Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) Read online

  In other words, cut the finale’s real estate footage to its bare minimum and pad the show with the most interesting travel information they could muster. She bit back a sigh. “Are any of the places on the current schedule near tango? Perhaps we can work that angle. Show how deeply ingrained dance is in the local culture?”

  “No way the Winstons are up to a tango, but maybe we can send them to a show.” Rita tapped a few keys on her phone to pull up a map of the area. “Two of the three apartments on the current schedule are within a mile of tango bars. I’ll make a few calls, see if we can get tickets for the Winstons, then get inside to film.”

  Emily scratched a few notes on paper, then said, “I was also hoping we could get some nighttime outdoor shots. Show the architecture of the buildings when they’re lit, capture the music echoing up and down the streets in the evening outside the bars in San Telmo. Maybe show the way residents hold hands and smile while they watch the street buskers. If we can’t show sexy real estate—or clients—we can certainly show some sexy street scenes.”

  “Street scenes. Atmosphere. Sexy. I'm on it.” Rita waggled her eyebrows. “But it’d be so much better if I could get you to tango on camera with someone like him.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Emily said on a laugh as she reached for her coffee. She glanced across the street, then did a double take. The Herald now rested on the man’s table, neatly folded beside a plate filled to toppling with French bread and an assortment of jam, leaving his face and upper body fully visible as he wrote on the page.

  What a face and body they were. The man looked as if he should be gazing out from a billboard, wearing a custom-tailored suit in an advertisement for a sumptuous cologne or extravagant brand of Scotch, rather than sitting in an Argentine coffee shop in a white shirt and jeans. She was surprised to see he had a beard, but it did little to hide his sculpted cheekbones or the olive skin that set off his light-colored eyes to perfection. From this distance, she wasn’t sure of their exact color, but the contrast with his jet-black hair and eyebrows was unexpected and sexy. Yet there was something oddly flawed about his face that made Emily want to study him from a closer vantage point, to determine just what it was that seemed out of place.

  Perhaps it was the pen he held in his hand. A man who did the crossword over breakfast inevitably had brains, a trait Emily found even more appealing than his looks. Hell, a man who read an actual newspaper rather than spend his morning meal tethered to his electronic devices did it for her. Not that any man should be doing it for her when she had a season finale to produce.

  “See what I mean?” Rita sighed. “Tell me you wouldn’t want a guy who fills out a shirt the way he does to sweep you into his arms for a slow tango.”

  The mental image warmed Emily’s cheeks. He was the embodiment of the word sultry. No doubt when he danced with a woman, he made her feel as if she were the only female in the world he’d ever held so close or gazed at with such intensity. And what woman wouldn't want to feel that way?

  His hand moved across the newspaper page, making quick circles with his pen. As Emily watched the smooth movement, she drew in a quick breath.

  “What?” Rita asked, instantly on alert.

  “He’s exactly the man I want. I’m going over there.”

  Emily set down her coffee, pushed back from the table, and strode across the street, leaving Rita in stunned silence.

  * * *

  Vittorio Barrali knew without raising his eyes from the newspaper that a woman approached. He’d always had a sixth sense for the presence of a beautiful female, but months of moving from hotel to hotel, constantly at risk of being recognized—or, more accurately, recognized as his “missing” identical twin, Alessandro—gave him defensive instincts he hadn’t possessed in his life as Sarcaccia’s crown prince, when most of those he saw on a daily basis were carefully vetted by security staff. The quick click of this woman’s heels against the cobblestones meant she approached with a purpose.

  Pretending not to notice, he kept his pen steady and his gaze directed at his newspaper. While he’d let his hair grow from its former close-cropped style, left a scruff of beard on his face, and changed his manner of dress, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone—a royal watcher, a reporter, a Sarcaccian national—recognized him and alerted the authorities, or worse, tipped off a media outlet like Hello! or People. He hoped the woman picked up on his Do Not Disturb vibe and opted to do exactly that.

  “Excuse me? Do you speak English?”

  So much for Do Not Disturb.

  He raised his head slightly, intending to utter a curt no, but the woman’s wide, hazel eyes and hopeful smile stopped him. She was a rare beauty, the type who took men’s breath away simply by being in their presence.

  Better yet, her earnest expression gave no indication she’d interrupted his breakfast because she recognized him.

  Against his will, he smiled in return. Though she’d asked her question in flawless Spanish, she struck him as a well-dressed business traveler in need of directions. A rather beguiling traveler, at that. He’d spent time with some of the world’s most attractive women—models, socialites, and one actress in particular—who poured immense amounts of time and money into improving their already-striking looks. Yet even without precise makeup, obvious designer clothing, or an artfully arranged hairstyle, this woman exuded a natural charm most of those women lacked and carried herself with a healthy self-confidence that didn’t stray into arrogance.

  Cautiously, he responded, “A bit. May I help you?”

  She extended her hand. “I’m Emily Sinclair. I host an American television show called At Home Abroad. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Television? Not the type of person he wanted to meet, in spite of her genuine manner and the fact she had a fantastic pair of legs. Tempting legs. He allowed himself a brief perusal before meeting her bright-eyed gaze and giving her a brief, dispassionate handshake. “I’m sorry, no.”

  Undeterred, her smile broadened. “You’re not from Argentina, are you?”

  “No. If you're looking for directions, I’m afraid I can’t be of help.” He needed to get rid of Emily Sinclair, American television host, and quickly, or risk exposure. Though next time he traveled to the United States, he might try to find her show. He could think of far worse ways to pass the time than admiring a beautiful woman from the solitude of his own sofa.

  He reached for his newspaper, hoping she’d take the hint.

  She pulled out the chair opposite his. “May I?”

  He paused, his urge to learn more about the long-legged beauty warring with his sense of self-preservation. In that moment of hesitation, he caught a hint of vulnerability in her gaze, sensed that she was taking a risk, and was lost.

  “I’m afraid I don't have much time, but go ahead.” Emily Sinclair was a touchable woman. Honey-colored hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders, her skin was porcelain smooth, and her full lips cried out for a man to run his finger over them. Though touching was out of the question, he decided to allow himself to indulge in the next best thing. What would a moment’s conversation hurt?

  As she slid into the seat, he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume. No, not perfume. She wasn’t wearing a scent, at least not one from an ornate glass bottle, the way women did when they dressed up for the charity galas or state dinners he’d hosted alongside his father before leaving Sarcaccia. Her scent was soft, natural, like a ray of morning sunshine cutting through an ancient forest.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” she said.

  “Victor.” It rolled off his tongue as easily as Vittorio once did. “You didn’t get it because I didn’t give it.”

  “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?”

&
nbsp; 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 murm
ured 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—”