Mysterious Desire(8)

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 plunged 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.