Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (28 page)

What in the world had he seen in her, when he could have any woman? Why had he
slept
with her, then asked her on a second date? She could’ve sworn there was more to it than sex, that he’d actually cared about her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Tension sent pain spiking through her temples and hot tears springing to her eyes. Much as she and Vittorio had spoken as if there could be nothing long term between them, deep inside, she knew she wanted more, whatever
more
might mean. Never had a man intrigued her as Vittorio did. When he’d jumped into her cab and grilled her about the show, then agreed to appear on camera, she’d been floored by his generosity. He’d treated everyone he met as if they were his equal. She’d loved their talks in the park, the way she felt in his arms when they danced, the humorous spark in his eyes whenever she called him Bob. The way he’d raced through the crowd at a chaotic stadium when he’d worried about her safety.

He was everything she could want in a lover and friend. But that fantasy could never exist with Prince Vittorio Barrali.

Chapter Nineteen

“Damn,” Emily whispered, her throat tightening. She had no right to want a future with him, prince or not. No right to feel deceived. But she did.
 

Then again, he likely felt deceived, too, if he’d learned that she used to work for a royalty magazine. Double damn. No wonder he’d been aloof during the shoot. She had to talk to him, to tell him she now knew his identity and to make it clear she wouldn’t betray him, even if he hadn’t been completely up front with her. That she hadn’t purposely hidden where she’d worked.

Animated voices came from the foyer. Emily shoved her phone into the side pocket of her handbag, blotted her eyes with the pads of her fingers, then rushed to the door with a smile pasted on her face. “Sorry about that. Are you done already?”

“Not much to see. Same apartment with different cabinetry and different views,” Rita said. “Ignacio’s taking a quick panoramic shot of the living room, then all we have left is the ground floor fitness center.”

“Great.” She turned to Vittorio. “Well, what do you think?”

“They’re both good choices. If I were to buy in this building, I’d go with the first unit.” He gestured toward Monica. “It sounds like I can negotiate the furniture into the price, which would save me the headache of shopping.”

“Great.” Emily sounded like a broken record, but it was easier to answer on autopilot than risk giving away the fact her head was spinning with questions. She desperately wanted to get Vittorio alone. She was about to suggest that she go back through the first apartment with him—claiming she wanted to be sure they’d left nothing behind while offering Vittorio the opportunity for a final look—when Maryam ushered everyone into the elevator, saying she’d close up the apartments and bring the keys down to Monica in the interest of saving time.

A half-hour later, with filming complete, the entire group stood in the lobby. Rita spoke on behalf of the crew as she thanked “Bob” for the time and effort he’d given to the show. She handed him a gift certificate for more tango lessons, which drew a hearty round of applause, then revealed that she’d also gotten a soccer ball signed by members of the Boca Juniors, which she presented to Vittorio along with a box of bandages signed by the
At Home Abroad
staff. “We’ve never had an injury on the show and thought it should be commemorated,” she said.

Vittorio moved through the group, shaking hands and wishing everyone well. Emily couldn’t help but notice how he made each person feel as if they’d made his time special, a skill he’d likely learned from his parents as they prepped him for his future role as a monarch. He even asked Rita to be sure to let Mike know what a great time he’d had at the soccer game. Finally, he came to Emily.
 

“Ah, my tango partner.” He took her hand and flashed her the same warm smile he’d offered everyone else, giving no indication of the intimacy that had occurred between them “I’m honored to have danced with the show’s host. Thank you for convincing me that this would be fun.”

Her breath hitched as she imagined him lying in bed beside her, teasing her about having fun. Cognizant of her colleagues’ eyes on her, Emily smiled warmly and said, “It was fun for all of us as well. I know you have a lot of properties to consider, but I hope you’ll give us a call once you’ve come to a decision. We’d love to update our viewers.”

“Of course.” He angled his body so his back was to the others. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
 

The words were polite, but his eyes conveyed a deeper message. Before she could respond, he waved a final thanks to everyone, then disappeared through the glass doors and merged with the foot traffic on the street.

“On that note, I’ll take my leave, as well,” Monica said. She thanked everyone for the opportunity to have her agency and listings featured, then headed back to her flooded office to check on the cleanup.

“Another season down,” Rita said, clapping her hands together. “Mike and the rest of the support staff will meet us at the restaurant in a few hours to celebrate. Until then, everyone rest up. It’s going to be a wonderful night.”

And a long one, Emily thought, for her most of all.

* * *

At precisely five minutes before eight on Saturday night, Vittorio took a seat on the bench outside the florist shop near Emily’s bed and breakfast. Despite the exhaustion that overwhelmed him when he’d returned from filming the previous day, he’d gotten little sleep. The idea that Emily might uncover his identity haunted him. If she did, it was his own damned fault. Not for being on her show—he’d prepared for that to be discovered and had warned Alessandro as well—but for opening his soul to her. He’d known he was making himself vulnerable when he’d told her about Carmella, and he cursed himself for it now. But even if Emily didn’t make the connection, even if she never knew his real name and position, it galled him that he’d believed her to have a purity of spirit that made her worthy of sharing his deepest pain. No one who worked for
Today’s Royals
and loved their job could.

Though the sun had set, the metal bench remained warm. He leaned forward so moisture wouldn’t seep through his shirt. Skipping their date wasn’t an option. If Emily knew his identity, he’d only be able to assess the damage by seeing her before he flew home and looking her in the eye. And if she didn’t, he didn’t want to pique her curiosity by failing to show.
 

He glanced down the street. Seeing no sign of Emily, he propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples. The gut-churning horror he’d felt yesterday after learning the truth had morphed into a persistent headache, one that two hefty doses of ibuprofen failed to deaden. Needing to occupy himself after his night of tossing and turning, he’d packed his few belongings, confirmed his flight for Sunday night, then scanned apartment brochures. That had taken him a whopping hour. He’d jumped on his rented bike in an attempt to enjoy his last day of freedom, but found himself in an Internet café by mid-afternoon, searching for the articles Emily had published with
Today’s Royals
.
 

As Rita had said, Emily had covered a few weddings and had written extensively about the battery trial of a male cousin to the Swedish royal family. The tone of Emily’s work was sensationalistic, as was the tone of every article in the magazine, but rather than focus on the man who’d committed the crime or attribute his behavior to the family, Emily’s pieces focused on the trial itself. One article covered testimony given by the Stockholm police, another the intricacies of the Swedish legal system. A guide to the Swedish royals and their traditions ran alongside a profile of the victim, a race car driver who’d apparently had a longstanding feud with the cousin over a woman they’d both dated.

Vittorio had almost admitted to himself that Emily’s work wasn’t so bad when he came across an article about the exorbitant sum spent by a Dutch princess while on a shopping trip to Istanbul. Emily noted that over a two-week period, antique lamps, dozens of hand-woven rugs, towels, and spa products were ordered and shipped at a cost nearing a million U.S. dollars to a home the princess had recently built. While Vittorio had no doubt the story was true, the article was exactly the type he abhorred. It said nothing of whether the money was from the princess’s personal funds, which were vast, or from her annual state allowance. He’d bet anything that the purchases were made using her personal funds. More than that, the article made it sound like the princess was a spendthrift who had nothing better to do with her time than shop. No mention was made of her extensive charitable work or the fact that following her trip to Turkey she’d spent nearly three weeks in Haiti, where she’d contributed both her time and personal funds to help build a hospital and two schools for those in need.

If that was how she portrayed the Dutch princess, a woman he knew to be above reproach, what would Emily do with her knowledge of Vittorio’s relationship with Carmella? Or the pregnancy?
 

He’d shut off the computer in disgust, returned his bicycle to the rental shop, then walked back to his hotel to change for his date, a date he now dreaded.

Pressing his thumbs to his brow, he resolved to keep a smile on his face and give away nothing. He’d let Emily guide the conversation, assuming she showed up for the date. For all he knew, she’d gotten all the information she needed and was preparing to release it to the world.

He muttered an oath, telling himself to stop playing guessing games.

“Vittorio?”

His head snapped up. Emily stood before him, worry etching her beautiful face. She’d worn her hair pinned up, likely due to the unseasonably warm weather, and sported a soft green dress with thin straps that highlighted her smooth skin and large hazel eyes.
 

Before he could answer her, she was on the bench beside him, her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry I’m late. Are you all right? You look like you’re nursing a headache.”

“I am.” Damn if he didn’t follow it with, “But it’s better now that you’re here.”

She fairly beamed. “That is the cheesiest line ever.”

“Perhaps. But it’s true.” He and his twin had truly switched roles now, because he was thinking with his nether regions, just like Alessandro at his worst. The mere touch of her fingertips against his skin made him want to pull her body against his, to kiss away all thoughts of their circumstances, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She must have read the conflicted emotions in his expression, because her eyes clouded and she eased her hand from his arm. “Did you get a reservation for dinner? Do we need to get moving?”

“I thought we could walk through the neighborhood and see what catches our fancy.”

“So no hurry, then.” Her smile seemed forced, very much like the smile she’d given him when he’d left the apartment yesterday. “In that case, before we eat, I was hoping we could talk.”

The pounding in his head returned full force. “How about if we walk and talk?”

At her nod, he indicated that they should head in the direction opposite her bed and breakfast. They made nearly two blocks before she spoke. “You were quieter than usual during the apartment tour yesterday morning, even though you seemed fine in the elevator when you arrived. Since we’re alone now, do you care to tell me what happened?”

He glanced at the menu posted outside a steakhouse before answering. “Contrary to the gut-spilling I did in bed, I tend to keep my thoughts private.”

“So something was bothering you.”

“Nothing I wanted to discuss. Besides, I wouldn’t have wanted to give any hints to your coworkers about what happened between us, especially given our earlier conversation about how hard you work to appear professional. Whispering in a corner of the apartment with you would’ve done that.”

“You don’t want to discuss it now, either?”

“You’re persistent, aren’t you?” He took her elbow to guide her around a young couple unloading shopping bags from the back of a taxi. “I suppose I should’ve known that from the way you staked out a luxury apartment on the off-chance I’d show up.”

 
“And, as I recall, you demanded to know who was employing me, even though I’d already told you my name and that I was the host of a television show.” She stopped walking when they reached an empty stretch of sidewalk in front of a dry cleaner that had closed for the night. When he paused as well, she said, “Vittorio…I’ll just come out and say it. I think I know who you are.”

“I can assure you, my name isn’t Bob.” Though he teased, he felt the color draining from his face. She didn’t think she knew who he was. She
knew
. He could see it in the way she twisted the fingers of one hand in the skirt of her dress, hear it in the nervous note that crept into her voice as she looked around to ensure no one was listening to them.

“I kept thinking that I knew you from somewhere. That we’d worked together or that I might’ve met you during the season
At Home Abroad
filmed in the Alps. But we’ve never met, have we?” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she reached up to smooth her hand over his cheek. “It was the beard and long hair that threw me off. You’re normally clean-shaven, and you’ve never had your hair long enough for the waves to show. You usually keep it short enough to pass a military inspection.”

“You don’t want to go down this path, Emily.” He grinned, hoping against hope for a reprieve he knew wasn’t coming.