The Princess Finds Her Match (7 page)

“I thought that was what had happened, but you had me worried for awhile. I am sending a new makeup artist to your suite in ten minutes. Would that be alright?”

“Erm, make it twenty,” Lexie burst out, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

“Are you sure everything is alright, Your Highness?”

Lexie was already scrambling for her other shoe and stuffing the spilled contents of her handbag back inside the tiny clutch. “Everything is fine. I’ll see you in a while.” She disconnected the phone before Theia could say anything more.

“Nic, I’m sorry. I have to go.”

There was a long pause. His eyes assessed her for several seconds before he replied. “I’ll bring you where you need to go.” He had his arms crossed against his still-bare chest. “Give me five minutes.” On the way to the bathroom, he cupped her face and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Trust her to botch the plan and find the sweetest, sexiest man to have a one-night stand with. Lexie’s heart constricted at what she had to do. Guilt gnawed at her insides, but Theia’s call had doused the sexual haze she had been wrapped up in since encountering Nic. Like a thief, she quickly stepped outside the hotel room, keeping her head down low in case somebody recognized her.
Fat chance of that,
she thought hysterically, catching a glimpse of her bare face, rumpled dress, and unruly hair by the elevator mirror. Still, she would rather have her walk of shame done in private rather than plastered all over the tabloids. She was old news, but Peter’s death was not.

Reaching the lobby, she quickly looked around for the concierge and asked for a cab. “There are several lined up by the taxi stands, ma’am.” The concierge pointed to a side wing of the lobby entrance. After murmuring her thanks, Lexie made a dash for it. She had just reached the outside “foyer” when she heard Nic shouting her name. Her furtive leave taking made her feel small.

“I told you to wait,” he said in rebuke when he had reached her side. His eyes flashed with hurt and quiet anger. “I’ve got a rental car.”

“I’m sorry, Nic,” she said, flustered at the sight of him once again. “I’m in a hurry.”

“I told you I would take care of it,” he gritted out.

She tried to blot out memories of his gallantry, protectiveness, and sweetness last night but the images of him smiling, his beautiful lips twitching at the corners in amusement, and the heat and tenderness in his blue eyes as he looked at her kept intruding. She couldn’t bear to be the one inflicting that hurt. Lexie pulled the collar of his shirt and kissed him. It was a kiss intended to soothe, to ask for forgiveness, and to say goodbye, but Nic hurriedly change the tone by pressing her body flush to his. His lips latched on to her hungrily. Somewhere, Lexie registered the flash of a strobe and drew back in alarm. It was only a group of tourists laughing nearby, but the camera flash reminded her of the feeling of being hunted, of the relentless pursuit. Lexie could not believe how foolish she had been acting once again. They were in a public place, making her an easy target for the press to document her guilt and shame as they had done once before. With a choked sob, she wrenched free from his embrace and without looking back, left him standing all alone by the curb.

N
ic’s concentration
was shot and judging by the murderous look on Rupert Butler’s face, the team owner knew it, too.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” roared Butler as he caught up with him on the way to the pony lines to get fresh mounts as was obligatory after each play period. It was the fifth chukker in the championship game between Team Arion and Team Black Cavalier, and the score was 10-8 in favor of the latter. “You let that puny
gaucho
ride you off!”

In his rage, Butler was oblivious to the tense silence that descended on the team. Composed of four players, Butler was the only American. The rest were from Argentina, including most of the grooms tending to the ponies. Nic, whose father was Argentine, let Butler’s insulting use of the word
gaucho
slide off. For now. As team captain, it was Nic’s responsibility to head off any would-be burgeoning mutiny.

“Get your ass out of your head and earn every fucking dollar I’m paying you!” The veins on Butler’s pale forehead were threatening to pop out. By sheer will of force, Nic stopped himself from landing a blow on the bastard’s face. He wouldn’t be doing himself or his horse-breeding farm any favors if he got thrown off the team. “If Walkden wins the championship, you’d better start looking around for a new patron,” he sneered before thundering off to the field.

“Sheet!” Javier Rodriguez, wearing the team jersey of white, blue, and gold with the number “1” emblazoned on the back, spat on the ground. “I don’t know why you let that son of a beetch treat you that way.”

“Keep your cool, Javier. This is not the right time for that,” he admonished the younger player.

It was a year of bad luck. Nic’s previous patron, the Texan oil baron Harvey Anders, had died from a stroke in the middle of the year, leaving Nic suddenly without the much-needed additional income to cushion the sudden crisis in his horse farm. An equine virus had killed three of his champion studs and several “made” ponies, horses that he had already trained for polo and were ready to be sold. His parents were keeping things afloat while he competed, and though loathe to be working for Butler who had a reputation as a bastard on and off the polo field, he’d had little choice.

Nic’s focus had been barely hanging by a thread before the halftime completely snipped it off. He was sitting by the makeshift tent drinking water when his eyes had aimlessly drifted onto the field where the divot stomping was taking place. Various men and women, well-dressed, loaded and knowing it, were laughing and tossing their heads drinking champagne while stomping on the loose soil that had come off during the play. Nic spotted Tansy Butler chatting with a woman whose back was to him. His heart started at the sight of the red-gold hair similar to Lexie’s. It was tied in a chignon. He grimaced in self-disgust at his foolish hopes. She had walked away without a backward glance. Obviously any “connection” they had had the other night was one-sided.
Your only regret was that you didn’t get to fuck her at all,
a voice in his mind taunted. The signal that halftime was over sounded. He mounted his pony and ruthlessly crushed any thoughts of her during the game, for his own safety and sanity.

“
A
in’t this fun
, Your Highness?” Tansy Butler giggled, stomping on a divot while trying to be careful not to slosh her drink all over her Chanel suit. Lexie was quite sure Tansy was well on her way to her fourth glass of champagne.

Beside her, Blair rolled her eyes. Lexie kept her protocol smile in place while some photographers took shots of her getting into the spirit of divot stomping. Stefan was in the VIP tent, apparently way above getting his handmade Italian shoes accidentally dirtied by horse dung. Theia was beside him, as well as Stefan’s own Press Secretary, the ancient and formidable Leonardo.

“Not as much fun as banging the whole team, I bet,” Blair quipped flippantly. “Speaking of team banging, what happened to you and,” she paused delicately, “er, Nic?”

Lexie startled at hearing Nic’s name. “Would you keep your voice down?” she hissed out the side of her mouth, glancing about for any lurking reporter.

“You are a healthy twenty-five year-old woman. There is no shame in experiencing the occasional, although in my case, frequent, sexual urges−oww!” Lexie clamped a hand around Blair’s forearm and marched her off towards the direction of the VIP tent.

“Oh, Your Highness, wait up,” trilled Tansy, trying to keep up with them on her ridiculous stiletto heels.

“I bet he was great in the sack. I can tell with those smoldering eyes and−“

“Shut up!” Lexie said in a fierce whisper, pushing Blair violently onto the seat. She was so close to braining her cousin. Tansy took the empty one beside her. She caught Stefan frowning at her questioningly several seats down.

Lexie refused to dwell on what had happened with her and Nic. She had been tempted to call his room several times for the past two days, but it was better to sever the tie quickly. A clean cut. Less complicated.

“Polo players are so sexy,” Blair rattled on, uncaring of her admonition. “And the white jeans? You can totally check out the package before sampling the goods.”

Tansy decided then to add her two cents’ worth to the conversation. “An’ them powerful thighs? Lord a’mercy,” she practically hyperventilated. “You haven’t been ridden until you’ve had sex with them polo players,” she added with a lascivious faraway look in her eyes.

Players. As in plural. Lexie feared Tansy would smack her artificially plumped lips next. “Why in the world are we talking about polo players?” Lexie was bewildered by the turn in conversation.

Blair looked at her as if she had grown two heads. “You don’t know?”

Lexie shook her head. “I don’t know what?”

“You really don’t know?” Blair repeated incredulously, her dark brown eyes growing wide.

Tansy had turned to the waiter for another champagne refill. “Don’t be stingy, darlin’!”

Blair was still, eyebrows drawn together, then after a few seconds, she burst into hysterical laughter, as if finally getting the punch line of a hilarious joke. Lexie watched her cousin in consternation. Stefan frowned at Blair. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“What is?” Tansy turned back to the conversation, made bubblier by the bubbly.

“God, I hope Team Arion wins,” her cousin said with fervor. Lexie looked at Blair with suspicion. She had never cared for polo or any of the teams, only the players she deemed “hot”.

“Of course they’ll win,” Tansy stoutly declared. “An’ Your Royal Highness is going to award my Rupert the Cup, just you wait an’ see.”

“Believe me,” Blair said with utmost glee, “I can’t wait.”

This time it was Lexie’s turn to frown. She slid her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and turned to the polo field resolutely. With their helmets and protective eye gear, it was hard to distinguish the players except by their jersey numbers. The announcer boomed in a well-modulated voice that the team captain for Arion, Nicolas Fernandez, had scored another goal. Tansy cheered, almost spilling her drink, but Lexie’s attention was a million miles away from the game.

I
t was a close fight
. Team Arion won the championship by just one goal over the Black Cavalier. At the last chukker, Nic rode off the opposing team’s seasoned non-professional player, a British aristocrat who was also the team Patron, Julian Walkden, the Duke of Blackmoore. He had gotten into Walkden’s line of the ball and with a backhand swing had served the ball to Butler, who ran up field and finished it off with a powerful forehand swing to score.

Butler’s elation at being able to clinch the winning goal had temporarily overridden his ill temper at the way the game had transpired. He had been expecting an easy victory and in the ensuing neck-to-neck battle had grown increasingly foul-mouthed and abusive with his team. Only a penalty had shut him up, and even then he was so tense that his volatile mood had made the rest of the team edgy.

Now climbing up on stage for the awarding of the Gallagher Cup, Butler was all Mr. Congeniality. Lined up in a row with the other team members on the dais, Nic dimly registered the announcer calling on the presence of His Royal Highness Prince Stefan and Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandria of Seirenada to award the prestigious 100
^th
Gallagher Polo Cup. Nic tallied his injuries – lacerated lip, some pulled muscles on the shoulder, and probable bruising on his thighs. Not bad for a championship game.

Some commotion took place by the VIP tent as the bodyguards and entourage of the royals flanked the couple, who were now making their way to the stage. Absently, Nic recalled reading somewhere that the royal siblings were descendants of Charles Gallagher, the shipping magnate and polo enthusiast who was one of the first to introduce the sport to the U.S. Wasn’t there a scandal several years ago about the Princess…?

The entourage had neared the stage. Nic wasn’t a very avid reader of the news or gossip magazines so he had a very vague idea of what these royals looked like. He remembered skimming the pages of a newspaper and reading about a new mineral being discovered in Seirenada that had everyone all stirred up because of its potential to be made into flexible glass. It could be used to make a new generation of handheld devices lighter, thinner, and sturdier. Butler had gone into apoplexy with the news and apparently wanted first dibs, so winning the championship was like hitting two polo balls with one mallet. He would win the Cup and get to be chummy with the Prince at the after-party.

Nic studied the Prince first. He was younger than he had thought. He was tall and lean and had an ascetic air about him. His face was devoid of any expression. Beside him was the Princess, who was wearing a cream-colored dress suit and wearing sunglasses. She looked a lot younger than the Prince. Nic stiffened at the familiar way she moved, her long, stockinged legs gliding over the grass. She paused to remove her shades and handed it to a hovering woman beside her. Her profile was burned into Nic’s mind that even before she had turned to the organizer who was handing her the Cup, Nic knew it was
her
.

His breath seized momentarily. He felt like he had been kicked on the chest by a horse. What the fuck! His sweet Lexie was Princess Alexandria? His eyes never left her as she made her way to the far end of the stage. It was a crime how her beautiful red hair was tightly bundled up. Nic longed to let it loose and run his fingers through the tresses.
He had found her
, he thought as mind-blowing relief surged through him. Just as swiftly, anger flooded him at her duplicity and the bitter realization that she in all likelihood didn’t want to be found. She knew where he had been staying. She could have called but had remained silent, fucking with his concentration ever since she had left him standing like a fool at the hotel lobby. And fool that he was, he had pestered the operator several times to check if anybody had called for him.