Page 4 of The Prince's Game
“He had to be pissed that you didn’t recognize him.”
“I don’t think he believed me.”
“Uh, arrogant much?”
“Well, in his mind, I’m on a dating show for him. So I guess his arrogance is justified.” I wasn’t sure why I bothered defending him. I didn’t know him. He could be arrogant. Most rich men were. “Anyway, he’ll send me home the first night, and all will be well.”
“Knowing you, you’ll purposely sabotage it anyway.”
“Oh, I’m packing a one-piece swimsuit to wear instead of whatever crap they give me.” Not that I owned one. It was on my to-do list after talking to my boss about getting next week off.
“That’s my girl. Jeans, too?”
“Obviously.” No rulebook was going to dictate my wardrobe. Nothing like turning women’s rights back several decades. “I don’t understand how this show is marketed toward women.”
“It’s the dream to marry rich, right? You said he’s hot, too, so there’s that. Think of all the girls out there who will live vicariously through you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be the example of what not to do to win the prince’s heart, or get in his pants, or whatever the end-all goal is of a game show.” There was nothing wrong with seeking true love, but doing so on a game show seemed fictitious.
“You’re going to make so many friends.”
“Yes, that’s my goal.” I sounded so bitter, but that wasn’t my intent. It wasn’t the show’s fault, nor did it have anything to do with the participants. This was my sister’s doing. “Are you still friends with that sexy fed?”
“Mark?” An understanding gleam lit Rachel’s eyes. “Oh, I like where this is going. What are you planning?”
“Do you think he’d be willing to help me teach Abby a lesson?” The handsome federal agent could teach Abby a much-needed lesson about tinkering with other people’s lives.
“He could be persuaded, I’m sure.”
We put our heads together, throwing out ideas and timelines. It would have to wait until after the show, but that wasn’t a problem. I would be back before Abby returned from her cruise. Then the fun would begin.
2
And So It Begins
I’m in the middle of a fairy tale,surrounded by froufrou ball gowns and desperate princesses.
Mershano Suites was known for its opulence, but the New Orleans location took the standard to a new level. The property spanned a block of prime real estate on the Mississippi waterfront. It was the original hotel and headquarters for the Mershano empire. Gold, purple, and green were the decor colors of choice, which was appropriate considering the location. Plush sofas, antique tables, and vases filled with fresh floral arrangements decorated the reception area. Original oil paintings hung from the violet walls throughout the hotel, and chandeliers lit the lobby from three stories above. Gorgeous with a touch of wealth and grandeur.
The contestants were standing in line on the second floor, waiting to descend the grand staircase and meetThe Prince. I was number twenty-three in line.
“So, what do you do?” Paul told us to ignore the cameras and socialize. He said it was a way for the audience to get to know our personalities. So far, all I knew about the women in front of me were their names, Amber and Bianca.
“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Amber’s southern twang was nothing like my midwestern accent. Her light blue dress and blonde ringlets were veryCinderella, while my lush red dress was moreseductresswith the deep neckline and slit up my left thigh. I liked the way it hugged my curves. It made me feel elegant yet feminine. Not a bad first outfit pick by the producers.
“Yeah, I thought about doing that but decided the whole kids thing wasn’t for me.” Bianca fixed the neckline of her forest green dress. It dipped to her belly button and was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.Good thing we’re not on live television.
“What about having kids of your own?” Amber played the southern belle role well, but there was a cunning gleam in her blue eyes that made me wary.
Bianca shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. Not really my thing, ya know?”
Amber pursed her lips, disapproval stark in her blue gaze. “Girl, Evan’s going to want kids. Why else would a thirty-five-year-old man want to settle down?”
“Because he’s thirty-five?” Bianca made him sound ancient. That explained the nose scrunch earlier when I mentioned my age. Thirty-one wasn’t too far off from thirty-five.
“Bianca Stone.” Joseph, one of the show’s hosts, stood at the top of the stairs with an expectant smile. His shock of white hair was combed over in a style common for a man his age. I overheard one of the girls say he was a famous producer, and that was how he landed the role. Our other host was a redhead named Carrie. Amber told me the woman won a beauty pageant last year. I gathered from her tone that she wasn’t thrilled by her presence.
“Toodles, ladies.” Bianca gathered her brown hair over one shoulder, gave us a wave, and sauntered over to take the host’s arm.
