem if he didn’t like the work or didn’t get offered a paid job, was it? She’d repaid her debt by giving him dinner and a place to stay last night. Finding him work was just a bonus.
Except...
She liked him. And she liked having him around. Instead of grumpy Pierre, whom she had to be careful not to splash, she could look forward to a smile every time she carried dirty dishes out the back.
It was growing on her, that smile.
The other waitresses must be getting smiled at too, she decided. There was a faint undercurrent of something different amongst her colleagues today. They seemed to be putting more effort into being charming with the customers. Was it her imagination or was Margaret, the English girl who was here to improve her Italian, making more frequent trips to the kitchen than usual? She’d spotted Bianca reapplying her lipstick more than once and Alain, the gay barista, had even gone to collect clean coffee cups himself instead of calling for one of the waitresses to do it.
No surprises there. Hospitality workers were usually young, travelling and eager for any fun that came their way. Rafe was new.
And gorgeous...
It was his eyes even more than that smile. The warmth in them. And that wicked gleam of humour. Would she ever forget the way he’d looked at her over that slice of pizza that she’d already taken the huge bite out of? It had been a silly joke but he’d bought right into