Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (14 page)

His light brown eyes searched her face, and she again experienced a feeling of déjà vu, as if she
had
met Victor before. As if she should not only know him, but should trust him.
 

Before she could process the thought, his quiet voice pulled her back to reality. “You always take care of those around you, don’t you?”
 

“Some care,” she scoffed as she reached to the side of his head and angled her gaze, trying to get a glimpse of what must now be a sizable lump on the back of his head. “You ended up with stitches in your head. Or did you hit it so hard you forgot?”
 

His thick, dark hair felt soft as down beneath her fingertips. Suddenly conscious of touching him, she withdrew her hand, though he didn’t shift his gaze or let go of her other elbow. If anything, his scrutiny of her intensified.

“That was my own fault. I chose to go down the stairs. And I’m fine.”

“Still, it shouldn’t have happened—”

“You’re the one who shouldn’t have stepped in front of a police officer.”

“It’s not a big deal. Anyone would’ve spoken up. I was afraid he’d hurt you before he realized you weren’t a threat.”
 

They stood too close, more like lovers than acquaintances; she could see the variation of color in the dark hair that dusted his cheeks and chin and sense the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She could even smell his warm, masculine skin. Her throat tightened, but not with the same trepidation she’d experienced when he pinned her against the kitchen counter and she struggled to gain the space she needed to think. Now she wanted to bury her face against his strong shoulder, to inhale his blissful scent and feel his light beard against her cheek to see if its texture differed from the hair on his head.
 

“Liar,” he whispered. “You didn’t simply say something, you did something.”

He didn’t let go of her elbow as he eased off the railing. Instead, his hand moved higher to stroke the back of her arm. A split second before he leaned in, she knew he was going to kiss her. His unhurried approach afforded her the opportunity to pull away. She didn’t. He hesitated again with his mouth a breath away, then shifted to delicately brush his lips across hers. The faint, controlled touch sent her senses into overdrive. Then his hand cupped the back of her head and his mouth covered hers completely. The rest of the world faded away—the streetlights, the distant noise of the nightclubs, the low conversation of a couple passing them on the sidewalk—and Emily’s entire being succumbed to the sensation of his kiss.

Her hands went to the front of his shirt as if it were the most natural motion in the world. The broad expanse of muscle beneath her fingertips combined with the heady sensation of his warm, skilled lips moving against hers to elicit a sigh from deep within her.

He growled against her mouth at the sound. Then he really kissed her.
 

His other hand came up to frame her cheek, cradling her face as if she were a precious treasure even as he did wicked things with his mouth. Against her better sense she opened to him, kneaded her fingers against the fabric of the shirt they’d bought together only hours earlier, and allowed herself to savor the feel of his powerful thigh pressing against hers, locking her in place.

She had no right to kiss him. Rita might’ve encouraged a flirtation, but nothing like this. This made her want to pull at his clothing, to explore the hard planes of his chest and what was undoubtedly a spectacular set of abs, then…oh, and then…what she wanted was completely unprofessional, especially before the show wrapped.
 

And once the show wrapped, there’d be no point. She’d be back in New York and he’d be…wherever he came from.

His hands slid down her shoulders, then caressed the sides of her body to rest at her waist for a moment before he pulled her hard against him. Sensation drowned out sense as she kissed him back, her tongue discovering his, her fingertips drifting over the rounded, firm expanse of his shoulders before she wound her arms around his neck.

Then, as gently as he’d begun the kiss, he ended it, leaning back against the railing again even as he held her lower body flush to his. He blinked, as if shaking himself awake from a lust-filled dream. A chaos of emotions flickered across his face before his gaze shuttered.
 

“You haven’t kissed anyone in a long time, have you, Emily?”

Shock left her agape.

“I suspect it’s because you work too hard.” His voice was low and knowing. “You’ve sacrificed your personal life to ensure everyone else is all right. It’s not good for you or anyone else in the long run. I speak from experience.”

“Experience?” she managed, her lips still singed from physical contact. “What kind of experience could you possibly have that would give you any insight into whether or not I’ve been kissed recently?”

He raised his fingertips to cradle her face. His golden gaze followed his thumb as he slid it from her temple to rest over the center of her lips. With a faint smile, he let it fall away. “Perhaps it was your…extraordinary passion. You should go around kissing men more often.”

“I believe
you
kissed
me
.” She shook her head and stepped back from his embrace before he could respond. “Look, Victor…I shouldn’t—” It aggravated her that she couldn’t think straight with him standing so close. “Regardless of who kissed whom, it’s not appropriate given that you’re appearing on the show, and that’s aside from the fact that my coworkers could look out their windows or walk up behind us at any time.”

“Are you saying it was a mistake?” His easy, teasing smile bloomed into a full-fledged grin.
 

“No, not a mistake.” When Victor looked at her with such life in his expression, she couldn’t have regrets. Nor could she fail to smile in return. “But it shouldn’t happen again. It’s not professional of me.”

He regarded her for a moment before saying, “I’m learning that life isn’t all about one’s career or position, no matter how many people are watching you or expect you to act in a certain manner. It’s not an easy lesson to learn. I’ve been at it for almost five months.”
 

She forced a smile, though she knew it wasn’t convincing. Victor’s situation wasn’t the same as hers. She’d given up her job once before to have a so-called life, and it hadn’t worked. But even if the man existed who could accept her travel schedule, he’d also have to accept her other limitations, limitations that weren’t her choice. Limitations her ex, Paul, hadn’t been able to accept, no matter how much he’d loved her. There’d always been an, “I love you, but….” It was the “but” that drove her to build a life—a very happy life—around her career and the friends she’d made of her coworkers along the way. A life that made her damned proud.

“Victor—”

He held up a hand to forestall her argument as he pushed off the railing and moved past her, down the staircase. “I’ll respect your wishes. I even understand them. Hope your filming goes well tomorrow. I’ll see you Thursday in San Telmo.”

“Thursday.”

Her legs went to jelly as she climbed the stairs and punched the keypad code that would let her inside. He’d kissed her. And he was right…she hadn’t experienced a kiss like that in a long, long time.

She hadn’t experienced a kiss like that
ever
.
 

“Emily?”

Slowly, she turned. He was walking backward on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. “I’ll contact my family to let them know I’ll see them soon. Thank you for the suggestion.”

He spun on his heel and was gone into the night.

* * *

“Did you have a late night, my dear?”

Fabrizia felt her husband’s presence before the playful question left his lips, despite the fact he moved soundlessly across their apartment’s inlaid wood floors and dense Persian rugs. She also knew without looking behind her that he saw the image of Rocco Cornaro on her computer screen. His eldest son—Teresa’s eldest son—photographed boarding a luxury yacht near Dubrovnik a few months ago.

“I would’ve assumed you’d prefer to read today’s weather report over breakfast.” He reached past her to pick up her teapot and top off her cup. “Better for the digestion than gossip. And old gossip, at that.”

His playfulness made her smile, but only for a moment. The matter was too serious to take lightly. “Perhaps I should send one of my private investigators to Croatia. We should find out who approached him in the market.”

“No.” The single word, spoken quietly, was intended to hide frustration and—only because she knew her husband so well—a dose of fear.

“We need to protect our family,” she argued. “If Vittorio isn’t coming home soon, if he’s not in the frame of mind to carry out his duties—”

“Absolutely not.”
 

Slowly, the queen turned in her chair. Even after more than forty years spent together, some happy, some not so happy, she couldn’t look at Carlo in one of his bespoke suits without a pang of lust coursing through her. And last night, as they’d sprawled across the bed, her head nestled against his chest while they discussed the situation, she’d felt an immense amount of love. He wanted what she wanted, even if they didn’t see eye to eye on how to achieve it. “Are you saying this as my husband, or as my king?”

“Both. Whichever will get you to stop this nonsense. Sending your cadre of spies would draw more attention to him, even if they’re discreet.” He put his hands on her shoulders and ran the pads of his thumbs along her collarbone, warming her through the red silk of her favorite wrap dress. “Besides, that’s our past.”

“I know that. However, our present could fall apart if we don’t—”

“Fabrizia, the man is a multi-millionaire and a clever one, at that. He has the ability to take care of himself.” The king’s intelligent brown eyes flicked to the screen, then back to her. “But more important, I don’t want to reopen that wound. It took us years to get beyond it. I can’t risk losing you again.”

She placed a calming hand on his lapel and smiled. Carlo rarely showed vulnerability. When he did, her heart ached for him. He wasn’t the man he’d been all those years ago, but on occasion he still felt the sting of his youthful failures. “You won’t.”

“Then trust me to handle this?”

She bit back an argument and nodded. What choice did she have?

“We’ll give Vittorio a few more days. Then he’ll return to his duties, ready or not.”

“If you try to force him, he’ll resist.”

Carlo placed his hand over his wife’s, holding her palm against his heart. “I resisted, too, once. I was even younger and my mistakes more grave. In the end, I knew I was a Barrali first and obligated to my country. That duty—and the unconditional love I had from you—kept me from the harm that would’ve occurred had I stayed with Teresa. Vittorio will do what’s right, just as I did, and without coercion. He has no choice. He knows this. We will give him the support he needs.”

Behind her, the computer pinged. Carlo started to say something, then paused and turned his attention to the screen. His eyes brightened. “My dear wife, I told you to trust me. The timing is rather coincidental, but—”
 

She twisted in her seat to see the e-mail box she’d left open on one side of the screen. Foreboding crept through her as she clicked on the new message.
 

Late Monday night. Looking forward to it.

She sat back in her chair and put her hand to her stomach. The signature indicated it was sent from a temporary account created at an Internet café in Argentina.

“Oh, Carlo.” Fabrizia reached up to stroke her husband’s cheek and pull him to her for a kiss. She could only hope that when Vittorio returned, he would find the same strength Carlo had.

Chapter Ten

Vittorio dropped a tip into the open case of an accordion player not far from the address Rita had given him in San Telmo. Emily would be there already, along with Rita, Mike, Ignacio, and perhaps others. A makeup artist. Lighting specialists. The real estate agent. All people who’d notice if he acted like a man who wanted to have his way with the show’s host.

He’d accused her of extraordinary passion. Of putting her job before her own desires.
 

But that wasn’t the problem, was it? It was his own passion.

He’d intended the kiss on her doorstep to be quick and gentlemanly. An expression of gratitude for the risk she’d taken for him at the stadium and a recognition of her caring spirit. But when he’d experienced the heady sensation of her soft, yielding mouth beneath his own, then felt her palms against his chest, her fingertips bunching the fabric of his new shirt much as a cat’s paws might bunch a rug in bliss following a long, sun-soaked nap…he’d burned for her. Wanted her beneath him, arching her back, clawing at him in the throes of ecstasy. The speed and intensity of that fire had shocked him.
 

Even now his jaw tightened at the memory.

The scent of freshly-baked croissants and hot coffee filled the air as he passed a café. Across the cobblestoned street, a man washed the windows of an antique shop while next door, a bookseller shook out a small rug before placing it at the entry to her store. It wasn’t so different from a morning in the streets of Cateri’s medieval center, though he couldn’t walk the streets of Cateri as freely as he could here. He moved to the edge of the sidewalk, allowing a man pushing a pretzel cart to pass, then crossed to the narrow side street Rita had described when she’d given him directions.