Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (15 page)

In the light of day, he could understand why Emily had launched into her speech about appropriateness. Hell, he’d said virtually the same thing to Carmella once when they’d shared a brief kiss outside the palace ballroom once last summer. It wasn’t appropriate, not at that time or location.
 

But there was a difference. With Carmella, he’d been content to wait for a better time and place, as had she. With Emily…he suspected he’d never describe himself as content to end a kiss with her, at any time or any place, and every instinct he possessed told him she’d experienced the same conflagration of lust he had. It wasn’t simply in her exquisite surrender, when she’d reached her arms around his neck and sighed against his mouth. He’d seen it in the flush that crept up her throat and reddened her cheeks. In her quick defensiveness when he observed that she hadn’t been kissed in awhile, then in the bobble of her knees as she’d climbed the stairs afterward. It was that slight loss of balance that nearly did him in.

He’d known Carmella for years and never experienced the inner satisfaction he had in that moment, knowing he’d affected Emily as much as she’d affected him. And he’d been acquainted with Emily for what, forty-eight hours?
 

It wasn’t like him at all. Then again, neither was a five-month disappearing act. Or lying about his identity before sharing a lust-filled kiss with a woman who could place him.
 

He skipped over a puddle created by a shopkeeper’s hose before stepping onto the curb. When Emily scrutinized his face after dusting on that infernal powder at the apartment in Puerto Madero, he’d experienced a flash of regret about appearing on her show. But kissing Emily that night reinforced the appreciation of life he’d grasped during his months in Buenos Aires. It proved he still possessed a soul that could be moved. It also proved a woman could want him for more than his title or his wealth.
 

He’d walked back to his hotel feeling energized. And what was the harm in that, given that he’d left Sarcaccia specifically to reenergize? Besides, it was perfectly natural to kiss a woman who stepped in front of an armed cop for you.

The realization he was making excuses to himself made him grin as he approached the crumbling brick building bearing the address Rita provided and pushed the appropriate button on the panel outside the entry. He wouldn’t have planted a kiss on a member of his security detail in Sarcaccia if they’d jumped to his defense.
 

Then again, they were paid to do it. They were protecting what he represented to his countrymen rather than him personally. Emily was…well, Emily was something else entirely. A great risk, but one that was only temporary, given his schedule. He’d occupied part of his time yesterday determining the best way to enter Sarcaccia without the press catching wind of it until he was inside the palace and could ensure a smooth switch with Alessandro. The plane reservations were made, he’d arranged low-key transportation from the airport to a discreet drop-off spot near the palace, and he’d even notified his mother.

He ran a face over his beard. He’d need to get rid of it when he arrived home and hope he hadn’t gotten so much sun in Argentina that shaving would leave a line of demarcation.

“It’s me,” he said into the ancient speaker when the intercom buzzed to life, unsure whether it would be Emily or one of her coworkers on the other end.

“Bob? Fantastic. Come on up to the top floor,” Rita’s familiar voice crackled through the speaker at the same time the door lock clicked open.

The narrow entry hall had apartment doors on either side and a windowless staircase in the center. Vittorio took the worn marble stairs at a jog, passing two more apartments on the next floor before arriving at the top of the staircase, which boasted a landing only large enough for two people and a sizable wooden door that looked more appropriate for a barn than an apartment.

Rita opened the door, coffee in hand, and waved him inside. “I know, I know. It’s not much to look at on the outside, but you’ll love it. Grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Ignacio is on his way back from filming one of the nearby churches. Once he’s here, we’ll get started.”

She walked him to the kitchen where he was greeted by the makeup artist and introduced to the real estate agent, a balding, affable young man named Enrico who was busy wiping the counter to a high shine. Though Vittorio made small talk with the group while he located the coffee cups and gave himself a healthy pour, he couldn’t help but listen for Emily. He’d fully expected her to greet him at the door.
 

Until she failed to appear, he hadn’t realized how much he’d craved seeing her face this morning. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Yesterday he’d been about to check out of the Internet café, having booked his travel and contacted his mother, when, on a whim, he’d looked up
At Home Abroad
. He’d skipped the staff biographies he’d seen on Emily’s cell phone the morning they met and discovered a wealth of information. Fan sites, message boards, and even—to his surprise—a few men’s magazines’ lists of hottest women on television that included Emily. What kept him glued to the computer screen, however, was an interview published a year earlier by a popular women’s decorating website. The main photo showed Emily leaning against her kitchen counter with a mixing bowl tucked in the crook of her arm. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and worn shorter than she had it now. Her feet were bare. She wore weathered jeans and a gray T-shirt topped by a tacky white apron sporting a wedding photo of Prince Charles and the late Princess Diana. He’d laughed to himself at that, as his mother had a similar apron hanging in a discreet spot in the palace kitchen. His mother found the royal wedding souvenir so horribly tasteless she couldn’t resist owning it, and she’d even worn it once while baking cookies with her granddaughter, Anna.

He’d read the article with interest. It claimed that Emily liked to bring something from each of the countries she visited back to her own home. However, rather than decorative vases or art pieces, she preferred items she could use every day. The countertop basket holding pears and apples came from Japan. The mixing bowl had been a find at a village market in Switzerland. A magazine assignment in Turkey led her to the artisan from whom she purchased her spice rack. The apron, however, was a parting gift from co-workers at her last job, not an item she’d picked up on a trip. She told the interviewer she loved the kitsch factor and wore it whenever she hosted summertime barbecues, despite the odd looks it garnered from her guests.

It was another insight into a complex woman.
 

He rested his hips against the kitchen counter and took a deep swig of his coffee. Shouldn’t Emily know he was here by now?

“Emily’s on the phone in the other room,” Rita said, making him wonder if she read the direction of his thoughts. He kept his expression neutral as Rita explained that Emily had missed an early morning call from the network and decided to return it while they were waiting for Ignacio.
 

“No problems, I assume?”

“I doubt it. We’re at the end of our production for the season, so the brass like to check in often.”
 

Vittorio took another sip of his coffee as the real estate agent asked Rita a few questions about the show and how the apartment would be presented. Rita’s attitude throughout the discussion was upbeat, but Vittorio wasn’t fooled. Whatever the nature of Emily’s call, it rattled Rita.

Less than five minutes passed before Ignacio returned. He shot a meaningful look at Rita, who angled her head in the direction where Emily had disappeared and shrugged.
 

“Everyone’s back? Great…let’s get rolling.” Emily appeared her usual, cheerful self as she entered the kitchen a beat later. Her hair was worn up in a loose but elegant bun that highlighted her long neck and the smooth expanse of skin at the vee of her bright pink dress. Perfectly applied lipstick matched her outfit and made her face seem alight. Rita pushed a cup of coffee her way, but Emily waved it off.

She smiled as she turned his way, every bit the professional. “You haven’t peeked outside the kitchen yet, have you, Bob?”

When he assured her he hadn’t, she said, “Then you know the drill. We’ll head out to the hall until we get the signal, then Ignacio will shoot us as we walk in. Give me your thoughts on the apartment, good and bad, and we’ll go from there.”

After he received a thumbs-up from the makeup artist, Vittorio followed her out, shutting the wooden door behind them so they were alone on the small landing. “Everything all right?” he whispered as they waited for Ignacio’s signal to enter.

“Of course. Why?” An immediate blush rose in her cheeks. As if she realized he could be asking about their kiss, she diverted him by finishing, “Are you concerned about the apartment?”

He waved off the idea. “I meant the call. Rita seemed to think it was important.”

“Oh. No, nothing to worry about.” They heard Ignacio, and she swept a hand toward the door. “After you.”

He paused, frowning. Her tone sounded casual, but he noticed the tightening of her jaw before she answered. He didn’t buy her all-is-well routine for a second. Hoping to put her at ease, he allowed the conversation to follow her earlier direction. “You don’t think I’m going to like this place, do you?”

One of her shoulders hitched, then lowered. “Let’s find out.”

Now that he knew the routine, it wasn’t difficult to determine where to stand for each shot, what observations to make, or the appropriate amount of banter to exchange with Emily and the real estate agent. They began in the kitchen, since it wasn’t far from the entry. As Vittorio had observed when he’d come in for coffee, it boasted state-of-the-art appliances and an efficient layout, but the cabinetry choices and wall tiles harkened to the building’s colonial roots. He entered the main living space expecting more of the same and found that the modernity had been reserved for the kitchen.

“San Telmo is Buenos Aires’ oldest neighborhood, and this particular building dates back nearly a hundred and fifty years. Care was taken during the renovation to preserve as many of the original features as possible while adapting it for modern living.” Emily addressed her comments both to Vittorio and the viewers. “The beams and the brickwork are original, while the chandelier was salvaged from a nearby colonial-era mansion after the structure fell into disrepair. It was crafted on the island of Sarcaccia and brought over on a cargo vessel by the mansion’s Italian owner.”

Vittorio tilted his head to take in the details of the antique piece. Not only was it massive and exquisitely designed, it reminded him of home. Having seen similar creations in several of Sarcaccia’s historic buildings, he’d have known its provenance anywhere.
 

Emily gestured to the series of French doors at the far side of the room. “The wooden shutters are also original to the building and were refurbished by a local craftsman. When we return to this room, I’ll let you take a peek outside.”

Surprises waited around each corner. A table and chairs purchased from a neighborhood antique shop. Sumptuous Persian rugs that echoed the designs of those in Sarcaccia’s royal palace, though on a smaller scale. A massive, hand-carved headboard recovered from the same mansion that once housed the living room chandelier. Yet for all the finery, the apartment had a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere. The rustic wood floors had aged naturally, the bathrooms were updated, yet with fixtures designed to mimic the originals. Enrico took pains to prove that the shower did work and the toilets flushed, and explained that all the plumbing and electrical systems were above code.

The greatest surprise of all, however, lay outside the living room’s French doors. He suspected from Emily’s look of anticipation that the view would impress. And as he approached the heavy, floor-to-ceiling glass, he was provided an intimate view of the cobblestoned neighborhood, complete with a glimpse of the cathedral between the two buildings on the opposite side of the street. However, it wasn’t until Emily opened the doors inward that he saw the apartment’s biggest selling point.

Three wide stairs led down to an ornate balcony crafted of iron. Wide enough for a small table and two chairs, it was surrounded with iron flower boxes spilling over with vibrant red blooms.
 

It wasn’t anything like the sleek rooftop terrace he’d seen in Palermo, with its carefully arranged teak chaises and wall of bamboo, or the Puerto Madero apartment, with its expansive views of the river and adjacent high-rise buildings. This was lived in. A balcony designed for close conversation, romantic dinners, and people watching. He could imagine the original inhabitants, years ago, hanging their laundry here. Calling down to their children, waving to the local baker as he closed up shop for the day, and even watching the holiday processions at Christmastime.

“This balcony is also original to the building,” Emily explained. “The neighborhood is known for its variety of balconies. If you look across the street, the building on the right has a balcony constructed of balustraded stone. On the left, there are a series of balconies made of wrought iron, decorated with a bird motif. Every building is slightly different.
Porteños
, which is what Buenos Aires locals call themselves, take great pride in the distinctiveness of this neighborhood.”

“What do you think of the apartment?” Enrico asked.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” he said, truthfully. The place embodied all he’d loved in Sarcaccia, but it had a distinctly Argentinian flair. The neighborhood was beautiful and gritty and bursting with life all at once. This apartment put its owner in the center of it all.