by C. T. Sloan
Amy Rousseau is walking on eggshells. As a new employee at the chic Beverly Wilshire Hotel, she has seen three employees get fired for the smallest infractions. Now, the 20-year old concierge must be on her “A” game as a big name guest comes to town.
Known as the “World’s most eligible Royal,” Prince Julian of the tiny Principality of Mondorra is coming to town to sow his wild oats around Beverly Hills and Hollywood. The Prince has booked the entire Penthouse floor of the hotel. And every single hotel employee has been warned that any screw ups will result in immediate termination.
Amy finds herself assigned to cater to the needs of the Prince. When the young woman meets the dashing and impossibly beautiful Prince, her entire body turns to jelly. She can’t help but gawk and stare at the Royal hottie, causing her to lapse in her duties.
Just as Amy is about to be fired, the young Prince scoops her up for some “private” services. Soon, the young girl finds herself serving the Prince at all hours of the night. And Amy soon learns that she is slowly becoming the Prince’s favorite “plaything.”
Now Amy must balance her “day” job as a Beverly Wilshire Hotel employee while performing her “night” assignment as companion of the Prince.
His Royal Secret (The Alpha Prince) Book 1
By C.T. Sloan
The following work is for private use only and may not be re-published, all or in part, without express written consent of the publisher.
Copyright 2012 MC73 Publishing
When I tell people where I work, I am always hit with the same questions, “Which celebrities have you seen? Who are the nicest famous people? Who are the meanest?” To be honest, I can’t really answer any of those questions. I’m too scared right now to think straight.
Being a concierge at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel is one of those jobs that sounds more glamorous than the reality of it. Last week, I had to run to a dry cleaner and pick up a dog sweater for one of our guests. Two days ago, I had to find another guest a pair of XXL underwear at 3:00 in the morning. Don’t ask.
But I can’t complain. I am a 20 year old girl with a job that most people would kill for. And my boss doesn’t hesitate to remind me of that. He likes to remind everyone that he has 100 resumes for every position at the hotel. And trust me, the manager is not afraid to resort to those resumes when an employee displeases him.
Last week alone, three employees were terminated for some really minor infractions. As a relatively new employee at the hotel, I can’t afford to screw up. When my boss asks me to work a double-shift, I never complain. When a drunk “A” list actor vomits on me, as I help him to the elevator, I just smile and change my blouse.
Rumors are that a “Super A-List” guest is coming to the hotel. Everyone is scared out of their minds. The hotel manager seems to be on edge. The employees have been speculating on who could be a “Super A-List” guest. The President? The Pope? Steven Spielberg? We are all left clueless.
At 10:00 a.m., the hotel manager calls a brief meeting with the six on-duty concierge employees. We stand in the breakroom while the manager gives us the breakdown. “At 3:00 p.m. today, the Crown Prince of Mondorra will be arriving at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He has booked the entire Penthouse floor of the hotel. For those of you who are not up to speed on TMZ, Prince Julian is known as the ‘World’s Most Eligible Royal.’ Our guest will be stalked and hounded by the most aggressive members of the paparazzi. He will also expect the finest service from our staff. There will be zero tolerance for mistakes. The smallest infraction will result in immediate termination.”
Great, I just know I am going to be out of a job by the end of the day. The manager pulls out a piece of paper and begins to read off our individual assignments. It appears that three of us will be assigned exclusively to the needs of the Prince. Oh please, let me off the hook. I don’t want to deal with this guest.
“I want a 24-hour dedicated concierge for the Prince. Robert, you have the night shift 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. Mira, you take the 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift.” I exhale deeply. Two positions are assigned and my name hasn’t been mentioned yet. There are still four of us left. That leaves me with a 25% chance to escape the “Royal Assignment.” The manager looks at the four of us and then he says, “Amy, you will be assigned to Prince Julian from 3:00-11:00 p.m.”
Oh great. Lucky me. I mentally begin to list places where I will have to send my resume after I am fired. The manager pulls the “lucky” three of us aside and begin to lay down the law. “Alright. Here are the ground rules. Do not look the Prince in the eye. Only address him when he addresses you. You never, ever tell the Prince that you can not fulfill his demands. And most importantly, you are not to divulge anything about the Prince’s activities to the media. Now, I know some employees feed celebrity gossip to the media for extra cash. If I find out any of you have done that, I will not only fire you, I will personally make sure you never get another hotel job in LA.”
Boy, that’s a really fun way to end a meeting. I go back to my desk and continue my duties as usual. As the clock ticks towards 3:00 p.m., I feel my heart pounding against my chest. It’s almost like I am awaiting my execution.
When 2:00 p.m. rolls around, a full-fledged panic attack sweeps over me. Part of me just wants to flee the hotel. I just know that I am going to be fired by the end of the day. The front desk phone rings. I pick it up.
“Beverly Hills Hotel. How may I help you?” I say.
“The Prince is en route from LAX. He will be at the hotel in 20 minutes,” the voice on the other end of the line announces.
I panic. The Prince is 45 minutes early. Are the rooms ready?! Is the staff prepared?! While the inside of my body is exploding in a panic, I maintain a calm, professional voice and respond to the caller, “Very good. Is there anything His Royal Highness requires upon his arrival?”
“The Prince would like to have a bottle of 1998 Petrus Pomerol chilled and waiting for him.”
“Very good. Consider it done.”
“Excellent,” the voice says as he hangs up.
Oh fuck! Oh fuck! I start making panic stricken calls to house-keeping, the valets, the hotel restaurants and the manager. I inform all of them that the Prince will be 45 minutes early. Then I call our in-house wine sommelier.
“Hello Jacob. Prince Julian will be arriving in 15 minutes and he would like a bottle of 1998 Petrus Pomerol in his room.”
“We don’t have a 1998 bottle of Petrus Pomerol.”
“Oh no,” I say softly.
“That’s about the hardest bottle of merlot to find. There are perhaps less than five bottles of 1998 Petrus in the entire city.”
“Then I am going to find all five of them!” I scream as I slam down the phone.
I immediately call the Ivy, The Grill, Spago, Sparetta. Heck, I call Trader Vics for good measure. After five minutes of pure panic, I get a hit.
“We have a bottle of ‘98 Petrus Pomerol.”
“Get it over here now!” I slam the phone down and begin to coordinate the Hotel for the Prince’s arrival. Everyone is buzzing around the place as though it were an air raid. The scariest thing is, I am pretty much in charge and I have only been with the hotel for less than a year!
The Prince should be here in five minutes and I still don’t see the bottle of Merlot. This is not good. I call the guy who promised that he was bringing the bottle over. “I’m three blocks away and I’m stuck in traffic,” he tells me.
“Run the red lights! We’ll take care of the tickets and traffic court!” I scream. Of course, I have no authority to say something like that. I just need that bottle of Merlot now!
I run out to the valet area. My eyes dart around to find the guy with the bottle of wine. Suddenly, I see a Mercedes E-class coupe speed
up to the hotel. A man gets out with a wooden wine box. I grab the box and check the name - Petrus Pomerol. “I promise you’ll get paid!” I scream as I run off to the hotel’s restaurant.
I only have minutes until the Prince arrives. Now that I have the wine, I need to get this Merlot chilled and up into the Prince’s room before he shows up. I bust my way into the kitchen and yell, “Where is the wine chiller! Where is the wine chiller!”
One of the assistant chefs points me to a cylindrical contraption designed to chill wine in under a minute. “You need to fill the bottom of the wine chiller with ice,” the assistant chef informs me.
I run around the kitchen looking for the ice machine. I find it and scoop up as much ice as I can carry. I load up the machine. Then I place the bottle into the chiller. I turn on the machine. The bottle spins as the wine chiller sprays ice water on the surface of the wine bottle. I watch that wine bottle spin around and around. This is the longest minute of my life.
I look down at my watch. He’s here. He has to be here and I am not up in the hotel area. I am screwed. I call up to the concierge desk. “Amy where are you?” Mira asks me.
“I am getting the wine ready for the Prince.”
“He is checking in now.”
“Fuck!”
“I have everything covered. Just make sure you have the wine up in his room.”
“I will! I will!”
The wine is chilled. I grab a wine bucket and fill it with ice. Then I sprint out of the kitchen and race up to the elevators. I’m shaking so badly it’s killing me. The elevator doors open. I kick the penthouse button while holding the bucket of ice with the precious Merlot cradled on ice.
The elevator doors open at the Penthouse floor. I run out and see the Prince’s massive entourage rummaging around the hallways. There is also a small army of dark suited security people who eyeball me hard.
Since this is the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, I am used to seeing security people with the rich and famous. However, this Prince outdoes them all. I count at least forty security guys as I rush over to the Presidential suite.
I arrive at the biggest, most opulent and most expensive room in the entire hotel. This is a suite that demands over $20,000 a night. I rush inside and find six men standing in the reception area. In the middle of the group is the Prince.
I just stand there for a moment. My goodness, the media isn’t lying. He is really fucking hot. The Prince is about six feet, three inches tall. He has broad shoulders but a sleek body. His hair is dark. His eyes are a light hazel that seem to draw all the light in the room. He has the chiseled look of a movie star without the vapid attitude. There is a calm and confidence about the Prince. He looks at me and smiles. I nearly drop the wine bucket.
“Oh look. The hotel arranged a special delivery of the Petrus,” the Prince says as one of his men grabs the wine bucket from me.
“How do you do your Highness?” I say as I bow slowly.
“I am doing fine. And what is your name?”
I look at him and draw a blank. I just forgot my own fucking name! After three long seconds, I mumble, “I am Amy. My name is Amy.”
The Prince smiles as he walks up to me. He is looking me up and down. Oh my God. He is checking me out. Now, I am used to having guys check me out. But this is different. This guy is too damn attractive to be looking at someone like me.
One of the Prince’s men opens the wine and begins to pour glasses for the six-person entourage. The Prince stares at me for a moment and asks, “So will you be at my service during my stay in Los Angeles?”
“Yes, Your Highness. My shift starts at 3:00 p.m. and ends at 11:00 p.m. The hotel has a concierge personally dedicated to your needs around the clock.”
“Excellent,” the Prince says as he grabs one of the wine glasses.
The men appear ready to make a toast. I use this as my opportunity to try and take my leave from the room.
“Won’t you drink with us?” the Prince asks me.
I look at him for a moment. Drinking on the job is against the rules. However, I need to obey everything the Prince asks of me. Conflicting rules. What do I do? Hell, when will I ever get a chance to drink wine with a Prince?
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I say as one of the men offers me a glass.
The Prince raises his glass and says, “To Los Angeles. Let the fun and games begin!”
We toast, I take a drink. Then I just look at this Royal hunk of a man. He looks to be in his early 30s. He seems really laid back and cool. Though he most certainly seems like a man who knows how to take charge.
I take a sip of that precious Merlot and I’ll tell you, that little hit of wine taste better than anything I have ever had in my life. It is not just the libation itself. It’s that feeling of relief. I have lived in terror, trying to get everything right for the Prince’s arrival. Not only is the man happy, I’m actually drinking in the same room with the royal guest.
“So if I need you, I just pick up the phone?” the Price asks me.
“Oh yes, Your Highness. I will personally answer for you,” I say as I look at that hunky Royal’s broad chest and strong arms.
“Excellent. Well, I won’t keep you from your duties.”
“It is my pleasure to have met you,” I say. And boy, do I mean it.
I walk out of the hotel room feeling like a million bucks. I glide over to the elevator and head back down to the lobby. When the elevator doors open, I saunter back to the desk. As I casually make my way back to my station, the boss sees me. And he sees me holding that glass of wine.
“You are drinking on the job?!” the manager says to me.
My face turns white. My ability to breathe has completely left my body. As my manager’s face begins to turn seven shades of red, I say, “His Royal Highness the Prince insisted that I share a toast with him.”
The manager looks down at the glass made of a special crystal exclusive to the Presidential suite.
He then yanks me to the side. “I believe you only because it would be insane to think that you would just walk around the hotel with a glass of wine. However, you should know better than to continue walking around the Beverly Wilshire Hotel with that glass in your hand. Did you forget that you are on duty?!”
Tears begin to well up in my eyes. I have just gone from having the greatest day to having the worst day of my life. I think I am going to be fired. The manager takes the glass of wine from me. “The only reason why I am letting you stay on the job is because I need as many people as possible available to serve the Prince. However, I strongly suggest that you start looking for employment elsewhere,” the hotel manager says as he storms off. Great. I’m screwed.
I walk back to the concierge desk and do exactly what I am told. I begin to make a mental list of places that will hire me. Of course, I will have to eliminate any high-end hotel or resort in the LA area. Well, maybe I can get a night shift job at a Holiday Inn Express in Culver City.
I get back to my station and just stare at the concierge phone. There is nothing else to do but wait for the Prince to ring me up and cater to his wishes. An hour passes and there is no ring. Funny, but I almost feel neglected.
Then I shake my head and remind myself that the less he calls, the less likely I’ll screw up and further anger my boss. After a while, I begin to daydream about Prince Julian. My goodness, that man is drop dead gorgeous. I wonder what he looks like with his shirt off. Oh, I’m being a dirty girl!
At 3:15 p.m., the phone rings. “Concierge, how may I help you?”
“Amy, this is Prince Julian,” the Royal hunk says in the most exquisite European accent.
“Your Highness,” I say in a tone that is nearly a squeal.
“I am reclining by the pool and I could use a nice deep tissue massage.”
“Certainly. I can have our best masseuse over at your bungalow immediately.”
“That won’t do.”
Now, I panic. What could he possibly want? “Your Highness?” I ask ne
rvously.
“I would like you to come over to the bungalow.”
“Yes, Your Highness. I will be there immediately.”
I hang up the phone and nervously walk over to the pool. I know absolutely nothing about massage therapy. But if I can get a chance to see Prince Julian with his shirt off, then it will be worth it!
I head over to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel pool where famous faces are as abundant as the aspiring actresses with their implants. It’s easy to spot the bungalow tent occupied by the Prince. A small army of security men have created a human wall around the man’s tent.
I walk inside and find the Prince with one of his friends. He is wearing a swimsuit and nothing else. Damn, what a body on this guy. He is trim but not overly muscular. His abs look like they were sculpted by Michaelangelo. And his chest is just sublime. I can’t help but smile.
“Amy. So glad you could make it. Looks go out by the pool,” Prince Julian says to me.
