‘Was it?’
Irritation flashed in those hazel eyes. ‘You know it was. I can’t actually … participate in this camp of yours.’
Her tone invited him to share the absurdity of such a concept and, smiling regretfully, Ben shook his head. ‘Oh, but you can.’
‘But I’m—’ She stopped suddenly but Ben could easily guess what she’d been about to say.
‘A princess?’ he filled in. ‘And princesses can’t get their hands dirty? Can’t mingle with the masses? Can’t do a single day’s work in their bloody useless lives?’
Natalia recoiled, and underneath the anger Ben thought he saw a flash of vulnerability. Then she drew herself up, all haughty disdain, and he was reminded of just what a spoilt snob she really was. He knew what it meant to work. He knew what it was to try and fail and then try again. His father may have once been a famous footballer, but Ben had made his own money, his own life far from the scandal and notoriety of his upbringing. He’d earned the respect he now garnered; it hadn’t been given to him simply because of who he was. Not like this princess. He’d be damned if he’d let her try to walk all over him.
‘It’s simply not reasonable,’ she said, clearly now going for quiet dignity. A little too late for that.
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Because—’
‘Just what do you have against volunteering at my sports camp?’ Ben asked, leaning forward. He genuinely wanted to know the answer. ‘The children are generally friendly and well-behaved, and they can actually be quite a laugh. You might, heaven forbid, enjoy yourself.’
‘You’ve done these camps before?’
‘A few. One in London, another in Liverpool. Coming here was a way to launch possible camps all over Europe.’
‘Ambitious, aren’t you?’
Ben simply shrugged. ‘So? What do you have against it?’
She stared at him and he saw something flicker in those hazel-green eyes, something that looked remarkably like fear. ‘I don’t know anything about football,’ she finally said.
‘It’s not as if I’d expect you to coach.’
She didn’t speak for a long moment. With the tiniest flicker of sympathy, Ben could just imagine how trapped she felt. Even he had been surprised at how readily King Eduardo had agreed to his plan. The rather dismissive way he’d discussed his daughter had caused Ben a ripple of unease. Natalia may be spoilt, snobbish, vain and even useless, but she was still the man’s child. He had spoken about her, at least a little bit, as if she were nothing but a bother and embarrassment.
Finally she lifted her chin, settled her flintily determined gaze upon him. ‘What would you have me do?’
Ben felt a surge of triumph, as well as a reluctant wave of admiration. The woman had courage. And pride. Too much of it, of course. He shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘Whatever needs doing, really. Office work to begin with—’
‘Office work?’ For a second she looked panicked, which surprised him. Surely office work would be preferable to getting mucky with the children on a football pitch.
‘The camp doesn’t actually launch for another week,’ Ben explained. ‘When the Santina schools have their spring holiday. We’ll start our first three-week camp then. Until it starts, you can help organise things here.’ He gestured to the reception room out front that had been a hive of happy productivity, at least until Princess Natalia had stormed in and stunned them all into silence. ‘You might not be able to type a hundred words a minute,’ he allowed generously, ‘but I assume you can handle a photocopier, do a bit of filing? Read?’ He smiled, expecting her to laugh or smile back even if it was haughtily, but she didn’t. She jerked her startled gaze upwards to his and for a second, no more, she looked terrified. Then her expression closed up completely and she jerked her head in what Ben supposed was a nod.
‘We could make another bet,’ he offered. ‘If you can hack it here for thirty days—’
‘Thirty days—’
‘A month,’ he clarified, and she narrowed her eyes to slits.
‘I can count, Mr—Ben. Thank you very much.’
‘Glad to hear it. Read and count. You’re really quite accomplished.’
She said nothing, but her eyes blazed fury and something even deeper. Darker. Hatred, almost. The emotion in her eyes surprised him; the princess had been giving as good as she got. He felt a stirring of unease at the possibility that he’d actually hurt her.
‘If you manage to stay the required month,’ he said after a moment, keeping his voice mild, ‘required by your father, I should add, then our original bet still stands. I’ll be yours to command for the day.’ Last night that had seemed an almost enticing possibility. Now Ben rather thought that if he was under Princess Natalia’s command she would order him to carve out his own liver with an oyster fork.
She stared at him for a moment, her expression still closed and really rather remote, so he had no idea what she was thinking. It was almost as if she’d physically, or at least emotionally, retreated from him, so even though she still stood in this room, her lithe figure splendidly encased in the pink shift, she was in actuality a million miles away. Ben was surprised to feel a little pang of regret. Despite her aggravating personality, he’d enjoyed their sparring.
‘You don’t think I can do it,’ she said at last.
He could not keep himself from replying, ‘You have given me little cause to believe you can.’
Another flash across her features that he couldn’t quite discern before her expression closed again. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘I’ve read about you—’
‘Do you really believe everything you see in the papers?’ she scoffed, although he still detected a trembling thread of uncertainty underneath her disdain. ‘Your family has been fodder for the tabloids plenty of times. Maybe you’re the pot calling the kettle black now.’
Ben stiffened. He hated the kind of press coverage his family generated, had been trying to rise above it for, it seemed, his entire life. And he particularly hated any personal media exposure, having been dogged by it all too often when he was younger. Even now he could remember the look on his mother’s face when she’d read the papers. She had never been able to resist reading them, seeing and even studying the photos of Bobby Jackson with his latest mistress. Seeing the photo of Ben himself, his tear-streaked face, only four years old. She’d let out a cry of anguish then that still reverberated through Ben thirty years later and made him avoid reporters and their invasive cameras as much as possible. ‘It’s true my family has fed the British press for far too long,’ he told her evenly, ‘but it’s been my experience that even the most outrageous stories hold a grain of truth.’
‘A grain.’
‘Are you saying you’ve been maligned?’
She pressed her lips together. ‘I’m saying I’ll do it,’ she finally said. ‘Clearly I have no choice, and in any case I look forward to winning this ridiculous wager of yours.’ She drew herself up, her eyes glittering, her cheeks high with colour. She really did look magnificent. ‘I look forward,’ she told him, ‘to telling you just what you can do with yourself for an entire day.’
Ben let out a reluctantly admiring laugh. ‘And I look forward to obliging you,