The Princess Finds Her Match

Entitled Book 1

The Princess Finds Her Match

Will what happened in Vegas stay in Vegas?

Princess Alexandria of Seirenada is as proper as they come, but a wild night in Las Vegas is on her bucket list. In disguise, she downs a few drinks and hops up onstage for karaoke night. One things leads to another but in the cold light of day, she's wondering how to shake the hot boy toy she managed to pick up.

Polo Player Nic Fernandez isn’t looking for a hookup, but there is something about that red wig and sexy voice that awakens feelings he thought were long dead. But despite their connection, come morning, she walks away without a backward glance.

When a chance meeting reunites them, will lies and deception tear them apart or will love level the playing field once and for all?

Acknowledgments

It took a village to write this book. Thank you so much for your time, generosity, and patience.

Mina V. Esguerra for paving the way and igniting the spark.

Marian Tee and Liliana Rhodes for this wonderful opportunity.

Twitter #flirtsteamyreads group, you guys rock!

Kat S-C, my sounding board, unofficial developmental editor, and cheerleader.

Jen Suguitan, for your valuable input.

Milon, may all your chukkers be golden.

Zarah V., for that well-researched and detailed five-page printout.

Elena L. and Marissa G., muchas gracias.

Rachael S., for going over the Queen’s English.

A. D. and Malou Palmero, for making time to be my two “fresh pair of eyes”.

Bing, who always believed it could be done.

Anna, my North Star.

Snuffy, yes, you’re funny.

Bunsky, my little princess forever.

To The Passionate Proofreader for whipping this manuscript into shape.

And to you, dear reader, for taking a chance.

Chapter One

Princess Lexie’s bucket list was burning a proverbial hole in her bejeweled handbag. She sipped sparkling water daintily from the champagne glass and hoped no one would notice her subterfuge. No alcohol. At least, not until way past midnight.

Tilting her head in feigned interest, she nodded during suitable intervals at the Chairman of the Board of Trustees’ scintillating monologue. She deliberately ignored the way his rheumy eyes kept flicking to her rather modest neckline. Bestowing the occasional regal smile, she nodded, pursed her lips thoughtfully, and nodded. Oh, she was definitely going to make Stefan pay for straddling her with Mr. Life of the Party.

Damn, fuck, shit, she recounted mentally. She was out of practice, but these American swear words were crisp and sweet. Smile, nod, smile. Having little appetite and drinking too much water to moisten her dry mouth, she had forgotten to keep her liquid intake to a minimum. Now she felt the urge to use the bathroom.

Her eyes scanned the ballroom. She deftly switched her handbag from her left hand to a place between the crook of her right arm and waist, her right hand now awkwardly keeping its grip on the stem of the champagne glass. It was a signal Theia, her Press Secretary and Personal Assistant, had taught her whenever she wanted to be rescued from any undesirable social situation. Rumor had it that Queen Elizabeth herself had a “handbag code” and twenty-three different signals to communicate with her staff. Lexie just needed one to convey her message: Quick. Get me out of here.

Mr. Chairman launched onto Act Two of his riveting monologue. Where was Theia? It usually took no longer than five minutes for her Press Secretary to extract her with an excuse about sticking to her tight schedule. And then it hit her just as some of the spittle, which punctuated the Chairman’s enthusiasm, landed on her arm: Theia was indisposed with a migraine!

Trying to quell her dismay, she looked around, hoping to catch anyone’s eye. She caught one on her first sweep of the crowd. Blair’s amusement at her predicament was evident from across the room. And God bless her, without any other signal save the panic she must have read in her eyes, she came to her rescue. She flashed her all-American, orthodontically-enhanced smile and pushed her way charmingly between Lexie and the old man.

“Your Royal Highness is needed at the press room,” her Versace-clad savior lied smoothly, winking at her.

“Whew! Glad to escape those fuddy duddies at last,” her cousin Blair Gallagher sighed, full drama mode on. She dragged Lexie to a relatively secluded corner of the ballroom. All around them were men and women in evening clothes and enough jewelry to pay the debt of a Third World country. Plucking the fluted glass from Lexie’s hand, she took a sip and then sputtered, “Gah! What is this?” After recovering, she exclaimed, “Are they watering the champagne? This is outrageous! I’ll go and tell my dad−“