Scandals Of The Famous. Кейт Хьюит

would have felt better in a skirt, Natalia thought with a flicker of resentment. Safer and stronger. Fashion was one thing she got, one small way she felt successful.

      ‘Ready to really work?’ Ben asked, jogging up to her. He wore the same thing she did, and yet somehow it looked amazing on him. The T-shirt clung to the six-pack abs hiding under the thin fabric, and he wore his shorts slung low on his hips. Natalia could see his strong, muscular thighs and calves and she jerked her gaze upwards. She did not need any reminders of how his body had felt against hers; she’d been remembering all weekend. Yet clearly Ben was back to professional mode today, and if she hadn’t experienced it herself, she wouldn’t have believed he’d held her so close, he’d almost kissed her.

      Almost.

      ‘Are you saying I haven’t been working already?’ she enquired. ‘Because I think a thousand envelopes would disagree.’

      ‘Today you’re going to really work. And get tired and muddy and sweaty.’ Natalia wrinkled her nose, and Ben grinned, so obviously enjoying this. ‘Come on, Princess. Let’s get going. The kids are about to arrive.’ And without any warning he tossed her a football. Natalia caught it out of instinct, but she heard the distinct sound of a nail breaking and with a little yelp she dropped the ball to inspect the damage.

      ‘There goes your manicure,’ Ben murmured as he walked by her. ‘Can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      ‘Can’t say you’re a complete arse,’ Natalia muttered back. ‘Oh wait, I can.’

      Ben just chuckled, his good humour clearly impossible to deflate. He was like a different man today, Natalia thought, alive and invigorated in a way she’d never seen him before. Except when he’d held her in his arms … he’d seemed pretty invigorated then. Yet Ben clearly wanted to forget that entire episode, and Natalia knew she should too. Unfortunately she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Remembering. Wanting. Sighing, Natalia picked up the football and followed him to the front of the stadium. Dozens of children swarmed the gates, and several tables were set up for registration. Ben, she saw, was greeting each child with warm enthusiasm, an easy smile or a ruffle of their hair, his attitude laid-back and natural.

      He glanced back at her, and then jerked his head towards one of the tables. ‘Why don’t you take names?’

      ‘Take names?’

      ‘Just write them down, Princess.’ He turned back to the stream of kids coming through the gates, and Natalia made her way over to the makeshift table. Fabio was already there, taking children’s names and writing them on a form. He pointed to a stack of name tags. ‘Could you fill out those?’

      ‘Certainly,’ Natalia said after a moment. ‘Of course.’ She sat down next to Fabio and pulled a stack of name tags towards her and uncapped a pen. Then, smiling brightly, although her heart had started to thud with hard, painful beats, she looked up at the first child who came towards her, hesitant and shy. ‘Como ti chiami?’

      ‘Paulo.’

      ‘Ciao, Paulo.’ Biting her lip hard in concentration, she started to write a P. And then an A. She had to think carefully about each stroke, knowing she was taking far too long, sensing the backup of kids restlessly waiting for their tags. Prickly heat burst all over her body and she knew she was going blotchy again. Fabulous. She bit down hard on her lip, willed that all-too-telling flush to fade. Finally she finished and passed the tag over to Paulo. He took it with murmured thanks, and Natalia saw it looked like it had been written by a child younger than he was.

      The next child came forward. ‘Gabriella.’

      So many letters. Natalia started again. She could do this. She wasn’t normally this slow, but the panic of performing in public, of knowing that any moment Ben might come over and demand why the princess was taking so long and couldn’t she even write made her fingers tremble and the letters dance before her eyes.

      She glanced up at Gabriella, a solemn-eyed little girl with a cloud of dark hair. ‘You know what? I’m sure it would be faster if you did this.’ She grabbed a handful of pens and started passing them out to each child, who gladly took them and began to write their own names on the tags.

      Natalia slumped back in her chair in trembling relief. That had been a close one. Too close. She’d hid her disability for so long, first out of confusion and then from shame, and finally on command. She wasn’t about to have it ripped out in the open now. Not by Ben. Not by anyone.

      The kids had started to trickle away from the table, and she straightened, glancing over at Ben, who was organising the children into lines. She watched him covertly, noticing how confidently he strode across the pitch, how much he seemed to be enjoying this. She had never seen him look so relaxed or so … happy. She’d seen him look amused, or entertained, or interested, but he’d never actually seemed happy.

      And neither had she.

      ‘Natalia?’ She started at the sound of her name. Ben was calling to her, and she stood, smoothing her T-shirt and shorts as if she could magically turn them into a silk blouse and tailored skirt. ‘Would you help me show the kids how to dribble?’

      Dribble? As if she had any idea what he was even talking about. She didn’t even like watching football. ‘Of course,’ she said, giving him her gracious princess smile, and strode up to the pitch where Ben stood, the children all lined up neatly on one side. Ben explained to the children, in careful Italian which both surprised and touched her, how to dribble the ball, which, Natalia discovered, meant just kicking it with your feet. Then Ben punted the ball upwards off his foot and bounced it off his head, garnering a giggle from the crowd. He turned to Natalia, smiling, yet with the steel of challenge in his eyes. He could have chosen any of the other volunteers for this little exercise, but he’d chosen her. Of course. The children weren’t the only ones Ben wanted to learn a lesson.

      ‘Simple, right?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Natalia assured him. ‘Simple.’ Simpler, in any case, than writing name tags. She straightened, ready to show Ben just how well she could kick. Or dribble. Or whatever.

      Ben dribbled the ball neatly between his feet and then sent a kick over to her. Natalia tensed, tried to kick it back, but the ball rolled right past her while her foot arced widely through the air, connecting with nothing. She heard a few snickers from the crowd of children, and felt her face burn.

      She hated being laughed at. Hated, hated, hated it. It made her feel twelve years old again, her first year of boarding school, standing in front of her entire class while the teacher proclaimed in ringing tones, Natalia Santina is the slowest girl in this school! She writes like a six-year-old!

      She still felt the shame. Slow. Stupid.

      Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and marched over to where the ball had come to a stop. Then she gave it a satisfyingly hard kick back towards Ben. He trapped it neatly between his feet, his eyebrows raised in question as he glanced her. As usual, he was able to guess something of her mood.

      ‘Shall we try again?’

      Natalia just shrugged. She felt unbearably tense and brittle, as if she might snap right in half. Ben kicked the ball again, slow this time, an obviously easy shot so she’d be able to kick it back.

      She didn’t.

      Once again the ball rolled by her and her foot swung through the air. She heard a few children giggle from behind their hands.

      Tears of frustration burned beneath her lids. Couldn’t she do anything right? Ben was probably enjoying this, she thought savagely as she went to retrieve the ball. He’d probably been dreaming of this—Princess Natalia, humiliated on his football pitch! She grabbed the ball and threw it back to him, forgetting that in this wretched sport you weren’t supposed to use your hands.

      Ben caught the ball easily, giving her a quick, frowning look of concern before he turned back to the crowd of children. ‘You get the idea?’ he asked in his careful