Free His Royal Secret by C. T. Sloan Page B

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.