by Lexi C. Foss
The Prince’s Game
A Mershano Empire Novel
Lexi C. Foss
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Prince’s Game
Copyright © 2017 Lexi C. Foss
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.
Editing by: Bethany Pennypacker
Cover Design: HWCC Author Services
Cover Photographer: RLS Model Images Photography
Cover Model: BT Urruela
Published by: Ninja Newt Publishing, LLC
Digital Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9985557-3-7
This book is dedicated to my husband for his unwavering patience, love, and understanding. It takes a special man to marry (and tolerate) a writer, and I’m so blessed to have you in my life.
To my critique partners and beta readers, thank you for your guidance and advice.
And last, but not least, to Dodie. Because abs.
Contents
1. Bogus Interviews
2. And So It Begins
3. Meddling Cousins
4. The Personal Assistant
5. Mershano Standoff
6. The Real Sarah Summers
7. Unclear Intentions
8. The Proposition
9. Coming to Terms
10. Dancing in the Street
11. Contract Review
12. Playing Hide-and-Seek
13. Heavy-Petting Requirement
14. And Then There Were Fourteen
15. The Marriage Game
16. A New Level of Negotiations
17. Marriage Complex
18. The House Key
19. The Director’s In Charge Now
20. Friends with Minor Benefits
21. Seduction via Sunscreen
22. Chocolate Foreplay
23. Ungentlemanly Conduct
24. No Terms, No Promises
25. Evil Twin Sisters and Disapproving Mothers
26. A Surprise Visitor
27. The Familial Test
28. Sister Bonding
29. Maintaining Status Quo
30. Private Jets
31. A Flashy Gift
32. The Beginning of the End
33. Contractual Obligations
34. Bedroom Issues
35. Secrets and Chinese Food
36. Louie’s Bar
37. Misconceptions
38. Red Lace
39. A New Contract
Epilogue
Up Next…
Prologue
1. The Business Proposal
2. Political Aspirations
The Charmer’s Gambit
Music Playlist
About the Author
Also by Lexi C. Foss
1
Bogus Interviews
“Hi. My name is Sarah Summers. I’m a thirty-one-year-old marketing director in Chicago.”
“Cut.” The director, if Paul could be called that, stood up from behind the camera and flashed a dazzling smile. He was short and in his forties, but in decent shape. His blond hair was spiked in a way a high school kid might call hip. “Perfect, Sarah. Now let’s move on to the next line.”
I read the teleprompter and shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
This was all bullshit anyway. Once Rachel found a loophole, I could put this nightmare behind me. She texted this morning to say “Nothing yet,” but I had faith. If anyone could find a way out of this insanity, it was my corporate-attorney best friend. Then I would be free to strangle my twin sister. Abby took our sibling rivalry to a whole new level with this prank. I could lose my job over it. As if Greg would ever let me take a several-month leave for a dating show.
“Three, two, one . . .”
“I’m perfect for Evan because I’m driven and loyal.” True traits, but I could care less about Evan. I didn’t know anything about him other than he was the heir to the Mershano empire’s fortune. That name I recognized because my company booked rooms at the Mershano Suites for business travel. It was a popular chain in major cities throughout the world.
“Cut. Beautiful, Sarah.” Paul waved the hairstylist over to make subtle changes to my updo. My dark brown hair went from being over my left shoulder to my right with one loose strand tickling my cheek. The makeup artist joined in to touch up my eyeliner.
“Trying to make those gorgeous brown eyes of yours pop,” she explained in her Brooklyn accent.
“Don’t add any more blush.” The hairstylist liked my natural tan. She said it brought out my Argentinian roots. The pink powder made me feel like a clown, so I was good with the suggestion.
“Are we ready, ladies?” Paul called, checking his watch. The next phrase popped up on the teleprompter.
“Uh, no.” There was no way in hell I was saying that.
Paul frowned at the screen. “What’s the problem?”
“My favorite thing about Evan is his ass. Seriously?” I wasn’t sure if the man had a nice face, let alone ass. “I can’t say something more educated? Like my favorite thing about Evan is his drive to succeed?” He was the CEO of a billion-dollar enterprise. That couldn’t be easy even though the position was handed to him on a silver platter.
“Come on, sweetie. This is television. No one cares about his work habits.”
“So we’re trying to marry him for his ass?” This show wasn’t about his backside, nice or not. It was about him being a billionaire bachelor in need of a wife. The fact that he needed to go on the Romance Network for Women (RNW) told me all I needed to know about him. “Okay, sure. Why not?” Let’s talk about the man’s ass.
It’s not going to matter, I reminded myself. Rachel was going to work her magic and get me off this show.
Paul’s frown was comical. Plastic surgery froze his lips into a forever smile that did not turn down well. “We good?”
“Sure.” I read the teleprompter like a good parrot and even threw in a smile. Paul called me perfect again. The man threw out compliments like crackers.
There were a few more lines after the one about Evan’s butt, most of them little snippets about the part I was to play on the show. I gathered my age was a factor, as was evidenced by my final line.
“As the oldest contestant, I have the experience and maturity Evan will want in his future wife.”
Paul engulfed me in a hug meant for good friends, not ten-minute acquaintances, and told me he was looking forward to next week. “Yeah, me too.” Because I have every intention of not being here.
I gathered my belongings and went to the dressing room to change into jeans and a sweater. Chicago was cold in March, yet the producers had me in an orange sundress on set. The show was set to film in Louisiana. It was warmer down there, but it was not dress weather.
My phone dinged as I was leaving the changing area. Meet me at La Rosas, 7pm, was all it said. If Rachel wanted to meet at my favorite Italian place, it was either to celebrate or to ply me with wine before giving me bad news. I started typing a note back to her when I hit a male wall.
“Oomph.” Christ, he’s hard. His chest was solid muscle beneath his black leather jacket. I shook my head twice to clear it and looked way up to apo
logize. Dark chocolate eyes grinned down at me. “Sorry, I shouldn’t text and walk.” The man was at least a foot taller than my five feet four inches.
“No worries.” He didn’t move. “You’re the one who had a problem with the word ‘ass,’ right?”
Oh, great. The guy was a producer or maybe a writer. If he was the latter, he needed a new job. I cleared my throat. “The word is fine.” I used it all the time. “It was the context.”
“You don’t like talking about a man’s ass?”
“Actually, I frequently call men an ass.” The cocky grin he was flashing made me want to call him one. “I just took issue with commenting on the appearance of a man I haven’t met yet.” Not to mention it was ridiculous.
“Surely you’ve googled him.”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because you’re a contestant on a game show to win a marriage proposal?”
I snorted. “Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.” I wouldn’t be around long enough to make it to that point, and I had no intention of accepting or hearing a marriage proposal in the next five years. I liked my single life just fine, thank you. Damn you, Abby, for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
“Really? Isn’t that the whole point of the game?” His hands were tucked into his jeans, leaving only an inch or so between us. Leather and peppermint tickled my nose, an alluring scent that had me wanting to get closer to him rather than back away. Too bad he works for RNW.
“Is it? I thought the point was to produce good television at the expense of a bunch of hopeful reality stars?” That was too harsh. “Sorry, still a little bitter about the teleprompter. You’re not one of the writers, are you?” Because that would be embarrassing.
His laugh was unexpected and made me shiver. Who knew a laugh could be so sexy? It was like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold Chicago night, warming me from head to toe. Yum. It might be worth going on this show to see him again. Except it would cost me my job, so maybe not. Stern and Associates wasn’t my dream career, but it paid the bills. My MBA from Northwestern wasn’t cheap.
“What’s your name again?” There were dimples in his smile. Very cute.
“Sarah Summers. My parents had a thing for alliteration.”
“So your middle name is something with an S?”
“Savannah.” I grimaced. “Yeah, it’s as bad as it sounds.”
“Sarah Savannah Summers.”
“That’s me.” My sister was the lucky one. Abigail Bridget Summers. A normal name for a quirky woman who didn’t know when to grow up. For years we impersonated each other, much to our parents’ chagrin. It’s what identical twins did. What they didn’t do was try out for reality television shows under their sister’s name and send the paperwork with the word “Enjoy!” written on a Post-it note.
I thought it was all a bad joke until the travel documents arrived. A one-way ticket to New Orleans. The Big Easy was on my travel bucket list, but I never thought I’d get there through a dating show. When I tried to call Abby for an explanation, I got her voicemail. When I called her best friend, I learned my devious sister was on a European cruise with her latest sugar daddy. The vacation timing was not an accident.
“Are you one of the producers?”
That made him laugh again. He had this just-got-out-of-bed-and-didn’t-give-a-damn-for-the-world look going on. It was the five o’clock shadow paired with his dark, messy locks that completed it. He must have run his hands through those thick strands a few times this morning and decided it was good enough for public. Or maybe he just rolled out of bed after a long night of pleasing a woman. Those full lips looked like they could do all sorts of wicked things to a girl.
“I’m really starting to think this isn’t an act.”
“An act? Am I auditioning for something?”
“To be a wife, right?”
I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “Sure. That’s my life goal. To get married,” I deadpanned. I had nothing against marriage. It was a fine institution that worked for most people, but not for me. I dreamed of one day owning a firm that assisted nonprofits with marketing efforts. If I found the right guy who respected my aspirations, I would consider settling down. So far, every man I dated was interested in sex or creating a family. The former was fine; the latter wasn’t in my near future.
A short, white-haired woman rounded the corner with frantic steps, her heels clacking against the tile. When she spotted us in the hallway, her nose scrunched up so high her eyes squinted.
“Mr. Mershano!” The lady had the “mom voice” down pat. It made both of us cringe. Busted, ran through my mind even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Wait . . . Did she just say Mr. Mershano?
“Hey, Valerie.” He gave the woman a charming grin, one he no doubt spent his youth perfecting every time he got into trouble. “Did you need me for something?”
“You are not allowed to speak to the contestants before the show. If the producers found out, they would throw a fit!” Her lips pinched as her hazel eyes sharpened with disapproval. “Back to your room.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His gaze was pure sin as he addressed me. “See you next week, Sarah Summers.”
Well, shit. Evan Mershano was a fox.
“That’ll be all for today, Miss Summers.” Valerie pointed the opposite way toward the elevators, her tone brooking no argument.
He was the first to move, shooting a wink at me over his shoulder before sauntering down the hallway. Huh. Well, wouldn’t you know? Evan Mershano did have a nice ass. Pity I wouldn’t be getting acquainted with it.
* * *
No amount of wine was going to fix this situation.
“So let me get this straight.” I was on my third glass in less than twenty minutes. “My only options are to not show up and risk my professional reputation, or press criminal charges against Abby for false representation?”
“Or go on the show.” Rachel tucked a blonde strand behind her ear—a nervous tell of hers I learned in college. The woman sucked at poker.
“And risk losing my job.” I was going on my third year at Stern and Associates. “I only get two weeks of PTO a year. Any longer, and they’ll fire me.” I wasted one of those days today, which meant I had nine vacation days left. Another negative point for Abby.
“You think you’ll last on the show that long?”
“Well, no.” Not after telling Evan I had no interest in marriage. That had to be a red flag for the Prince of New Orleans. He wanted a wife, and I told him I wasn’t interested. “I’m sure he’ll send me home during the first round of cuts.” The paperwork said a third of the contestants would be sent home the first night. Those were good odds. “So consider it a paid vacation to The Big Easy.” Rachel shrugged. “Not my first choice, but it beats winter in Chicago.”
“I’d prefer Hawaii since I’ll be risking my job and all. I’ve told you about how Brett is sniffing around after my accounts. You know he’ll use my impromptu vacation as an excuse to pounce.” The jackass thrived on competition, making it a challenge to take time off.
She snorted. “He won’t stand a chance. Your clients love you.”
“Maybe, but I need to keep them happy.” I wanted to manage my own firm one day, and that required positive client references. “Somehow I doubt any of them would be crazy about me going on a dating show.”
“You’re going to need to come up with a good excuse.”
“Do you think they’ll understand if I say I need to take a vacation to murder my sister?”
Mirth filled my friend’s blue eyes. “God, I hope so. I thought sleeping with your professor was bad, but this is a whole new level.”
“Oh my God, I don’t even want to think about that.” Abby pretended to be me during our sophomore year of college and seduced Mister Hawthorne. Class the next day was a nightmare. He approached me afterward, and I had no idea what he was talking about, while Abby laughed her ass off. “He was the teaching assistant, not the professor
.” Not that it was any better. “I had to drop the class.”
“She really has no understanding of how her actions affect others, does she?” Rachel marveled. “I mean, this could destroy your career, and she’s off on vacation with boyfriend number fifteen hundred.”
Abby was a free spirit. She had no desire to work, no understanding of what it meant to make a living, and no respect for my career. Her college degree in art was useless because she refused to do anything with it. The woman was talented with a paintbrush, but that required focus and discipline—two traits that didn’t apply to Abigail Summers. Instead she relied on men to take care of her.
“I got her back by joining that sorority, though. She had her heart set on being a Gamma, but ended up a Chi whatever instead.” Once a girl rushed and bid on a sorority, she couldn’t change houses. It was minor payback for all the stunts my sister pulled, but it was one of my better schemes.
Rachel tossed her head back and laughed. “She was so pissed.”
“She deserved it.”
“Very true, though.” She sobered, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear again. “So, what are you going to do? I’d be happy to recommend a criminal attorney. Jail might do her some good. You and I both know she needs to grow up.”
She did. “I can’t press charges against my own sister, can I?” We were like night and day, and she didn’t know when to stop, but I loved her. “My mom would kill me.” Abby and I were all she had left after my dad died.