Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (3 page)

“I promise to be quick, Victor.” She drew in a deep breath, confirming his guess that she’d been as wary of approaching him as he was of having her stay. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I noticed you were circling ads in the paper. Are you looking for an apartment to rent? Or to buy?”

Clever woman. Observant. “I’m looking at Buenos Aires real estate, yes.” It was one of the few countries where property deals were handled on a cash basis, which would help keep the transaction below the media’s radar…though apparently not this woman’s radar.

“We’re filming our show here in Buenos Aires this week. Our format for each episode is simple. We give our viewers a taste of Argentinean culture—say, the tango shows, the art museums, or the national obsession with
fútbol
—and show the exterior architecture of a local neighborhood. Then our camera crew follows a foreign house hunter, someone who’s getting to know the country right along with our viewers, as he looks at a few properties in that neighborhood.”

He knew where she must be heading, but kept his expression neutral. “I’m sure many people enjoy the show.”

“Not as many people as I’d like.” Her smile slipped a fraction and, despite himself, he wanted to bring it back to its full glory. “This episode is our season finale and I want it to be fantastic. Our network is about to make its decision on whether or not to renew the show and featuring just the right house hunter can make all the difference.”

He said nothing, hoping his silence would forewarn her of his answer.
 

“If you’re actively looking at properties, would you be interested in appearing on our show? We can make arrangements directly with your realtor, and—”

“What makes you believe I’d be the right person for your finale? You know nothing about me.” Thankfully.

"First, you're a foreigner looking here in the city, so you fit our profile."
 

“As do dozens of others. You need only visit a real estate office.”

“I realize that, but” —her cheeks flushed pink as she gestured from his feet to his face— “have you checked a mirror lately? You’re extremely fit and you have a great face for television. Striking enough that I noticed you from across the street. When women peruse what’s on, they tend to pause a few seconds on each channel. Someone with your looks captures their attention, just as you captured mine, and they watch long enough to realize they enjoy the show’s content. They tune in again for the next episode and voilà, ratings go up.”

He contained the grin that pulled at the edges of his mouth. In all his years, he’d never had a woman describe him to himself in such blunt fashion. "What about your male viewers?"

“Our audience is primarily women. However, male viewers tend to identify themselves with attractive men. Athletic men who look like they could tackle major home projects. You look like you’ve swung a hammer or two in your time.” She shifted in the chair. “I realize this sounds like I'm flirting shamelessly, but—”

“You don’t intend to flirt?” It was a dangerous question, but it’d been too long since he’d engaged in banter with an intelligent woman. Even then, those women knew they were with a crown prince, which changed the dynamic.
 

Her eyes lit with optimism. “Would flirting be effective?”
 

Oh, it’d be effective, but not in the way she envisioned. This woman’s ignorance of his identity made her the perfect verbal sparring partner, which made her all the more tempting physically. He took a slow sip of his double espresso, making her wait for his response. When she didn’t squirm, he realized that this could become something more, somewhere far more private, if he wanted a challenge. Despite the fact he’d hidden his royal identity these last months, he had yet to encounter the woman who didn’t respond to easy flirtation or a quick smile, though he’d doled out fewer smiles than he could count on one hand in the months he’d been away. Even those were by rote, rather than drawn out by the recipient.

No, as enticing as it might be to see this particular woman’s hair spread across a silk-encased pillow and her amazing legs tangled in his sheets, to savor the back-and-forth along the way to such intimacy—hell, to get back to actually
having
sex—he had to put a stop to it. The risks were too great.
 

“Enjoyable, yes. But effective? No, I’m afraid not for your purposes.” He set down his cup. “While I like watching television, I have an aversion to being on it.”
 

Unfortunate, because spending the remainder of his time in Buenos Aires with this woman would be far more interesting than what he needed to accomplish, finalizing his return to Sarcaccia and resuming his rightful place as crown prince without anyone the wiser.

Vittorio hadn’t believed that Alessandro could pull off the duties of a crown prince, despite the fact that the switch was Alessandro's idea. Yet thanks to Alessandro, Vittorio had the opportunity to escape the palace and get his head on straight while Sarcaccia remained stable.
 

Alessandro vowed to continue standing in for Vittorio as long as was necessary, but the twins knew that eventually their deception would be discovered. Other than members of their immediate family, only Maria Cappalli, the Royal Police Chief Investigator, was told of their switch. While she’d promised to do what she could to protect their secret, she’d warned them that she couldn’t keep inquisitive members of the media or her own police force at bay forever. When she’d called Alessandro last week to notify him that a group of police detectives were speculating about the length of the prince’s disappearance and that it was high time they discuss the possibility of foul play with the king, Vittorio knew the clock on his return was ticking.

It wouldn’t be to anyone’s benefit for their actions to be discovered, which is why, as Vittorio told Alessandro just last night during a hushed phone call, in a few short weeks, he’d make his way home. He’d also hold the deed to a flat far from Sarcaccia to serve as a private escape should he ever want one. The very knowledge he owned such a place would make his return bearable, he’d explained to Alessandro. No longer would he feel confined to the fishbowl of the royal palace or be tempted by a false idea of home. With this retreat, he could be both prince he was born to be and, on occasion, the private person his heart occasionally ached to be.

Alessandro claimed that what Vittorio needed was to get out and experience life, not hide away in a sterile flat, but Alessandro hadn’t been able to argue the point before being called away to attend a reception for the King of Jordan. The way Alessandro mentioned the reception made Vittorio wonder—just for a moment—how his younger brother had managed to switch from club-hopping partier to the role of crown prince with such ease.
 

Perhaps because, in the end, the fate of Sarcaccia rested with Vittorio and his heirs, not with Alessandro. Vittorio’s public behavior was subject to closer scrutiny than Alessandro’s would ever be, his relationship missteps magnified. Acting as crown prince was just that for Alessandro. Acting. A temporary diversion rather than serious business.

Vittorio smiled at Emily, hoping to soften the blow of his refusal. It was too bad, really. In another lifetime, he might’ve enjoyed playing Alessandro’s role, one in which pursuing women like Emily Sinclair was possible.

Emily leaned forward, unaware that in doing so she gave him a brief glimpse of cleavage. “You’re certain I can’t persuade you? The exact location of the properties you visit wouldn’t be disclosed—we don’t give out addresses—and your full name isn’t used. We understand there’s a certain need for privacy.” Her head tilted as she grinned and said, “Believe it or not, most people we feature find the experience fun. It offers a unique opportunity to see behind the scenes of a television show. And I promise, my crew doesn't bite.”

Bite? How could any man hear that word from her lush mouth and not be tempted?

On instinct, Vittorio reached across the table and took her hand, then raised it to his lips. His quick assessment of her had been accurate. She was very, very touchable. The places he could imagine directing that hand...if only he’d met her two years ago, before he’d made a life-altering mistake with another woman.
 

The memory left him cold.

But this woman...cold wasn't a word he could imagine being used to describe her. He felt, rather than heard, her intake of breath as his lips caressed her hand.
 

“Thank you again,” he murmured against her skin before gently releasing her fingertips. “I’m quite flattered by the offer. It’s…enticing. But I must decline.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment, but the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing sharpened betrayed an inner desire. When she spoke, her voice was thready. “Well, I promised I’d be quick. I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

He stood as she did, giving her a polite nod. She covered her responding blush by tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Reaching into a tiny pocket inside her suit jacket and withdrawing a business card, she said, "If you change your mind, Victor, I’d love to hear from you."
 

For a moment, he thought she’d hand it to him. Instead, she leaned forward and placed it on the tabletop beside his newspaper.
 

So she didn’t trust herself with physical contact. Perhaps it was for the best.

She pushed in her chair and turned toward the street, then paused and looked back over her shoulder at him, a question in her hazel eyes. “By the way, it’s Victor, you said? It’s not Vittorio?”

Chapter Two

Vittorio forced himself not to react, despite fact his chest closed in tight, just as it did when he'd taken a hard kick from Alessandro during martial arts training a few years ago.
 

Was Emily’s entire approach a pretense leading to this singular moment? How, after all he’d experienced, could he still misread a woman’s intent so completely? Certainly he’d fallen for a skilled actress before, and this woman flat-out told him she was on TV and had the business card to prove it. He internally cursed himself for making the same mistake he’d made in Sarcaccia and opened his mouth to utter what he hoped would come out as a casual denial, but Emily waved off her own question before he could answer.

“I’m sorry. That was unacceptably nosy of me. It’s simply that we shot our first season in the Alps.” Her lips pinched in a sign of discomfort that didn’t look like acting. “We featured mountain villages in Italy, Switzerland, and Austria and…well, your accent sounds similar to our Italian real estate agent’s, so I thought perhaps you were Anglicizing your name for my benefit. I shouldn’t have—”
 

“I speak the language, but no, I’m not Italian.”
 

He’d let his paranoia get to him. Emily had done nothing wrong, merely asked a question anyone in Buenos Aires might ask if they heard him speak more than a few words.
 

“I see. Well, thank you, Victor. Even if you aren’t interested in doing the show and claim you only speak ‘a bit’ of English” —a teasing smile flickered across her lips— “I appreciate that you were willing to hear me out. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

She turned, then crossed the street to a restaurant much like the one he occupied to join a woman who was seated at a table covered with pastry and what appeared to be business reports.

Pleasure. Yes, that was a good word for it. In another place, in another time, it might have been more.

Vittorio withdrew a few bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table, then folded the newspaper under his arm. Intentionally leaving Emily Sinclair’s business card behind, he left without looking back.

* * *

She’d said something wrong. Emily sensed it the moment she’d asked whether Victor was Italian, though whether it was that he’d found her behavior rude or because he’d been caught off-guard by the invasive nature of the question itself, she couldn’t be certain.

“Wish I could read lips,” Rita said as they walked toward the Recoleta office they’d rented for the season. “When he kissed your hand and looked at you like that, I was positive you’d finally gotten yourself a date.”

“I told you, I only asked him if he’d be interested in appearing on the show. Nothing more. I haven’t a clue why he kissed my hand.”

“Bet it felt amazing, though.”

“You're incorrigible.” Though Rita was also right.
 

The moment Victor looked up from his newspaper and his eyes met hers, Emily’s knees had threatened to give way. Right there, with Rita as a witness, she’d nearly swooned over a man. He was the kind of man who turned heads, even from a distance, but up close...a red-hot jolt of desire burned through her at the very thought of his intelligent brown eyes, so impossibly light in contrast to his jet-black hair she’d thought they might be green when she’d noticed him from across the street. He’d boldly studied her from head to toe, taking extra time to survey her legs before speaking to her. She’d forced herself to keep a calm, confident smile on her face, all the while feeling as if he could see right through her suit to assess every inch of her body.

His initial handshake was crisp, impersonal. But when he’d kissed her hand, allowing his warm lips to linger, she’d half expected him to turn her palm up and start working his way along her wrist. She wasn’t sure she possessed the self-discipline to have stopped him.