Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (2 page)

“Did you check to see if he was telling you the truth?” Sophia’s forehead creased into a frown. “The way the man in the photo tilted his head to the side was just like—”

“Vittorio is not in Croatia.” King Carlo’s tone was meant to close discussion.

At the same time, Alessandro replied, “Of course I checked.”

“Let’s forget Croatia,” Fabrizia said, rising from the sofa and smoothing the front of her dress. “The press is focused on Stefano and Megan for now. And Alessandro, you did a wonderful job both at the press conference and in the Middle East. I have every confidence Vittorio will return shortly, then we can all get back to business as usual with no one the wiser.”

Then
she
could forget Croatia.

Chapter One

Three Months Later

Nearly fifty people depended on Emily Sinclair for their livelihood. Given that pressure, she needed to focus on the shooting schedule and pages of red-inked notes spread across the breakfast table in front of her rather than allow her mind to wander. But the contrast between the serene scene surrounding her and the intense pressure of her job made concentration difficult.
 

Across the narrow street, in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant similar to the one in which she worked, a dark-haired man in crisp jeans and a white Oxford-cloth shirt sat alone, his face hidden behind the pages of the
Buenos Aires Herald
, a steaming espresso on the table in front of him. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and warm pastry drifted through the air, mixing with the exhaust fumes of an early-morning city bus as it made its way up Avenue Quintana, which bordered the other side of the restaurant. A mother knelt to zip her son’s backpack, then wave him off from his corner bus stop before picking up her own briefcase and heading in the opposite direction. Kiosk owners set out stacks of magazines, shop owners unlocked doors, and a lone black and yellow taxi idled at the corner, the yawning driver awaiting his next fare.
 

The residents of Buenos Aires’ trendy Recoleta neighborhood were ready to start another workweek while Emily feared it could be her last. However, if there was any hope of
At Home Abroad
being renewed for a fourth season, it rested with her as the television show’s host and executive producer. Because the program melded house-hunting with travel information and it focused on a different country each season, a bevy of local researchers, travel specialists, and real estate consultants drew a portion of their income from
At Home Abroad
. That was in addition to the usual salaried producers, camera crew, film editors, and sound and lighting experts. She couldn’t bear to let them down. The season finale had to be extraordinary and she had only a week left before the wrap deadline.
 

She stifled a sigh, forcing her attention back to the proposed shooting schedule. Somehow, some way, she had to make this work.

“You don’t want to stop staring at him, either?” the show’s director and co-executive producer, Rita Bragna, asked while she haphazardly spread fresh marmalade on her morning croissant, her eyes locked on the table across the street. She waved her knife in the man’s direction. “I’ve seen plenty of hot guys since we arrived in Buenos Aires, but he wins the prize. Too bad we picked this place for breakfast instead of Café Luchana.”

“Huh? Him?” Emily flicked her gaze toward the man, whose face remained hidden behind his newspaper, then turned back to Rita. Rita had been happily married for nearly twenty-five years, but she liked to look. Even more, she liked to point out good-looking men to Emily in the hope Emily would find the same happiness. But as Emily told Rita time and again, the lifestyle of a television host made it impossible, and she’d fought too long and too hard for her job to quit. She’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t worth it to risk her career in order to pursue a relationship. Especially when her health history made a solid relationship a long shot at best.

“Yes,
him
. Didn’t you notice when he lowered the paper to turn the page? I’d swear you were staring. The man is gorgeous.”

Emily shook her head. “I wasn't staring at him so much as staring into space. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to come up with a better hook for our final episode. What we have planned isn’t going to generate the buzz we need to guarantee our renewal.”

“Hate to say it, but I agree.” Rita shrugged, giving up her matchmaking scheme for the moment. “The Winstons are a nice couple, but boring. We should’ve arranged for someone with his looks and an outrageous bank account as our finale’s house-hunting ex-pat. Problem is, anyone who looks that good can’t possibly have a budget to match. It’d go against the laws of nature.”

“I’d settle for the budget alone.” Unfortunately, every lead their network of real estate agents offered was for buyers seeking mid-range properties. Leave it to Emily to select Argentina for season three just as the housing market took off and most foreigners moving to Buenos Aires were unable to afford anything luxe. Featuring mid-range properties yet again in the finale would be a Yawn, with a capital Y.

Rita indicated the calendar on their breakfast table. “Whatever we decide, this schedule has to be finalized by tonight. We have the camera crew at six a.m. tomorrow. Unless your real estate contacts come through today with the a spectacular apartment that’s going cheap, we should try to make the most of our other material.”

In other words, cut the finale’s real estate footage to its bare minimum and pad the show with the most interesting travel information they could muster. She bit back a sigh. “Are any of the places on the current schedule near tango? Perhaps we can work that angle. Show how deeply ingrained dance is in the local culture?”

“No way the Winstons are up to a tango, but maybe we can send them to a show.” Rita tapped a few keys on her phone to pull up a map of the area. “Two of the three apartments on the current schedule are within a mile of tango bars. I’ll make a few calls, see if we can get tickets for the Winstons, then get inside to film.”

Emily scratched a few notes on paper, then said, “I was also hoping we could get some nighttime outdoor shots. Show the architecture of the buildings when they’re lit, capture the music echoing up and down the streets in the evening outside the bars in San Telmo. Maybe show the way residents hold hands and smile while they watch the street buskers. If we can’t show sexy real estate—or clients—we can certainly show some sexy street scenes.”

“Street scenes. Atmosphere. Sexy. I'm on it.” Rita waggled her eyebrows. “But it’d be so much better if I could get you to tango on camera with someone like him.”

“You’re hopeless,” Emily said on a laugh as she reached for her coffee. She glanced across the street, then did a double take. The
Herald
now rested on the man’s table, neatly folded beside a plate filled to toppling with French bread and an assortment of jam, leaving his face and upper body fully visible as he wrote on the page.
 

What a face and body they were. The man looked as if he should be gazing out from a billboard, wearing a custom-tailored suit in an advertisement for a sumptuous cologne or extravagant brand of Scotch, rather than sitting in an Argentine coffee shop in a white shirt and jeans. She was surprised to see he had a beard, but it did little to hide his sculpted cheekbones or the olive skin that set off his light-colored eyes to perfection. From this distance, she wasn’t sure of their exact color, but the contrast with his jet-black hair and eyebrows was unexpected and sexy. Yet there was something oddly flawed about his face that made Emily want to study him from a closer vantage point, to determine just what it was that seemed out of place.

Perhaps it was the pen he held in his hand. A man who did the crossword over breakfast inevitably had brains, a trait Emily found even more appealing than his looks. Hell, a man who read an actual newspaper rather than spend his morning meal tethered to his electronic devices did it for her. Not that any man should be doing it for her when she had a season finale to produce.
 

“See what I mean?” Rita sighed. “Tell me you wouldn’t want a guy who fills out a shirt the way he does to sweep you into his arms for a slow tango.”

The mental image warmed Emily’s cheeks. He was the embodiment of the word sultry. No doubt when he danced with a woman, he made her feel as if she were the only female in the world he’d ever held so close or gazed at with such intensity. And what woman wouldn't want to feel that way?
 

His hand moved across the newspaper page, making quick circles with his pen. As Emily watched the smooth movement, she drew in a quick breath.
 

“What?” Rita asked, instantly on alert.

“He’s
exactly
the man I want. I’m going over there.”
 

Emily set down her coffee, pushed back from the table, and strode across the street, leaving Rita in stunned silence.

* * *

Vittorio Barrali knew without raising his eyes from the newspaper that a woman approached. He’d always had a sixth sense for the presence of a beautiful female, but months of moving from hotel to hotel, constantly at risk of being recognized—or, more accurately, recognized as his “missing” identical twin, Alessandro—gave him defensive instincts he hadn’t possessed in his life as Sarcaccia’s crown prince, when most of those he saw on a daily basis were carefully vetted by security staff. The quick click of this woman’s heels against the cobblestones meant she approached with a purpose.

Pretending not to notice, he kept his pen steady and his gaze directed at his newspaper. While he’d let his hair grow from its former close-cropped style, left a scruff of beard on his face, and changed his manner of dress, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone—a royal watcher, a reporter, a Sarcaccian national—recognized him and alerted the authorities, or worse, tipped off a media outlet like
Hello!
or
People
. He hoped the woman picked up on his Do Not Disturb vibe and opted to do exactly that.

“Excuse me? Do you speak English?”

So much for Do Not Disturb.
 

He raised his head slightly, intending to utter a curt no, but the woman’s wide, hazel eyes and hopeful smile stopped him. She was a rare beauty, the type who took men’s breath away simply by being in their presence.
 

Better yet, her earnest expression gave no indication she’d interrupted his breakfast because she recognized him.
 

Against his will, he smiled in return. Though she’d asked her question in flawless Spanish, she struck him as a well-dressed business traveler in need of directions. A rather beguiling traveler, at that. He’d spent time with some of the world’s most attractive women—models, socialites, and one actress in particular—who poured immense amounts of time and money into improving their already-striking looks. Yet even without precise makeup, obvious designer clothing, or an artfully arranged hairstyle, this woman exuded a natural charm most of those women lacked and carried herself with a healthy self-confidence that didn’t stray into arrogance.

Cautiously, he responded, “A bit. May I help you?”

She extended her hand. “I’m Emily Sinclair. I host an American television show called
At Home Abroad
. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Television? Not the type of person he wanted to meet, in spite of her genuine manner and the fact she had a fantastic pair of legs. Tempting legs. He allowed himself a brief perusal before meeting her bright-eyed gaze and giving her a brief, dispassionate handshake. “I’m sorry, no.”
 

Undeterred, her smile broadened. “You’re not from Argentina, are you?”

“No. If you're looking for directions, I’m afraid I can’t be of help.” He needed to get rid of Emily Sinclair, American television host, and quickly, or risk exposure. Though next time he traveled to the United States, he might try to find her show. He could think of far worse ways to pass the time than admiring a beautiful woman from the solitude of his own sofa.

He reached for his newspaper, hoping she’d take the hint.

She pulled out the chair opposite his. “May I?”

He paused, his urge to learn more about the long-legged beauty warring with his sense of self-preservation. In that moment of hesitation, he caught a hint of vulnerability in her gaze, sensed that she was taking a risk, and was lost.
 

“I’m afraid I don't have much time, but go ahead.” Emily Sinclair was a touchable woman. Honey-colored hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders, her skin was porcelain smooth, and her full lips cried out for a man to run his finger over them. Though touching was out of the question, he decided to allow himself to indulge in the next best thing. What would a moment’s conversation hurt?
 

 
As she slid into the seat, he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume. No, not perfume. She wasn’t wearing a scent, at least not one from an ornate glass bottle, the way women did when they dressed up for the charity galas or state dinners he’d hosted alongside his father before leaving Sarcaccia. Her scent was soft, natural, like a ray of morning sunshine cutting through an ancient forest.
 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” she said.

“Victor.” It rolled off his tongue as easily as Vittorio once did. “You didn’t get it because I didn’t give it.”