“Becca Boo,” I said with a grin. “Interesting. Why do you call her that?”
“I don’t rightly remember,” the old man said. His smile melted into a frown. “Don’t go getting any ideas, boy,” he said, growling at me. “She’s been hurt enough by the likes of you.”
I frowned back. “By the likes of me? Exactly what does that mean?” I wanted to ask if she’d had other Russian princes stumble in from the snow.
“By men,” he said, his bushy eyebrows hiding his eyes as he frowned.
I watched as she turned her back and stood on her tiptoes to stack the beer glasses on a high shelf. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans that fit her round ass like a glove. I heard the royal wolf in me growl. My father’s words echoed in my ears: Find the girl you want and take her. It is your right by birth.
I took a sip of the burnt coffee and glanced sideways at him. “I promise you, I have no intentions toward her. But I am curious. How has she been hurt by the likes of me?”
He leaned in and lowered his voice. “She took up with this fella a few years back, Charlie something or other. Snuck off in the middle of the night and left town with him. Few weeks later she comes home all beat up. That was probably four or five years ago. She hasn’t given any man the time of day since, and trust me, plenty of men around here try.”
“In my country, when a man wants a woman he simply takes her and makes her his own,” I said nonchalantly.
“He takes her? You mean like kidnapping?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Where the hell are you from, son?”
“Little country called Kosnovia,” I said. “Near Russia.”
I noticed that he slid down the bar a bit at the word Russia. Ignorant old fool, still living the Cold War in his head.
The look in his eyes made me smile. I said, “I am the crown prince of Kosnovia, so it is my birthright to choose the woman I want and take her for my own, whether she comes willingly or not.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if he were trying to decide whether I was speaking the truth or just messing with him. I didn’t know why I was telling the old man this, unless it was to make myself realize how insane the notion was.
Still, the more I watched Rebecca Monroe’s ass in those jeans, the more I wished that the old ways were still acceptable. I could see myself taking her, dominating her, making her mine.
He closed one eye and wagged a crooked finger at me. “Well, son, this is America, and we call that kidnapping. As much fun as that sounds, it’s a federal offense. You’ll go upstate for twenty years if you kidnap a woman around here.”
I smiled at him. “I’m just having fun with you, Carl. Can I buy you another beer?”
He picked up the mug and drained it dry, then set it on the bar and shook his head. “Three’s my limit. I gotta get home and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow with the snow plow.”
He nodded toward the window. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“No. I’m going to head back in the direction from which I came,” I said with a serious face. I stuck out my hand. “Nice to have met you, Carl.”
“You, too, prince,” he said, shaking my hand with his tongue sticking between the gap in his teeth. He went to the door and pulled on a green parka and shoved his hands into a pair of thick mittens.
“Don’t hang around here too long, your highness,” he said as he tugged the parka hood over his head. “A man unfamiliar with these parts can find himself in a world of hurt if he ain’t careful.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said. I silently added, “You old fuck.”
He gave me a nod and went out the door. After a moment, the lights of his truck illuminated the frosty window. A moment later, his red tail lights disappeared on the road.
I turned back to the bar and picked up my cup. I could see Rebecca drying her hands on a towel. She was wearing a red flannel shirt knotted at the waist and a white T-shirt underneath. Her breasts were big and round and pushed against the material. I imagined my cock sliding between her cleavage.
I licked my lips like a starving man about to devour a feast as my father’s words echoed in my head. He was right. I was a fucking prince, and if I wanted a woman—any woman, even an American—she should be honored to have me take her.
Then it dawned on me: the true reason I was here in a shitty little bar sitting on a wobbly barstool talking to a man with no front teeth.
It wasn’t a shitty agent in the travel office who had botched the flights and gotten me into New York six hours late. It wasn’t the woman with the sarcastic smile at Budget Rent-A-Car who said the Ford Focus was the best she could do. It wasn’t even the snow falling outside.
It was fate that brought me here.
Fate wanted the Rostov royal bloodline to continue.
History dictated it.
The future demanded it.
I would not disappoint my father. Nor would I be denied my birthright.
Before the night was through, Rebecca Monroe would be mine.