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Ben’s expression didn’t change, not one bit, yet Natalia experienced a ripple of unease anyway. She felt again that impression of latent strength, leashed power.
‘I believe,’ Ben said softly, ‘this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I hardly think we can compare families, Mr Jackson, despite their similar sizes.’
‘Ah, I see. You’re a snob as well as a brat.’
Natalia drew back, shocked. No one ever talked to her like that, at least not a commoner at a public event. Within the palace walls was another matter altogether. ‘You should know,’ she told him coldly, ‘that I could have you thrown out of here for making remarks like that.’
‘Is that a threat?’
Natalia said nothing. It was a threat, and a useless one at that. She could go and fetch one of the liveried guards standing sentry at the doors to the palace ballroom, and she could request that they eject Ben Jackson from the premises. Whether they would do so was highly questionable. Ben Jackson was the brother of the future queen of Santina and, despite his family’s insalubrious background, an honoured guest. And the palace staff, on orders from her parents, took any of her requests with an irritating dose of cautious skepticism. She’d just been very foolish.
‘Consider yourself warned,’ she told him, and he laughed softly.
‘At least you have some sense.’
‘And you have no manners,’ she shot back.
His eyebrows lifted once again, and another mocking smile quirked that rather mobile mouth. ‘Kettle?’ he reminded her softly. ‘Pot?’
Natalia resisted the very strong urge to remind him she was of royal blood. And to kick him in the shins. Or maybe somewhere a bit higher. She plucked a flute of champagne from a circulating tray and took a large sip. ‘So,’ she said, eyeing him over the rim of her drink, ‘why are you considering spending time on Santina?’
Ben regarded her for a moment, and then seeming to shrug although his shoulders barely moved, he decided—thankfully—to be civil. ‘I’m starting a sports camp for the island’s disadvantaged youth.’
Surprise flickered through her. She’d expected him to say something about touring Santina’s sights, or renting a private yacht or palazzo. The usual reason a restless millionaire came to their shores. ‘How very charitable of you,’ she finally murmured.
‘Thank you.’
‘And I suppose you’re hoping to find the next Lionel Messi or David Beckham? Get a few kickbacks?’
Ben narrowed his eyes. ‘If you’re implying that my aim in starting this camp is to find a future star and benefit financially from it then you would be very much mistaken.’
‘Oh, come now. Surely you can’t deny you have something of an ulterior motive? Or are you going to spend however many weeks or months setting up this little camp with no profit whatsoever?’
‘As incredible as it seems to you, Your Highness,’ Ben murmured, ‘yes.’
Natalia shook her head. She knew enough about business—or at least men—to realise that no one did anything for free. There was always a price; it just depended on who paid it. And even if Ben had the saintliest motives possible, she still liked to annoy him. Especially since he’d annoyed her so much. ‘Perhaps not a future star, then,’ she acknowledged, ‘but the publicity can’t be bad.’
‘You know what they say about publicity. No publicity is bad publicity, except I don’t think that’s quite true in your case?’ He left it as a question, but the iron in his eyes made Natalia quite sure that he had no doubt about the publicity she’d had—or its accuracy. Only last week she’d been photographed leaving a club at 4:00 a.m., in the company of two well-known jet-setting playboys. A man like Ben Jackson probably found that shocking—and shameless. ‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘the amount of publicity generated by a youth club on this small island will be negligible to my business or its profits.’
Natalia didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged by his complete dismissal of this small island. She was a bit of both. Her mother would possibly swoon at such scorn. ‘Well,’ she said, keeping her voice careless, ‘since you seem so well-acquainted with the tabloids of Europe, I have no doubt you’ll be able to deliver the information into the right hands and guarantee yourself a front page or two.’
He stared at her for a moment, long enough to make her lose her edge of defiance and start to squirm. Or at least want to squirm. Thankfully she remained quite still. ‘Are you always this pleasant?’ he finally enquired.
