Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (6 page)

He was about to turn to walk down the sidewalk, heading whichever way Emily Sinclair was not, when she surprised him with a quick, “You’re right. You are.”

At what must have been a look of astonishment on his face, she planted a fist against her hip. There was no sign of the threatening tears he’d noticed a few minutes earlier. Much like Sophia, Emily seemed to rally in the face of a challenge. “Look, I was wrong to invade your privacy and I’ve admitted that. But I’m not a bad person. I don’t know who made you think that every female in the world is out to get you, but they’re not. At least
I’m
not.” She checked her watch before pulling a phone from the side pocket of her handbag. “I have to get going. I have a show to put on and a limited amount of time in which to handle everything. Goodbye, Victor. I do hope you find your dream apartment…and whatever else it is you’re trying to find.”

She spun away from him and threaded her way down the crowded sidewalk, raising her phone to her ear as she went.

His stomach clenched. She’d said it to bait him. Still, there was truth to her words, and that truth made him feel like an ass.

Let her go.
 

He slipped on his sunglasses and turned in the opposite direction, trying to remember the address for the next apartment he’d planned to view. He’d been so distracted by his encounter with Emily that he’d left the newspaper behind. Had it been two blocks away? Or three? He groaned inwardly. Even if he knew where to go, he'd lost the desire.
 

After nearly five months of globetrotting, he’d finally prepared himself to make his return to Sarcaccia and be the heir to the throne his country deserved, the type of heir he’d been until Carmella’s death—focused, determined, and hard-working. It’d taken that long to convince himself that Carmella’s actions were a reflection on her, not on him or his ability to lead. But in a matter of hours, a woman with innocent eyes and sinful legs made him question everything.
 

Turning back, he was able to pick out Emily amongst the crowd waiting for the walk signal at the next intersection. She stood a few steps apart from the rest of the pedestrians, listening to a call on her cell phone.
 

Was she calling someone about filming her television show, as she claimed? Or was she reporting her actions to a superior at a tabloid? He had to know.

Taking quick strides, he covered the half-block between them, coming up a few feet behind her just as the light changed and she crossed the street. She shook her head as she listened to someone on the other end of the call.

“No, Rita.” Stress and fatigue filled her voice. “Don’t tell anyone the funds are coming from my account.” A pause, and then, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, I have enough to cover it. I appreciate the offer, though.”

He lost track of the conversation while he skirted around a woman whose dog stopped to sniff a signpost, but caught up again as Emily approached another intersection.
 

“Look, this buys us another ten to fourteen days,” he heard as Emily stepped to the curb, then waved for an approaching taxi. “I’m confident we can pull off a great show in that time. When we’re renewed, I can talk to the network about a reimbursement. It’ll be worth the gamble...okay, okay...I'm catching a cab now. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

He ground his teeth. Emily was one hundred percent right. He was a rotten judge of character. If he hadn’t been born a Barrali, he never would’ve thought the worst of her. That she was, in her words, out to get him.

Then again, if he hadn’t been born a Barrali, he wouldn't have had a reason.

The taxi slowed before rolling to a stop alongside the curb. Emily smiled her thanks to the driver before opening the door to the back seat.
 

Swearing aloud, Vittorio jogged to the other side of the taxi before it could pull out into traffic, yanked open the door, and slid inside.

* * *

Emily flinched as the door on the opposite side of the taxi flew open and a large, well-muscled body slid into the empty space where she’d been about to set her handbag. “What the—”

“Tell me why you need money.”

Emily stared at Victor, dumbfounded.
 

“Tell me.” His tone was lower this time, commanding. She wondered if he kept the beard because it made his face as intimidating as his voice.

“You not only followed me, you listened in on my phone conversation?” she managed, hoping she didn’t appear as shocked and disoriented as she felt. “Now who’s invading whose privacy?”

The taxi driver shot Emily a questioning glance in the rear view mirror before shifting in his seat to turn and frown at Victor in warning. She assured the driver she was all right, then asked him to hold on for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, but I didn’t want you to get away, either,” Victor said, his demanding tone softening a few notches. “Tell me why you need money. Please.”

Get away?
The man was positively infuriating. Despite his effort to ask more gently, he continued to stare at her as a parent might at a teen caught sneaking out of the house.
 

She set her handbag between them as a buffer. “I told you, the network is not going to give me an extension. I’m creating one. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“With your own money?”

“Yes, with my own money.”

“You have enough to do that?”

“I can get it.” Why she told him that, she didn’t know. She rarely discussed finances with anyone, let alone with a total stranger. Maybe it was out of a sense of pride. Or to prove to him that she wasn’t desperate, that she was resourceful and strong.
 

Victor ran a hand through his dark hair as he glanced at the driver, who was still watching from the front seat, wary of the man who'd barged into his cab. “Tell the driver where you’re headed. I’ll come with you.”

When Emily hesitated, Victor shot a pointed look in the direction of her cab window. “There are two people on the curb who want the taxi. If we don't get moving, we’re costing him a fare.”

Fine. What'd she care if he rode along? She gave the driver the address of the show’s office in Recoleta. The burly man shrugged, then eased out into traffic.

Victor slid the glass panel between the front and back seat closed, cutting off the driver from their conversation. He gestured toward the phone she still clutched. “Have Internet access?”

“Of course.”

He held out his hand, palm up. “May I use it for a moment? I’d like to check some information while we’re en route.”

“You don’t have your own phone?”

An odd look crossed his face, but was gone in a flash. “Left it at my hotel this morning.”

She wasn’t sure she trusted him, but since there was a pass code that would bar him from accessing any of her personal information, she tapped the screen to open her browser and handed over the phone.

“Production costs on a show like yours must be considerable,” Victor commented as his fingers moved across the screen with quick, light movements.

“I don’t have to fund the production itself. That’s already covered. Just the expense of keeping the staff here an extra week or so while we wait for the Winstons to return. They’re the couple we’d originally planned to use in our finale.”

“Still a lot of money.”

She turned to face him. “First, I’m not sure why you’re so concerned with my budget. And second, if you were responsible for the livelihoods of so many people, I suspect you’d do whatever you could to help them, wouldn’t you?”

His lean fingers stilled over the screen, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “I ask because I’ve wrestled with a budget or two in my time. I’ve also been responsible for the livelihoods of others, and yes, I do what I can to ensure their well-being. In fact, I’m quite good at it.”

“Well, so am I. And that's all I’m doing.” She knew it would sound defensive, but she explained her reasoning to him anyway. “It’s not as if I’m throwing the money away. When the finale goes well and we’re renewed for another season, I can recoup the investment.”

His brow puckered as he studied her phone, then tapped the screen a few more times. "From my understanding of television production—and I admit, it’s limited—it’s rare for one person to be responsible for everything. I doubt your staff would blame you if the show is cancelled.”
 

“I’m not worried about blame. I’m
responsible
. There's a big difference.” She snagged the phone from Victor’s grasp, holding it away from him so she had his undivided attention. Irritation flashed in his gaze, but he made no move to reclaim the phone.
 

“Rita and I are the show’s executive producers,” she explained. “The network might dictate the show’s budget and have final approval on what actually airs, but we’re the ones who came up with the concept and pitched the show to the network. We hired the staff. We make the decisions about where to film, what aspects of the local culture we want to include, and who we’ll feature. Since I’m the host, I’m also the public face of the show. That’s what I mean when I say I'm responsible. The people Rita and I hired trust us to make good decisions, decisions that will keep them employed so they can pay their mortgages and feed their families. Now do you get it? It’s a bit like running a small country.”

One side of his mouth hitched up in a blend of curiosity and doubt. “Your concern is entirely for the staff? You’re not worried about your own career?”

“I probably should be, but at the moment it’s not my priority.”
 

It was far easier to focus on everyone else. She’d already faced one big failure in her career, thanks to her stupid decision to quit her last job as a concession to her ex, Paul. She’d been forced to rebuild her career from scratch and she’d done well—at least until this season—but she knew the chances of starting over a third time and being successful were slim. Yet to dwell on the worst possible outcome would cripple her ability to focus.

“You think that when these people—the Winstons?—come back, you’ll have a good show with them?”

“I’ll find a way. Nothing leaves my hands for the network unless it’s of the highest quality.” What did he expect? “Quality keeps good people employed, myself included. I won’t settle for less.”

The taxi slowed to round a corner. Victor leaned away from her, craning his neck to see past the driver and down the street in front of them. “We’re going back to Recoleta?”

“The office space we rented for the season isn’t far from Café Luchana, where you were having breakfast.”

She followed his gaze and realized they only had a few more blocks to go. As she moved to open her handbag and retrieve her wallet, she noticed the screen on her phone. There, right in the center of the display, was her picture. Below it were her name and title, followed by similar information for both Rita and Maryam.
 

Victor had pulled up the credits page of the
At Home Abroad
website.
 

Emily drew in a sharp breath. “You said you needed to check some information. You didn’t say you were checking on
me
.”

“I needed to be absolutely sure you were who you claimed to be—”

“And on my own phone, no less!"

“—and that your motives for approaching me were what you claimed—”

“After jumping in
my
cab! Why? You planning to turn me in to the cops for following you to the apartment or something?”

“—before I agree to appear on your show.”

The taxi pulled into an open spot across the street from the
At Home Abroad
office. Emily stared at Victor, stunned into silence.
 

“If you’re still interested in me, that is.”

Before Emily could recover, Victor slid open the glass panel in front of them and paid the cabbie, including a generous tip. She started to protest, since the ride was her business expense, but he enveloped both her hands in his stronger ones and moved closer to her on the narrow seat.

“Are you?” he asked, his gaze intense as he waited for her answer. “Interested?”

Chapter Four

“You…you’re saying you want to be on the show?”

His jet black brows rose fractionally. Sitting this close, she noticed golden striations radiated from his pupils, adding depth to irises the color of sweet honey. Fascinating eyes for an utterly confusing man.
 

And his hands were still wrapped around hers, though she fought to ignore the warmth that flowed through her as his thumb grazed her knuckles.

“‘Want’ is a strong word. But yes, I’ll visit your fancy apartments and rave about the fixtures and floor tiles. And I can film right away, so you won’t need to tap your own financial resources. However, there will need to be a few conditions.” He regarded her for a moment, then released her hands and leaned back, reaching for the door handle. “Shall we adjourn to a café or to your office to discuss?”

“Café.” Until she knew exactly what his conditions were, she wouldn’t walk him into the office and give the staff false hope. “And I have a few conditions of my own.”

A wry smile curved his lips. “You believe you’re in a position to negotiate?”