Forbidden Desire(16)

An acute discomfort prickles the back of my neck.

No, no, she’s lying. You have to trust Alex.

And yet, when I recall all the Google articles and images of Alex with other women, a sliver of doubt crosses my mind. Alex the player. That was my initial impression, and dare I say – prejudice.

My voice quavers as I say, “What do all of you have against me? I have done nothing except stand by your brother when he needed me.”#p#分页标题#e#

“I have nothing against you personally, although I can’t speak for my mother.” Claire curls a finger around her hair. “You’re just not the type we would want for my brother’s girlfriend. What would the press say? A prince dating a hotel maid so that the palace can save on toilet cleaning?”

Now, that’s really vulgar and low. I physically wince. Claire has a cruel streak in her, I realize that now.

I was going to say that I am not going to remain a hotel maid forever, when it hits me again – what’s wrong with a prince being with a hotel maid? This isn’t the medieval ages. Heck, it isn’t even the middle of the twentieth century where there was an actual division of classes and races. The world has changed a lot, even if some of its citizens haven’t been dragged along for the ride.

“There’s nothing wrong in Alex dating me,” I say.

“If you seriously think that, you’ve got a rude shock coming. Anyway, we have reached Rue Chabon. We have a lot of shopping to do.”

Despite Claire rattling my confidence, I must admit to being impressed by Rue Chabon. This is apparently the Magnificent Mile of Moldovia. Its sidewalks team with fashionable shoppers in sunhats and pastel sundresses, and the storefronts are decorated with gorgeous clothes, purses, hats and accessories. All the designers are here – Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, Chanel, Bottega Venetta, and even the newer ones like Zac Posen and Zubair Murad. Here and there, sidewalk cafes intersperse the designer stores. The whole place has the ambience of a French Riviera.

The Merc does not stop at any of these stores. Instead, the chauffeur drives us into the underground car park of a lovely little boutique hotel on Rue Chabon itself called ‘La Palais’.

“I thought we were going shopping,” I say.

“We are,” Claire replies.

The Merc lets us alight at a pair of elevators where a woman in a two-piece suit awaits us.

“Good morning, your highness,” the woman says. She has large gold hoop earrings and her copper hair is neatly done up in a stylish chignon. Her makeup is impeccable in the way of cosmetic salesgirls.

“Good morning, Eva. Eva, this is Elizabeth. She’s going to need a lot of help. Elizabeth, this is my personal shopper, Eva.”

Personal shopper? I’ve only heard of those, though I’ve never had a personal shopper in my entire life (and never dreamed I would need one). And a personal shopper who waits for us at a hotel? This has got to be a first. And yes, I get the dig Claire made at me – loud and clear.

“Right this way, Miss.”

If Eva knows who I am, she makes no indication of it.

Claire turns to Jasper. “She’ll be all right with me. You stay down here. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

Jasper glowers, but does not take a step towards the open elevator doors. Even he has to reckon with the orders of a princess. His baleful eyes lock with mine as the elevator doors ping shut.

We zoom up to the top floor. When the doors slide open, we step out to a plush, quiet corridor. Eva leads us to a large area called ‘The Horizon Club’.

The moment I enter it, I’m floored.

The whole room is not only filled with the usual hotel club sofas and armchairs and piped instrumental music but there are racks and racks of hanging clothes, just like in a store. Half mannequins sporting gorgeous daywear and nightwear rub shoulders with smartly dressed live shop girls. All the big labels are there in bold letters on top of the racks – Versace, Dior, Chanel, Givenchy.

And the shoes . . . pairs and pairs in all colors stacked up on boxes. I recognize their labels: Jimmy Choo, Stuart Weitzman, Manolo Blahnik. There are jackets and dresses and silk pajamas and frilly nightgowns and suits and brassieres and piles of soft lacy panties on tables.

I don’t know where to turn.

Against one wall is a smorgasbord of pastries, breads, cheeses, platters of bacon, creamed eggs and tomatoes. There are jars of orange juice and milk next to bowls of cereal and butter curls on a bed of ice.

Is all that food for just the two of us, or is everyone invited as well?

“Oh goody, breakfast!” Claire makes a beeline for the pastries. She crams one delicate creampuff into her mouth. “They never serve us stuff like this at boarding school.”