I expect him to avert his head. To bypass me as if I’m nothing but wallpaper. But instead, he surprises (no, shocks) me by striding over.
“Where are you going, Alexander?” Redheaded Goddess says suspiciously.
“To get a drink.”
He doesn’t say ‘I’ll be right back’, I notice.
He doesn’t walk. He strides – confidently, assertively in that self-possessed manner. But he’s not pompous. He’s merely very sure of himself.
I wish I had that kind of confidence.
As for me, I’m rooted to the spot. My mouth dries as my gut goes flip-flop, and I can feel the blood draining from my face.
He wants a drink, nothing more, a little voice tells me.
He comes up to me and our eyes lock. In that instance, I experience once again that magnetic, goose-walking-over-my-grave sensation of worlds colliding, of opposite poles that are meant to be. But I’m sure it’s one-sided. I’m sure he has that effect on every woman who sees him, especially Redheaded Goddess who is glancing over at us in a peevish manner.
His eyes are sea-green and swimming with flecks of every other color on the rainbow spectrum, I could have sworn. My insides – especially down there – melt again. I can’t help it. He has that power over me like no other person before, and I don’t know why.
“Hi,” he says in a low voice. He takes a champagne glass off my tray.
I have to contract all my arm muscles to keep the tray from shaking.
“Hi,” I say back.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
So he remembers.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here either.”
Am I really having this conversation? Because it’s surreal.
He takes a sip from his glass. “I don’t think we have ever been properly introduced. My name is Alex.”
Alex. Not Alexander.
“I’m Liz. Elizabeth, I mean.”
Oh my God. I think I might have forgotten my surname.
“Liz,” he savors my name. On his tongue – and I remember that tongue in my mouth, oh God – it sounds exotic and seductive. “What are you d– ?”
The rest of what he was going to ask me is drowned out by a shrill voice. “Alexander, don’t keep me waiting, darling.”
I back off. Redheaded goddess comes over and lays her hand protectively on Alexander’s arm, the one that isn’t involved in holding the now empty champagne glass.
“It’s only been less than a minute,” Alex says wryly.
“I’m sure it’s been longer than that.” She appropriates the glass from his hand and puts it back firmly on my tray. She flashes a predatory smile at me that clearly says “Don’t touch my property”.
I shrink back. I wasn’t planning on touching anyone’s property. Since our last encounter, I mean, because we sure touched plenty back then. OK. My mind babbling. I better get back to work.
Alex’s eyes linger on my face, and I’m the first to flush and turn away. I can hear Redhead’s receding voice as she steers him away into another pocket of people.
I bump into Cassandra on the way back to refill my tray.
“So what did he say to you?” She’s a little breathless.
“Who?”
“The prince! What did he say to you?”
OK. Right here, I’m going to admit I’ve been a little dim. I know all the clues have been telling me that Alex might be the errant and unpunctual son of the royal dignitary we are serving tonight, but I flat out refuse to acknowledge it.
“He just wanted a drink,” I reply in a lame voice.
“He’s soooo handsome!” gushes Cassandra. “Did you know that the Tattler has him as the most eligible bachelor alive since Prince William got married?”
No, I didn’t know. I don’t read Tattler. I don’t know anything about bachelors and royalty, other than I got fucked by one in probably what will be a forgettable interlude in his life.
Anyway, I don’t see how Alex being the most eligible bachelor alive has anything to do with me. It’s probably got everything to do with Redhead though.
My cheeks burning, I head off.
5
OK. I’ll admit it.
I can’t refrain from Googling Alex.
I’m in my one-bedroom rental apartment which I share with Deanna. I have my own laptop, and while I’m Googling Alex, Deanna waltzes in.
“Whatcha doing?” She immediately flops on my bed and peers at my screen.
“Hey, whatever happened to privacy?” I say, snatching my laptop away.
She grabs it and begins a tug of war with me. “I want to see. Oh wow. Prince Alexander Vassar of Moldovia. Isn’t his father in town or something?”
Alex himself is also in town, I think, but don’t say.
Deanna grabs my pillow and leans back on it, making herself completely at home in my bed. She seizes my notebook and puts in upon her knee.
Like, hello? This is still my bed. Not that she would have cared if I said anything.
“OK. This is interesting. He’s twenty-seven years old and an entrepreneur. He owns several companies, including the biggest casino conglomerate in Moldovia and the South of France. He’s worth . . . oh my goodness . . . a cool seven hundred million Euros. How much is that in our money, do you think?”
I don’t know. I’m stumped when it comes to conversion rates, seeing that I will never get the chance to travel the way I’m going.
Deanna continues, “He isn’t married, and would you look at his photos? He’s an absolute dreamboat. Like, wow!”
I, like, know. He’s even dreamier up close.
And naked.
“And . . . he studied at Harvard . . . anthropology. What a subject! You’d think it had nothing to do with running casinos. And get this, he isn’t married. Why are you Googling him anyway?”
I shrug. “Because his father happens to be in the hotel I work at. So I thought to check him up. His father, I mean . . . he just happens to be under the Search.”
Why am I babbling and making excuses?
“Uh huh.” Deanna scrolls down. “It says that his mother is an American heiress to one of the biggest fortunes here. Typical. The rich marry the rich. He has two younger sisters. One is at Yale and the other is in finishing school in Switzerland. And . . . he has been linked to plenty of women in the past. Like Giselle Bundchen. Wow. And Amber Valetta.”
All famous model types. Great.
Deanna shuts my computer with a snap. “Well, he’s way beyond our league, so I wouldn’t put my hopes up in bumping into him at the hotel if I were you.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Hey, I got a blind date for you.” She sits up excitedly. “His name is Kevin, and he’s a senior in the Art Faculty. How does Saturday sound to you?”
“I have to work Saturday.”
It’s true. I really do. Not that Kevin doesn’t sound appealing. But I’ve never had luck with any of Deanna’s blind dates, hence: the virginity. They don’t seem to be way interested in me. I think they are a lot more interested in Deanna. I suspect many of them are her castoffs, and she’s trying to pan them off to me.
Deanna pouts. “Oh, come on. You can switch with that Cassandra person, or something.”
“No, I can’t switch with the Cassandra person. I really need the cash. My Mom’s on the dole, remember? And weekends are the only time I don’t have classes, and so I have to work.”
“Oh yeah.” Deanna makes an expression that says ‘sucks to be you’.
She’s got that right.
6
When I get into work on Saturday, Mr. Mangorean pulls me aside. He doesn’t appear too pleased.
“We’ve had a request from one of our guests.” He looks like he’s eaten something that doesn’t agree with him.
“Which guest?”
His mouth tightens. “The one in the Queen’s suite next to the Presidential suite.”
Oh. My tongue dries. I think my guts must have plu
nged a goodly two feet, because I can feel them in my shoes.
“Wh-what does he want?” I say.
“He asks for you to personally clean his room. A special request from his people.” Mangorean’s eyes narrow. “Whenever I have requests like these, Ms. Turner, I’d be on my toes. They never come to any good. If you’d remember the case of the – ”
“Ambassador. I know, Mr. Mangorean. I’ll be careful.”
“Sued him good, she did. You can do the same if he tries anything.”
Mr. Mangorean looks so earnest that I can almost hug him. None of that ‘what would Moldovian royalty want with you?’ kind of stuff, but then, Mangorean has seen plenty of things happen in hotel rooms in his time.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
Inside my chest, my heart is galloping like horses gone wild. Alexander Vassar requested for me to clean his room personally?
Why?
“You can always yell for ‘help’ if things get too far,” Mangorean adds.
“I don’t think it will come to that, Mr. Mangorean. I can take care of myself.”
“I would send someone else to accompany you if it hadn’t been a special request for you to attend to his room alone.”
Oh. Did he?
Needless to say, my palpitations do not abate. For the first time in a very long while . . . well, since our restroom encounter . . . my giddy excitement begins to mount again.
I push the cart up to the Queen’s suite, which is a smaller suite than the Presidential one. The corridors are rife with security, but the guard at the corner nods at me as I wheel the cart to the appointed door. He might have been briefed about me because he flashes me a knowing smile.
I flush.
Does everybody on this floor know what happened?
I’m being silly, of course. I’m nothing. Nobody. It’s just a simple request, nothing more.
With my card, I swipe the door and enter.
No one is in the suite, thank goodness. Two whiskey glasses – empty – are scattered on the Victorian coffee table in the lounge. I walk to the bedroom with its gargantuan king-sized bed, and it’s unmade, of course. Pillows are thrown all over and the sheets are creased, with the quilt flung back. The indent of one body – not two – is on the right side.
So he slept alone last night.
I’m nervous about being in this room, and so I set myself to tidy it up. Alex’s clothes are in an unlocked suitcase. I resist the urge to open it. I’m kind of glad that he doesn’t have a valet to unpack his clothes or anything, and that he is kind of messy, because his shirt drapes casually over the back of a chair, and his pants lie in a crumple on the floor.
I empty the trashcans – altogether three of them. I can find no evidence of used condoms (unless he flushes them down the toilet). And why the heck am I looking for used condoms anyway?
Focus, Liz.
I attempt to focus on cleaning as much as any maid can focus on cleaning. And it’s a damned effort, I can tell you.
On the bedside table next to the gorgeous lamp, I find two diamond cufflinks. (What is this, a test?) They are on a cream-colored card which says ‘To Alexander, with all my love. Tatiana.’
I take it the Redhead is Tatiana.
The main door opens. I jump and turn around. Footsteps pad on the richly carpeted floor, and Alex stands at the doorway. He’s dressed in a wife-beater, which is soaked with sweat at his chest area, and running shorts. He has obviously been to the gym. His face is flushed and sweaty, and he has a towel slung across his well-sculptured shoulders.
He smiles when he sees me.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” My voice is tinny in my ears.
Mangorean says you have to be careful, a little voice reminds me. Yeah, careful of what? We have already done the deed, and I was a willing participant.
He stands there, just watching me – smiling. Oh, but he’s so handsome, with the sun streaming through the windows lighting his dark hair into a rich golden brown. I’ve seen his naked arms before, but framed upon that wife-beater, his biceps appear even more pronounced.
I lick my lips. “You asked me to clean your room.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Good question.” He chortles. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”
“And getting me to clean your room is an excuse to see me again?” This cheeses me off . . . a little.
“It is your job,” he replies, deadpan, “and I happen to find you sexy in a maid’s outfit.”
OK. I think I know where this is going.
Never mind that my blood is doing Niagara Falls in my ears, and my pulse is thundering all the way down in my groin. (Yes, my groin.) Mangorean was right. Alexander Vassar does not have the most honorable intentions for me, and I find the notion incredibly sexy.
I should be outraged!
But no – my loins are melting as if a torch has been held to them.
Alex senses this. He moves closer, and I can smell his musky, sweat-soaked scent – as masculine as any love drug. Ohhhh, he’s sex on legs all right. He’s betting I can’t resist him.
But why is he betting on me? Part of me – hell, all of me – still can’t come to terms as to why he would desire me. Chalk it up to a lack of self-confidence, but my physical attributes have never been spectacular. Maybe it’s the maid outfit.
Yes, I’m willing to bet it’s the maid’s outfit.
“You know,” Alex murmurs, “I didn’t know that you were a virgin when we were together the last time. You should have told me.”
I don’t what to say to that. He’s very close now. Elbow length close. His heat emanates from his body, whose metabolic rate is off the charts due to his recent workout.
Maybe that’s it. His inexplicable attraction to me. The fact that I was a virgin when he took me the first time.
He leans over and takes my face in his damp palms. His pheromones – sexy as hell – fill my nostrils. His lips press against mine, and oh – they are so heavenly. So tender and so soft and a thousand different things that courses right down my belly to the nub within my pussy, and I feel a flower of desire open up in me.
His arms wrap around my body and his sweaty chest closes in on my breasts. He opens his mouth and his tongue thrusts suggestively into mine. He explores my tongue and teeth. This boy really knows how to French-kiss . . . maybe it’s because he’s European? Anyway, I shouldn’t overanalyze anything. I should just be in this moment, and hope it lasts forever.
His hands move down my back – down, down, down to cup my buttocks beneath my skirt. It’s very obvious what he wants, especially since I can feel his hardness poking through his shorts. I swear he doesn’t wear any underwear beneath those shorts, and this further excites me to know that his cock – that wonderful pleasure tool that has pounded and driven home into me – is just there, hidden by that soft, silky fabric.
We part for air.
“You know,” he murmurs against my lips, “I really need to shower. And it would be great if you can join me.”
OK. As tempting as that sounds, I’m going to have to draw a line here. No, it’s not about the shower. His mentioning me just triggered an alarm bell, that’s all. I know I’m a consenting adult . . . but still!
I place my palms upon his damp chest and push him away.
“No.”
He’s surprised. “No? But I thought you – ”
“You thought wrong.” It takes my every ounce my strength to do this. “I’m not some cheap floozy you can pick up and get laid with every time you snap your fingers, Alex.”
“I didn’t – ”
“Oh yes you did.” I take a step back, and I’m very aware that behind me is the bed I have just made. The bed in which his hot body has indelibly imprinted. That very hot body that stands before me now. “And I’m not going to do it.”
I’m going to regret this, I know. Every part of my Id – the primal urge that drives human beings – cries ou
t for his touch and what must naturally occur between a man and woman who are wildly attracted to each other. But I must let my head rule in this. I mean everything I said.
I am not some cheap floozy.
That encounter in the restroom will be the first and last time this kind of stuff will ever happen for me. I’m not the sort of girl who drops her panties at a bat of an eyelash – even if it belongs to a superrich entrepreneur/Harvard alumni/European crown prince.
He’s evaluating my non-consent, and probably debating if he should proceed. The narrowing of his beautiful eyes suggest that he is wary – and rightfully so.
“I don’t think you’re some cheap floozy,” he shoots at me.
“But it doesn’t give you a right to think I’m going to sleep with you every time you want it either.” I’m surprised at how calm I sound. Even though I’m going shit, shit, shit – this is the last time I’m going to ever see him. But I have to be true to myself. Just because the most gorgeous guy in the world throws me a curveball, doesn’t mean I have to catch it every time.
He contemplates this for a long time. There’s a serious light in his eyes, and he parts his lips to lick his lower one. Even in this thoughtful gesture, he’s sexy.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. His beautiful blue-green eyes are stony. “I misread the situation.”
Yes, you did. No, you didn’t. Oh help, I’m a helpless mess.
I move away from him. It’s difficult. He’s so overpowering and in your face, so I have to move sideways and then scramble away guiltily.
I don’t look back. I’m afraid I will succumb.
Did I do the right thing?
Now I’ll never see him in the flesh again. Guys like that don’t come crawling back.
Oh shit shit shit.
Have I made a mistake? It’s too late now. I’m committed.
I can’t look back.
7
I spend the next few days moping. And I won’t tell Deanna why.
She’s all over me, of course. She wants to know why I’m so down, and why I can’t seem to get my spirits up even when she bakes me cupcakes. But I don’t tell her, of course.
Because I’ve been a fool.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 111