Mysterious Desire(6)
Now and then, I catch a glimpse of the King, a handsome silver-haired man who is a cross between Jay Leno and Prince Philip, the English consort to the Queen. (Or maybe it’s because I’ve got royalty on my mind.) He seems very stern, forbidding and displeased about something. Or maybe that’s his usual expression.
I hear snatches of conversation amongst the guests:
“And where is – ?”
“Carousing, no doubt, what a disappointment.”
“Ssssh, he’ll hear you.”
“He’s no doubt thinking the same thing. Such a scandal that is causing.”
“It’s no scandal, darling. The young man isn’t even married!”
“Yes, but it’s due to be announced any time.”
“Where’s his wife, the Queen?”
“Back in Moldovia, I hear, in the summer palace.”
A commotion ripples through the throng of people near the entrance. Heads turn. Obviously someone new has entered. I’m preoccupied with balancing my champagne tray, especially since people have started to put their empty glasses back upon it, and so I don’t notice.
I go back and forth, replenishing my tray. When I return to the ballroom for the tenth time, an extremely beautiful woman sweeps down my path, stopping me in my tracks. She doesn’t acknowledge me, of course. I can’t help noticing the red ringlets that run down her bared back and the gorgeous green gown she wears. Large emerald earrings the size of pigeon eggs droop from her earlobes, which are unfortunately not egg-shaped.
Ok. I’m being mean. But she’s so graceful and gorgeous and everything I’m not that I can’t totally dispel my pang of envy.
She makes a beeline for a crowd of people. Or rather, someone within the crowd, seeing as they part for her to enter.
“Darling,” I hear her gush.
The gowns swirl to reveal her target. And I almost drop the tray of fluted glasses.
There he is. My Gorgeous Stranger.
He’s wearing a white tuxedo, and he’s so handsome that I positively have to grab on to the tray for fear of smashing it onto the floor. The beautiful woman goes up and gives him a kiss. Or at least, she attempts to kiss him on the lips, but he averts her mouth in time. She catches him on the cheek instead and leaves her red imprint.
Uck. I hate women who do that.
Apparently, my gorgeous stranger does too. He wipes off her kiss with obvious distaste.
“Natasha, you know I don’t do PDA.”
I can’t help overhearing their conversation, being as close as I am.
“PDA, darling? What is that?” Her accent is decidedly European.
“Public Display of Affection.”
“You’ve gone so American, darling, with your abbreviations that I can’t keep up.” She takes his arm and steers him away from the smiling throng. “It would seem that your father is displeased.”
“What? That I got sidetracked from his party?”
Wait a minute. Something is clicking in my head, only I’m a bit slow on the catch. I have no time to make the instant connection that I should be making, however, because he suddenly sees me.
We both freeze.
Does he recognize me in this outfit? Obviously, because his eyes are shocked and staring at me in the way of an apparition. A dozen conflicting emotions flit across his face, and I’m amazed – because I’m sure I have been nothing more for him than a fifteen-minute fling. Yes, it was passionate and exciting . . . for me, but I thought this kind of thing would be commonplace for someone like him.
Because he’s a player, I’m sure of it. That kind of chance sexual encounter doesn’t happen for an average Joe. He does this all the time, and I just happen to be conveniently there for whatever sexual demons he’s trying to exorcise. Maybe he got frustrated by redheaded goddess over here. Maybe he was just having a hormone overload.
I don’t know. I will never know. I’m just a maid/waitress struggling to get through college.
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 Red-headed Goddess who is glancing over at us in a peevish manner.