Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (11 page)

“As will I, Teresa.”
 

But Teresa never heard the words. She’d already disconnected the call. Fabrizia shook her head and returned the phone to the king’s nightstand. To the air, she said, “And you lost Carlo long ago. I never will.”

In fact, she intended to make love to him this very minute. When they finished in the shower, they’d make love again in the bedroom. Then, when they were fully sated, she’d tell her husband about the call. They would come to a decision together on what to do about their son.

And what to do about Teresa’s.

Chapter Seven

The man was sexy as all get-out, shaved area and stitches in the back of his head or not.
 

Emily sat patiently, hands in her lap as she perched on a leather settee and waited for Victor to come out of the dressing room. Rather than stop for a change of clothes at his hotel, which he claimed was well out of their way, he suggested they swing into a men’s shop close to the apartment they intended to view, which was located in the fashionable Puerto Madero district.

While the idea made sense on the surface, it was another thing in practice. Shopping with a man turned out to be a rather intimate experience. It was all the male clothing. The smells of cologne from the nearby men’s grooming counter. The photographs of male models on the walls…men who didn’t compare to the dark, sexy Victor, let alone the smiling, affable Victor she’d glimpsed at the soccer match.

She wondered what he’d look like without the close-clipped whiskers covering the lower half of his face.
 

“Tell me about this apartment,” Victor said over the faux walnut door of his dressing room stall.
 

She welcomed the question. Talking business helped keep her mind off the fact Victor was likely shirtless at the moment. “It’s just off one of the main thoroughfares, not far from public transportation. Fiftieth floor in a fifty-two story building.”

“Not the top?”

“It’s the top as far as apartments go. There’s a spa on the fifty-first floor and the fifty-second has a gym, swimming pool, and entertainment space.” She wracked her brain, trying to remember what else Maryam had said when she’d called to describe the place. “It’s modern inside, like the apartment building in Palermo. Security at the door. There are only three apartments on the entire floor, so you’d have a great deal of space and privacy. And it’s under budget.”

“That’s a plus.”

“Yes.” She flexed her fingers, deciding it was easier to broach the subject now, when she didn’t have to look Victor in the eye, than when he’d discussed his wish list with her over yesterday’s lunch. “By the way, you know your budget is high, even for Buenos Aires. You have your pick of most anything in the city. Are you sure that’s what you want to spend, especially given that all real estate purchases in Argentina are on a cash basis?”

The amount he’d given boggled her mind. While the Palermo apartment they’d visited yesterday morning was one of the priciest she’d visited for the show, his budget could stretch further. A lot further. What single man spent that kind of money on an apartment outside of a wealthy few in Manhattan or Tokyo? What did he do for a living? Most people in Buenos Aires with that kind of budget kept a modest city apartment, then used the money to purchase a more spacious house out in the country.

And they had the money to spend.

“I thought you said that’s what you wanted for the finale.”

“I did?”

“You did. When we were in the Palermo apartment, you remarked that it was a gorgeous building, exactly the type you wanted.” He stepped out of the dressing room, then turned slowly in front of her, his arms spread, showing off a lightweight cotton shirt in a shade of olive that emphasized both his Mediterranean complexion and a well-muscled pair of shoulders. Wickedness tinged his smile. “Camera ready?”

She swallowed. He could grace a magazine cover. “That’ll be fine.”
 

“Fine?”

“Yes, you look nice. The green is a good color for you.”

His brows rose. “
Nice?
”

How did he make her so uncomfortable with such a simple question? “Is nice bad?”

“Nice is boring. How about, ‘you look extremely fit and have a great face for television.’ Or perhaps something along the lines of, ‘women will tune in to see you.’”

Warmth suffused her face as he delivered the very lines she’d used at the café while trying to convince him to do the show. “Now
you’re
flirting with
me
?”

At his raised brow, she said, “All right. Yes, you look extremely fit and have a great face for television. Women will tune in to see you.” She couldn’t help but add, “And green is a good color for you.”

“Then I’ll get it.”

 
He ducked back into the dressing room. Though she couldn’t see him changing, the top of the door was low enough for her to catch the sight of his arms stretched overhead as he pulled off the shirt. She shifted on the settee, averting her eyes. Yesterday, after breakfast, she’d suspected he was attracted to her, even if he’d turned her down for the show. Seeing him at the apartment blew that thought out of the water. But in the cab and at lunch afterward, he’d been kind—if businesslike—so she’d eased her mental pendulum back to the center, deciding he liked her, but wasn’t attracted to her. Now she didn’t know what to think.
 

Maybe Mike had plied him with more than one beer during the game.

Victor’s rich voice came to her over the door. “In answer to your budget question, yes, I’m well aware of what that amount buys in Buenos Aires right now. I have the cash available, if that’s your concern, but I don’t need to spend that much. A prestigious address isn’t my priority. Nor is owning an obscene amount of square footage or swanky kitchen appliances I’ll never use. I don’t want a showplace or an entertaining space.” There was a shuffling of fabric, then the sound of hangers bumping against the door. “This is a vacation apartment for me. I want light, I want a view, and most of all, I want privacy. Problem is, privacy usually means spending more for a corner or penthouse unit. And buying furnished, so I don’t have to deal with salespeople and delivery people.”

He made it sound like he’d planned a hermit’s life while in Argentina. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He emerged with the shirt on its hanger and placed two others on a returns rack outside the stall. “I’ll change back into this after I’ve paid for it, then we can head to the apartment.”

Emily shook her head as she stood. “I told you, the show can buy—”

“I wouldn’t hear of it.” He wrapped his hand around the top of her arm, deepening the sexual awareness already thrumming within her. “This is mine.”

Much as she wanted to argue, she didn’t. Not only was she unsure of her voice, there was a confidence in his gaze, as if he knew that when he used that particular tone of voice no one would question him. She stood by as he handed the gray-haired gentleman at the register the required amount of cash, spoke a few polite words in Spanish, then headed back into the dressing room to remove the tags and change. He emerged a moment later with his bloodied shirt folded into the shopping bag, then gestured for Emily to lead the way back outside.
 

Despite the setting sun, the air remained warm and a light breeze carried the fresh green scents of nearby grassy parks and the Río de la Plata through the streets that connected the neighborhood’s modern high rises and upscale restaurants. Emily took in a deep breath and sighed, grateful for the chance to walk the two blocks to the apartment rather than be confined in a stuffy cab.

“Something amiss?” Though she suspected he usually walked faster, given his long legs, he matched his pace to her leisurely one.

“No. The opposite, in fact. I’m enjoying the weather. It might be summer here, but it’s still chilly at home.”

His eyebrows angled in query. “It can’t be that bad in southern California, even in early March.”

“Probably not, but our show is based in New York.”

“Ah.” He tipped his head as he studied her. ‘You don’t sound like you’re from New York, though. At least not from any of the boroughs.”

“Born and raised in Oregon. The land of no accents.” They rounded a corner and she dodged a man cupping his hands to light a cigarette before coming to stroll beside Victor again. “But I’ve been in New York since I graduated college and landed my first job with a magazine. Early March can be bitter. The spaces between buildings create wind tunnels.
Icy
wind tunnels.” She took note of a young couple walking in the opposite direction, the woman in a short skirt. Once they went by, she added, “I certainly couldn’t wear that this time of year.”

“You’re not wearing that now.”

“True. Can’t get away with it for work.” She paused a moment before asking, “So what about you? Or is that too intrusive a question?”

“No miniskirts for me, any time of year.” Emily couldn’t help but shake her head before Victor explained in a more serious tone, “I’ve spent most of my life in southern Europe. Warm weather suits me.”

“So if not Italy…Greece? Or southern France?”

The more time she spent with him, the more he piqued her curiosity. She ached to know where he was from and what he did. About his large family and whether they were the reason he craved solitude. Why his manner led her to believe he tended toward the traditional, yet he claimed he wanted a modern apartment.

Rather than answering her question, he simply nodded. “It’s part of what drew me to Argentina. It’s sunny here when it’s cooler at home.”

She suspected it was the most she’d get from him, so she didn’t press. Above them, the streetlights that arced over the broad sidewalk flickered to life. A cyclist went by wearing a dark brown suit, his pants legs rolled up slightly and a messenger bag slung across his body.
 

“Looks like the end of the workday. People who didn’t play hooky to watch the
Superclásico
are heading back to their apartments.” Victor’s gaze followed a woman in a suit as she dashed into the front entrance of the high rise across the street, a restaurant carry-out in one hand, a bright red leather satchel dangling from the other. “It’s a very young section of town, isn’t it?”

Emily nodded. “Puerto Madero was built on the former dockyards. It was in rough shape for decades—abandoned brick warehouses, empty lots full of weeds, bridges in disrepair—but the city hired a developer to oversee the revitalization of the whole area. Now it’s all high rises and green space. And nightlife.” She stopped walking as they approached a silvery, glass-fronted building with a revolving door. “Well, this is it. Your possible future home.”

He glanced up and down the street, taking in the storefronts and restaurants, then looked skyward, assessing the contemporary architecture of the building before he swooped a hand toward the entry and bowed, his Old World charm a stark contrast to the surroundings. “After you.”

* * *

She worried about him.
 

Vittorio waited on one of the chrome and leather barstools in the apartment’s sleek kitchen while Emily strode through the apartment, discussing the shoot’s logistics with Mike and Rita. She glanced his way when she thought he wasn’t looking, her forehead creasing in concern when she caught him feeling the bump on the back of his head.

It wasn’t bad. He’d suffered worse cuts from Alessandro and their younger brother, Stefano, when they were kids horsing around in the nursery or the palace gardens. Then there’d been the concussion he’d sustained during martial arts training with Alessandro, when their instructor had accidentally caught Vittorio off balance and sent him careening off the mat, where Vittorio had slammed his head against a wall. Vittorio only put his hand there now out of curiosity, making sure the wound wasn’t too obvious. Still, Emily worried. And she continued to steal looks at him.

He was used to being watched, of course, and by millions. This was different, as if he were finally being seen rather than watched, and by a woman with the instinct to leap in front of an armed officer in an effort to protect him, even when he didn’t need the protection. Even when she had no idea of his identity.
 

It unsettled him.

Rita approached with a smile. “I think we’re ready. I’ll hang back, out of the line of the camera. Emily will walk through the apartment with you. Say whatever comes naturally. If you like the shower, the tile, the views…anything, really. We can edit it as needed. Mike will follow behind for most of it. When it’s time for the bedrooms and master bath, he’ll go in first, then he’ll film you opening the door and walking inside. Pretend he’s not there.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

She reached behind him and picked up the water bottle he’d left on the counter. “Mind if I put this in the fridge? That way it’s out of the shot.”

“Not problem.” He frowned. “Wait…you sure you want me to comment on the view? I can still see well enough to determine what it’ll look like during the day, but I can’t imagine it’ll translate on camera.”

“Mike filmed the views when he arrived. We’ll intersperse his earlier shots with what we get now. It’s all about angles and editing.” The dark-haired woman gave him a conspiratorial wink. “The magic of television.”