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.
“If you would please follow me, Ms. Turner,” the butler says with a clipped French accent, “I will show you to your room.”
Oh? I suppose it would be too much to hope to be able to sleep in the same room as Alex. I also suppose Jasper has called in to brief the butler all about Prince Alex’s white trash American girlfriend whom they are hoping he’d dump before the day is up.
The East Wing of the palace is resplendent with luxurious gilded furniture which must date back to the Renaissance and pieces of art which would have probably fetched a princely sum at Sotheby’s. A grand staircase sweeps upstairs, and it is on these richly carpeted steps that I tread with trepidation.
The butler shows me to my guest room at the end of a passageway. A large canopied bed occupies one wall, decorated with fluffy white pillows and a red and gold bedspread that must have taken a year to embroider, so fine is the threading on its ornate design. My feet sink into the plush cream carpet. Two long double windows peer into the gardens.
I’m used to cleaning rooms like these, not inhabiting them.
“I have taken the liberty to draw you a bath, Ms. Turner,” the butler says pointedly.
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
All the strength drains from my legs and I find myself having to sit down upon the bed. I’m an unwelcome and unwanted guest by seemingly everyone in this palace.
How am I going to deal with this?
4
I soak myself for a long, long time in the bath the butler has drawn for me. As much as he appears to dislike me, he seems to have done a good job. Rose petals float in the scented water, which has the gravity of soothing bath salts. If the idea is to make me leave as quickly as possible, he’s sure doing piss poor work out of it.
I’m actually jetlagged, and I must have drifted off in the warm bath, dreaming of gilded carriages which turn back into pumpkins. I am awoken by strong hands upon my arms and the sight of a beautiful naked man stepping into the water.
“Alex!” I cry. And then, “Oh oh oh, look at my pruny fingers!”
Indeed, the pulps of my fingers have been soaked to a wrinkly mess and the bathwater is now at room temperature. How long have I been here?
Alex’s eyes are bloodshot and strained, but he still manages a heavenly smile.
“God, I could sleep for a decade,” he says. He arranges his limbs alongside mine and sinks into the water.
“I’ll run you a hot one,” I offer, reaching for the golden taps.
“Don’t bother. I won’t be long anyway.”
“I’ll bathe you.”
He laughs. “Now that is a proposition too tempting to refuse.”
He tips his head back as I start to soap him. The soaps the palace provides are shaped in seashells – each one a varied and delicate carving. They are almost too pretty to use, though not as pretty as the man I’m using them on.
I begin with Alex’s neck. Then I slide down the graceful lines of his throat to his sternum and collarbones, leaving a trail of frothy bubbles in my wake. I rub my slippery palms against his chest – his smooth, bulging pectorals, so silken to touch. My fingers and thumbs form pincers to tease his ni**les, which soon swell into erection.
“Hey, you’re supposed to let me relax, not get me aroused,” he says playfully.
I tweak his ni**les.
“Ow!” He laughs and bats my hands off.
“What happened?”
The mood grows more somber. He sighs.
“My father’s stabilized . . . for now. But he’s still far from being out of the woods.”
“And your mother? Is she all right?”
“Barely. She blames me for my father’s condition, as I predicted.” He shakes his head. “Everyone blames me.”
“Oh Alex.” A pang fleets through my chest. But we’d both suspected as much, so it isn’t anything new. “What do they want you to do?”
“I don’t know. They’re tiptoeing around my father now, trying not to create a scene or upset him too much in any way. His heart is very fragile. He’s just come out of a three-hour open bypass.”
“God, that sounds awful.”
“I haven’t told them much about you but I’ll bet that weasel, Jasper, would brief them soon enough.”
“Who is Jasper exactly?”
“My father’s most trusted aide. He’s got some fancy title . . . royal chamberlain or something, but really, he’s just a personal assistant.”
“I didn’t know kings had personal assistants.”
“My father is the CEO of the Moldovian state and he runs it like a company. It has served the principality well for over forty years and turned us into one of the richest countries in the world in GDP per capita.”
I’ll bet Nuernberg is run as a pretty tight ship as well.