Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(112)
“You have a strange idea of gratitude, Persephone. I saved your life and in return, you berate me at my own table after eating my bread and salt?”
I flinch back, blinking.
“I, um… Okay, look, I know it’s bad manners, but I know who you are. I’ve been an aid worker in Solkovia for six months. I heard stories about your regime, my prince. I know what you do to your people.”
“What is that?”
“Oppress them. You throw people in prison for speaking out against you, you censor the media, you enforce curfews. Everything in the country belongs to you, nobody has any rights or any chance to live life their own way… and, Jesus Christ, you kill people. You killed people last night. I saw what you did to those men in the pass.”
“Did you? Did you know what they were going to do to you? When I found you naked and covered in blood?”
“That doesn’t mean you can just kill them.”
He looks at me hard. “Why not? They broke the law.”
“They have rights. To a trial and stuff.”
“I gave them a trial. I heard the evidence. Was it not conclusive? Do you doubt the man I beheaded threatened you with…” He stops, as if he doesn’t want to say it.
“Well, no, but he has a right to a jury of his peers.”
The prince laughs. “Should I have set the other murderers up and let them decide whether he should have lived or died? The CIA man is still alive. Should I release him? He is American, a government man. Perhaps I should entrust you to him. He can take you home safely. I am sure he would be happy to hear about your rights.”
My teeth click shut.
“Let me tell you what I think. I think you are a silly little girl. You think because you are American you own the world by birthright and go where you please, meddling as you like in affairs that you do not understand. You have never set foot in my country and yet you presume to speak to me of it as if you have lived here all your life. You think because you were born in some great country you can tell me about mine, about my land that my family has ruled for five hundred years.”
“You can’t own land like that.”
“What?”
“Well, I mean you can own land, but you can’t own a whole country.”
“Why not?”
I blink a few times. “Okay, fine. You can own the land but you can’t own the people.”
“Did I say I do?”
“You implied it.”
He rests his hand on the table and leans down over me.
Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. I never thought I would use the word beautiful to describe a man, but he’s amazing, and the effect is magnified as he looms over me, so close I can smell him. He smells like leather and blackberries.
My heart flutters when he glances down at the modest cleavage the dress blesses me with. It’s just a fraction of a second look but I know it was there, I saw it. He was checking me out.
I fold my hands in my lap and shift away from him on the seat as he stares intently at my face.
“Where do you come from?”
“New Jersey.”
He sighs. “Before that.”
“Uh, I was born there.”
“I mean your ancestors.”
“Well, my mom’s side of the family are Hungarian, and my dad’s side are Irish. So, uh, Ireland I guess.”
“Where in Ireland? Cork? Kent? Dublin? Ulster?”
“Maybe?”
He snorts and stands up. “You don’t even know where you came from, yet here you are acting as if you are the great expert in world affairs.”
“I am. I majored in history in college.”
“History according to America. Your arrogance is stunning.”
“Arrogance?” I snap. “You have a lot of balls calling me arrogant, my prince. Where I come from we don’t have princes. We treat people equally.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Of course we do.”
He sits on the corner of the table and studies me, and I feel my pulse quicken. He has nice lips. I’ve never looked at a man before and said, “He has nice lips,” but he has nice lips. Also hair, really thick hair. I have a weird urge to play with it.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You have freckles. I like freckles. You tell me people are equal in your country.”
“Yes.”
I fold my arms over my chest.
He does the same, and I feel like I’m being mocked.
He’s more muscular than I first thought. I can see it under his jacket. He’s well built in that sleek, athletic way of swimmers and models, like he’s built for speed.
“Can you walk up to your president and shake his hand?”
“Sure, why not?”
“The Secret Service will not mind if you walk up to the president. Can you go to his house? Can you knock on his door?”
“Well, no…”
“You would be shot, yes?”
“Well, probably, but the president is important. He has to be protected.”
“I’m not?”
“Do you need protection? My president doesn’t go around chopping off people’s heads with swords. Besides, stop calling him my president. I didn’t vote for him.”