Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (17 page)

He leaned back in his battered wooden chair as the hostess returned with two fluffy croissants on ceramic plates and richly scented cups of coffee. Once she’d departed, Victor asked, “Given that, which tango option would you choose?”

Emily picked off a corner of her croissant and popped it in her mouth. The impossibly light, buttery layers melted against her tongue. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how ravenous she’d become, how desperate for sustenance. She exhaled, then met Victor’s penetrating gaze. “Why are you being so generous? And how do you know about network executives?”

“First, because you’ve been kind to me and I like you.”
 

Given his self-contained demeanor, she doubted he said such a thing often. She rearranged her napkin in her lap, hoping he couldn’t see the effect his straightforward statement had on her.

“Second, anyone who’s ever had a favorite television show knows what it’s like to have it cancelled. Usually fans complain that it wasn’t promoted enough to find a following.” He took a bite of his own croissant. Instantly, he made the satisfied sound of a man who’d found a new favorite.
 

“Phenomenal, aren’t they?” She savored another piece of hers before turning back to the subject of tango. “The seminar followed by the
practica
would likely be the most interesting. As I said before, viewers want to put themselves in your shoes and see what it would be like if they were to take a class. Interspersing that with video taken at a tango show or a
milonga
would make for a colorful segment. But I also understand it’s a lot to ask. Dancing tango can feel very personal. If you’re not comfortable, it won’t work on the screen.”

He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. He had an interesting face, especially in the muted light filtering through the café’s old, bubbled windows. Crinkles at the edges of his impossibly light brown eyes betrayed the weighing of pros and cons going on in his mind. The wavy, coal black hair, the full lips that hid straight, white teeth, so cheerful when he smiled. The model-perfect ridges of his cheekbones and the dark beard beneath them. The guarded manner in which he seemed to see everything in a room at once. All of it fascinated her.
 

She wondered if his siblings shared his traits. She wondered how many siblings there were. Male? Female? Older? Younger? Both? Which reminded her of his parting words last night.

“Before I forget to ask…did you call your family?”
 

“Well, there’s a change of topic.” He set down his cup. “I e-mailed my mother last night. I’ll see her in a few days.”

“A few days?” Emily couldn’t keep the note of astonishment from her voice. “Is she coming to Buenos Aires?”

“No. I’m going home. Bought my plane ticket yesterday.”

Disappointment rippled through her, followed by consternation that she’d experienced the emotion. After all, she was leaving soon, too. “I’m sure she was pleased to hear it.”

“I’m sure she was.” He finished his croissant in two bites, then said, “Call Rita. Tell her I’ll attend the seminar and the
practica
. But on one condition.”

“You’re full of conditions, Bob.”

“About that—”

“Terrible choice,” she admitted. “Doesn’t fit you at all. But it’s what popped out of my mouth at La Bombonera.”

“Even worse, when you filmed your segment on the field you called me Bob White. Isn’t that an American bird?

Her face heated. “As I said, terrible choice.”
 

It had taken a moment for Emily to realize what she’d said, but by then she wasn’t sure how to correct it without raising questions amongst the crew. Today, though, she could swear Rita picked up on the fact it wasn’t his real name. As soon as Emily found a moment, she’d explain Victor’s request to remain anonymous from the crew as well as the audience. Rita would understand.

“The price of embarrassing me with that moniker is to suffer some embarrassment yourself. You’re going to tango with me.”

“Me?” She did
not
dance.
 

“I’m going to need a partner. Why not you?”

She held her hand palm out in the universal signal for
no way
. “The tango school has promised to take care of that. Then at the
practica
there will be dozens of beginners—”

“That’s my condition. If I’m going to spend the afternoon dancing with a woman, I want to ensure it’s not one who’ll want to make small talk between sets and ask a dozen questions about my background, why I’m in Buenos Aires, or about my apartment hunt. Deal?”

The hostess seated a young couple at a table behind them, then ambled over to offer more coffee. Emily gratefully accepted a refill, but Victor declined, asking instead for the bill. Emily was about to protest, but his quick look made her realize it was fruitless to argue. She waited for the hostess to depart before asking, “Do you always get your way?”

“When I make a request, yes, people tend to do what I ask. But I wouldn’t say that’s the same as getting my way. I rarely get my way.”

His cryptic statement made her wonder once more what he did for a living. Perhaps he ran a business where he was subject to circumstances of the market…but those who worked for him did what he asked.
 

“My way or not, you can’t tell me that viewers won’t tune in to see their beloved host tango,” he continued, shifting in his seat. “In fact, I’d be surprised if Rita hasn’t already suggested it to you.”

“I see why you often get your way.” The man had a knack for saying the right thing at the right time. He’d slipped in the word
beloved
on purpose. “But the answer is no. My job is to host. I can’t intrude by becoming part of the story.” She swept a hand toward the windows, encompassing the view of the cobblestoned streets. As if on cue, cathedral bells rang out through the narrow streets. “This is your adventure. Not mine.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as if to say,
we shall see
.

* * *

“Come on, Emily. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
 

Rita stood with her hands on her hips, angling her head to take in the full effect of Emily’s outfit. Maryam had sent a clean-lined strapless top with black sequins along with a black skirt in a lightweight fabric to the tango studio. Emily was grateful not to be in overtly sexy fishnets and the shiny fabrics often worn in tourist-oriented tango shows, but felt naked with her shoulders bare.

“Adventure is one thing. Embarrassment is another.” She ran her hands over her arms as she stepped the rest of the way out of the bathroom that served as the tango studio’s dressing room. “Are you sure there’s wasn’t a shawl in the bag?”

“Part of the allure of tango is the visibility of a woman’s back. It also helps the instructor see the position of your shoulders.” At Emily’s glare, Rita added, “Or so Maryam says. She did the research and selected the wardrobe.”

Emily bit back a retort and sat down on a nearby bench to slip into the tango shoes Maryam provided. The soft soles were impeccably crafted and the patent leather uppers molded to Emily’s feet, making them more comfortable than she’d imagined when she’d been handed the strappy heels ubiquitous to the dance. She looked up at Rita, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. “I can’t believe you think this is a good idea.”

“The tango instructors thought so, too, when I talked to them. Besides, you know in your gut it’ll get the attention of the network. That’s what we need, more than anything. We have to throw them a curveball if we’re to have any hope of renewal.”

She cinched the buckle on her left shoe, ensuring the strap wouldn’t come undone. “You could’ve danced yourself, you know.”

“They don’t want to see a stranger. I’m strictly behind the camera.” Rita dropped her voice to a whisper. “Besides, Bob doesn’t look like the type to trip over you. It could be a lot worse.”

“How?”

“We could be watching the Winstons. Or Bob could be the type who’d take the opportunity to grope you.” Rita’s eyes twinkled in unconcealed mischief. “Though maybe it’d be better if he did. The man is stunning. I wouldn’t object if he tried—”

“Rita Bragna! You most certainly would.”

The women shared a smile, though Emily hoped Rita couldn’t see through hers to the true thoughts percolating in her head. How could she dance in the traditional close tango embrace without betraying how attractive she found the man? It was the last thing she wanted her coworkers to see, let alone a nationwide viewing audience. Or—God forbid—James Owens, the network head who had the final say in whether or not
At Home Abroad
would be around next season.

Then there was Victor himself. Spending yesterday apart hadn’t dimmed the pull she’d felt toward him. All morning, she’d been aware of his presence, even when he’d been in the next room. Each step he took, each observation he made about the apartment, magnified itself in her mind. Between her hyperawareness and the we-can’t-let-this-happen-again talk she’d given him following their kiss, the tension between them during a tight tango would be unbearable.

Emily ran her hands down her thighs, drying the sweat from her palms and willing her nerves to behave.

“Have fun with it.” Rita leaned down to brush a stray thread from the side of Emily’s skirt. “Imagine you’re here as a tourist yourself. It’s not as if you’re not due for some vacation time.”

“We’ll all end up with more vacation time than we want if this doesn’t work.”

“Then make it work.” Rita straightened as her eye caught movement in the mirror behind Emily. “Here come our instructors.”

An elegant, fit-looking couple in their mid-fifties entered the room and introduced themselves as Hector and Eva, the owners of the studio. While Rita gave them the rundown on her goals for the segment, Victor slipped into the studio from the other bathroom. Though
slipped
wasn’t the right word; the man might move silently, but he knew how to make an entrance. His black and white tango shoes, the fall of his dark pants, and the smooth fit of his cream-colored shirt made him look as if he were the teacher rather than the student. The slight angle of his brow in Emily’s direction said,
I told you so
. She fought not to roll her eyes as he scanned her from head to toe, taking in the white flower Rita had pinned into her hair—for the camera, she’d claimed—the sensual lines of her clothing, and the classic design of her own tango shoes.

Hector greeted Victor, then declared it time to start. “First to learn in tango,” he explained in a rich voice, “is that you must walk before you run. The walk is your foundation.”

Eva demonstrated the slight bend of the knees that prefaced each step a dancer took forward, then to the side, before asking Emily and Victor to stand beside each other and do the same. “Not too much bend in your knees,” she corrected Emily. “Light. Sensual. With your head high and no rebound in your step. Yes!”

Classical tango music filled the airy studio as Hector fiddled with buttons on a small player mounted to the wall near the door. Eva watched as Emily and Victor moved back and forth, mimicking the walk Eva had demonstrated, while Mike crouched in one corner to get the best angle. Much as Emily felt spotlighted, the movements came naturally, her body remembering the light steps she’d taken years ago during her college dance class.
 

The class where she’d met Paul. The man who’d become her partner, who’d so entranced her they’d each taken a second semester of dance despite the fact their athletics requirements were fulfilled after taking the first class.

“You have done this before, yes?”

Startled, Emily almost answered Hector before realizing he’d addressed the statement not to her, but to Victor.

“A few classes, that’s all.”
 

A glance in the mirror confirmed that Victor moved seamlessly, his light walk emulating Eva’s perfectly. Given the ease with which Victor picked up the subtleties of the movement, Emily suspected there’d been more than a few classes in his past.

Eva demonstrated embellishments to the basic walk—a swish of the foot against the floor, a lift and turn of a knee—then encouraged them to give it a try. After an initial error, Emily embraced the exercise, swooping her feet lightly across the floor, taking the time to feel the music. Much as Emily had resisted when Rita and Maryam begged her to take the dance lesson along with Victor, she knew she’d have craved moving with the music had she been relegated to the sidelines. And, in retrospect, it would make for a better episode with two people learning to tango rather than a solo dancer.

Emily finally began to relax into the steps, feeling the rhythm without having to concentrate as much on the placement of her feet, when Eva stopped the music and informed them they would move on to the embrace. Within seconds, she found herself with her arm high across Victor’s back, her hand spread across his shoulders, while her other hand rested lightly in his grasp. As his hand came to her back, sending a wave of warmth through her, she told herself to think of anything else. The street noise outside, the croissant she’d eaten at breakfast…anything but the way it felt to be held in Victor’s arms.

Again, Eva instructed them to walk. “The embrace is the focus of the dance. It is not simply the physical connection to your partner, but the means to define your movement on the floor. The man uses the embrace to communicate to his partner, to guide her without words. The woman must be patient, she must feel for the guidance of her partner and adapt to his lead.” Eva came up behind Emily and framed her hips, shifting Emily’s pelvis closer to Victor’s so that Emily might better anticipate his movements. “She must wait through his pauses. She must not hurry, but feel his intent. Yes?”