“Psychology.”
Jasper does not seem impressed. “How did you meet Prince Alexander?”
I really don’t want to go into that, but I’m too polite to say “None of your business” to Jasper. And I’m not really sure, where royals are concerned, if romances and flings are supposed to be the business of people like him.
I’m still not fully certain where I stand where Alex is concerned. Am I considered a girlfriend? We’ve traveled together and made love plenty of times, but he has never asked me officially to be his girlfriend. Or maybe I’ve been so out of touch with the romantic world that the times where people ‘officially’ declare themselves boyfriend and girlfriend are over.
And we have never said we loved each other. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to declare these things either.
I say to Jasper, “We met in Chicago.”
“Exactly where? It is my business to know, Ms. Turner, lest the press finds out. There’s nothing worse for the palace than not being equipped with enough information to do damage control.”
I’m in a conundrum. So much of what happened between me and Alex should remain secret. Especially our first encounter in the men’s restroom of the hotel I work in.
“I moonlight as a maid,” I say reluctantly.
Then – for Alex’s sake – in bits and pieces, I tell Jasper about how we met. He wants to know details. I hold back as much as I can. When I finish, Jasper seems none too pleased.
“A maid,” he says, as if it’s a dirty word. “You’re a hotel maid.”
“Correction, I’m a college student moonlighting as a maid to pay my fees. It’s no different from waiting tables at McDonald’s.” Why am I being defensive anyway? There’s nothing wrong in being a maid. Absolutely nothing wrong at all.
“Where you come from, Ms. Turner, perhaps there is no difference. But where the tabloids are concerned, Alexander and his family will not live this down if your relationship were to, let’s just say, progress to another level.”
My heart is beating fast. “What are you saying?”
Jasper removes his sunglasses. He has cold blue and very brittle eyes, as icy as a glacier.
“I’m saying, Ms. Turner, that it will be best for Prince Alexander and the Vassar family that you simply take the next flight home to Chicago and forget any of this ever happened.”
*
No.
I won’t do it.
No one has a right to tell me and Alex what we can or cannot do.
I’m now beginning to experience a little of what Alex is going through. Everything is couched in officious language – “good for the family”, “the people expect you to”. I’m starting to understand the seeds of rebellion within Alex and why he’s so determined to go against his father’s wishes in choosing him a bride.#p#分页标题#e#
I spend the rest of the ride not speaking to Jasper. I’m right. He’s an arrogant, pompous prick.
The royal palace is situated on the top of a hill. As the car winds up the slopes, I take in the breathtaking view of sea and valley. The cityscape of Moldovia is a stunning, shimmering fairyland of spires and roofs – each a different dazzling color in the morning sun. The climate is winningly Mediterranean – dry and balmy in the summer with a kiss of cool air from the sea.
As we approach the main gates, I can see – from a distance – the tourist buses and the colorful shirts of people gathering to snap digital photos of the guards.
Oh God. I wonder for the umpteenth time, how does Alex stand it?
We don’t make for the main gates. The chauffeur takes a detour up a narrower road, which in turn is barricaded by a guard house and rails. The liveried stone-faced guards nod at the Jasper as we go past the check point. I suppose this is a private entrance used by the people who actually live in the palace.
We draw up to the main palace, which comprises of four majestic wings. I am aware that I am not approaching it from the front. The grounds are impeccably kept in the style of Versailles, with well-trimmed hedges and shrubbery in all colors and formations. Fountains decked with statues of nymphs tinkle as centerpieces in the midst of plazas.
I can take forever to explore this place if it weren’t so forbidding.
At the east doors, a butler is waiting for us. I step out of the car, aware that I’m wearing a halter top and dirty jeans, and I smell like something the horses from the sentry posts dragged in. The chauffeur hands the butler my backpack, and he takes it with the distaste of someone forced to shovel horse manure. I think I’m going to like the people here.