Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (32 page)

She exhaled, taking it in. “Define massive.”

Emily outlined her idea for what she wanted to include…and to cut. When she finished, Rita emptied the wine bottle into her glass. “I like it. I’m pretty sure I can convince the network, but even if they give their blessing, it’s a taking huge risk.”

“Not really. Taking a risk implies that there’s a reward if things go well and this has no upside. If what we originally filmed wasn’t going to earn us a renewal, neither will this. But it’s the way to go. I know it in my bones.”

“I agree. Though if Bob” —Rita emphasized the name— “doesn’t see what all of us see in you, he’s a terrible judge of character.”

The statement made Emily burst out into laughter. “I told him that, though in his defense, he only knew me a week.” She gave Rita’s hand a quick squeeze and said, “It means the world hearing it from you, though. Thank you.”

“I speak the truth, but you’re welcome.” Rita stacked their plates and shoved them to the middle of the table so they could clean up later, then regarded Emily with concern in her eyes. “Look, when Paul left you, it hurt. I know it did. But even considering the length of time you two were together, I think you were more angry than brokenhearted when it ended. This is different. You made a deeper connection with Prince Vittorio in that week than you did with Paul in years.”

Emily felt the same way, but admitting it aloud would make the situation so much worse. “Don’t look for the fairy tale, Rita. There was a damned good reason it didn’t work with Paul. That reason would go double for Vittorio. He’s the crown prince, and that position comes with massive responsibility. I’m not making these edits because I think he’ll approve and come riding in on a white horse to whisk me away to his palace. Right now, I’m just hoping to save the show.”

Rita leaned over and gave Emily a warm hug. “We’ll make this work. No matter the reasons.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The roar of the stadium crowd shook the floor beneath Vittorio’s feet. Beside him, Alessandro gave a fist pump as Sarcaccia F.C. put a ball in the net with less than a minute left in regulation. If the team could hold on, they’d have their first victory over A.C. Milan
in six years. While the mood in the royal box was jubilant, it wasn’t the same as amongst those in the seats below, where fans waved flags and sang, arm in arm, for their team.
 

While Vittorio was perfectly happy sitting in the royal box wearing a custom-made shirt and Italian silk tie rather than a team jersey and face paint, he knew exactly how the die-hard fans felt, thanks to Emily.

Alessandro turned to Vittorio when an injury time out was called on the field. “You’re attending the dinner honoring the Cateri Dog Rescue Society, right?”

“I am. Should be straightforward.”
 

In the two months since Vittorio returned to Sarcaccia, he’d slipped into his role as crown prince as easily as a man slipped into his favorite jacket. Everything fit. The palace’s antique dining chairs, the luxurious bed in his apartment, the daily chitchat with the staff, even the sound of his own footfalls against the marble floors in the hallways. It was as if he’d never left. He’d thought that after months away, with no one to answer to save himself, the busy schedule of charity fundraisers, state dinners, and economic meetings would tax his patience. It didn’t. He’d been certain he’d ache for the freedom of taking a leisurely bicycle ride through a city park just as the birds twittered the advent of a new day, or the ability to walk up to a window to order a coffee or freshly-squeezed juice without anyone snapping his picture. He’d even worried he’d miss the joy of joining a crowd, just as he had when he’d attended the
Superclásico
at La Bombonera, and people-watching from a place of anonymity. Again, to his surprise, he didn’t. While he’d enjoyed those pursuits while he’d been in Buenos Aires, he no longer craved the escape they offered from his royal position.

However, he desperately missed Emily. More than once, he’d awakened at night aching to hear her voice. He missed the way she’d touch his arm to get his attention or when she thought he needed comfort. He yearned to see the flush that crept along her cheekbones when they’d visited the men’s store after the soccer match and he’d noticed her in the mirror, discreetly watching his movements over the dressing room door, or whenever he teased her for calling him Bob. Most of all, he missed being seen for the man he was on the inside. It was the first time anyone outside his immediate family valued him not for his title or his wealth, but rather for his likes and dislikes, his sense of humor, and his imagination.

It wasn’t his pursuits that made him feel most alive in Buenos Aires. It was the company. It was Emily.
 

He clapped along with the crowd as the A.C. Milan player rose to his feet and shook off the hard hit he’d taken a moment earlier.

It never bothered Vittorio before, being seen through the lens of fame and fortune. His parents had raised him from birth to be a monarch, and Vittorio understood that to the world at large, he represented a country, a government, and a way of life, not an individual with private hopes and dreams. Therefore he strived to show only those aspects of himself that would reflect best on his country, knowing such behavior would keep him and his country safe from the one group of people he’d learned never to trust: the reporters who would drag his family’s name through the mud if they thought it would bring in revenue. Anyone else who’d entered his orbit had been vetted. Even those he met at parties were screened long before he met them. They’d fallen over themselves simply to be in his presence or in that of his family. So long as he was gracious, honest, and worked hard to improve his country, he’d believed they weren’t a threat.
 

His experience with Carmella proved otherwise. At any given moment he could fall victim to someone who viewed him only as a target, particularly a beautiful woman. Though it had taken months of work by his mother’s private investigators to bring the truth to light, Carmella had deceived him from the start. The evidence was there all along, if only he’d been alert.

Yet two months after they’d each returned home, Emily hadn’t betrayed him. He’d checked in twice with Maria Cappalli, the Royal Police Chief Investigator. Maria claimed to have heard no rumblings about the time Vittorio spent in Argentina, though a local news agency was considering looking into Alessandro’s time away. Nor had anything suspicious appeared on the usual gossip websites.

He knew the entire story could still come out. His switch with Alessandro, the details of Carmella’s fraud, and the suicide note she’d sent to Vittorio constituted extremely marketable information. But he’d trusted Emily when she’d said she had a potential pregnancy covered. If he could trust her with that—and for some inexplicable reason, he still did—he had to trust her not to divulge his deepest secrets to save her show.

He’d been an ass to her when she’d pulled him into the alleyway and told him she knew his identity. Now he had to fix it, though he wasn’t sure how. He only knew he wanted to feel the way she made him feel. She made him want to dance, to laugh, to explore. To view the world with a sense of appreciation and optimism, rather than a sense of duty. She’d made him whole again, if only for the week they’d been together.
 

“Who’s on the guest list?” Alessandro asked, leaning in so only Vittorio could hear him.

Dragging his attention back to business, Vittorio ran through the names he’d seen on the security checklist for the dog rescue dinner. Nodding, Alessandro noted those with whom he’d interacted during Vittorio’s time away. “The man who donated the land for the new kennel facilities attended a party Sophia threw just before Christmas. I—you—spoke with him briefly about how much you enjoyed skiing in Switzerland last year. He owns a cottage outside Grindelwald and invited you to use it whenever you wish.”
 

Alessandro discreetly handed his phone to Vittorio so Vittorio could see the man’s photo.

“Got it.” The brothers knew the easiest way to arouse suspicion at this point was for Vittorio to forget an event Alessandro attended in his place or fail to recognize anyone with whom he’d had more than a passing conversation.

“It’s also possible you’ll have a wonderful conversation tonight with your future bride.”

“Excuse me?” Vittorio forced the surprise from his face and glanced at his brother, though Alessandro kept his eyes firmly on the soccer field, where Sarcaccia F.C. made a terrible pass that was picked off by one of Milan’s midfielders to the horrified screams of the crowd.

“Her name is Francesca Lawrence, though she asked you to call her Frannie.”

“You think I’m marrying a Frannie?”
 

Alessandro’s lips lifted into a devilish smirk. “Her mother is Sarcaccian, her father is American. They’re divorced. The mother lives in Cateri, the father divides his time between London and New York. You danced with her twice at Sophia’s party. You would’ve danced with her a third time, but you know how people talk. As it was, Sophia was giving me the evil eye.”

Vittorio tamped down a groan. “Tell me I didn’t flirt with this Frannie woman.”

“No. Not the way
I
would flirt with her. I still haven’t figured out how—or even if—you flirt.” Alessandro leaned forward to see the sideline referee, who indicated there would be an extra two minutes of injury time. “But you chatted with her for quite some time. That’s how you learned about her parents. I think she was attracted to you.”

“Or you.”

“Definitely not me. I know how to flirt, but I was pretending to be you.” He looked over his shoulder at Vittorio, then eased back in his chair so they were side by side again. “I do think you’d like her, though. She’s flat-out beautiful and strikes me as kind-hearted. She’s also proper. A true stick-in-the-mud like you.”

“That’s the best you can do? Stick-in-the-mud? Who even uses that phrase anymore?”

“People like you,” he retorted before springing to his feet as the whistle blew to end the match.
 

Vittorio rose to stand beside his brother and cheer the team’s victory. He wondered if Alessandro would be more at home down in the stands with the cheering crowd than in the royal box, where the celebration was more dignified, but quickly dismissed the thought. The past few months wrought changes in Alessandro, too. He’d become quieter, more serious. During a workout with their martial arts instructor this morning, Vittorio noticed that Alessandro didn’t even spar in his usual manner. He’d become more calculating. More controlled.

“It’s been two months now, you know,” Vittorio said. “You could safely take off.”

“I might.” A muscle in Alessandro’s jaw twitched. “Haven’t decided what I want to do yet. And you still haven’t announced what that project is I worked on for you in South America. I had another reporter ask about it yesterday, when I toured the new wing of the national museum. We’ll need an explanation soon.”

“I’m working on one.” And discarding ideas left and right. “You’ll keep me posted on your plans?”

“My only plan at the moment is to go home, put my feet up, and watch
fútbol
on TV with a glass of good whiskey by my side. Maybe take a nap.”

At that moment, Vittorio caught sight of a cameraman down on the field. For a split second he thought it was Ignacio, but when the man turned, he realized it wasn’t. However, it was a reminder that the
At Home Abroad
finale was scheduled to air in another week. Other than learning that the finale would be aired live from New York and was titled “The Best of Buenos Aires,” he’d been unable to find any indication of its content. Nor had there been an announcement regarding the show’s renewal.

Far below them, a young reporter with long, wavy hair a few shades darker than Emily’s approached the players. The cameraman shifted behind her, his movements mimicking Ignacio’s. At that moment, Vittorio knew with every fiber of his being that he wouldn’t marry a Frannie.
 

“Would you do me a favor?” Vittorio caught Alessandro’s arm as they made their way out of the box, toward the stairs that would lead them to the car waiting for them in a secure parking spot. “Could you stick around through next Friday night? Something important may come up.”

“Like what?”

“An explanation for our project.”

Seeing the cameraman not only gave him an idea for a logical-sounding project, it made Vittorio realize how much he needed Emily in his life, despite the fact that at this very moment she could be readying to share his secrets with the world. But before he could put his plan into action, he’d have to make a few phone calls.
 

The first would be to send his regrets to tonight’s dinner and send Alessandro in his place.

* * *

So many secrets. It wasn’t natural for one family.
 

Ironically, despite Fabrizia’s hatred of secrets, she was very good at keeping them.
 

The queen stood at the rear windows of her apartment and looked down at the palace gardens. Though night had fallen, discreetly placed lighting allowed her to see white blossoms dancing on the breeze over thick green foliage. Spring was in full force. In another month Stefano and Megan would be married, which made tonight’s private meeting of the entire Barrali clan no surprise to the staff.

“Umberto will keep anyone from disturbing us,” King Carlo said as he entered the apartment, referring to the longtime palace guard who watched the staircase leading to the king and queen’s residence. “He knows the wedding details are hush-hush for security purposes.”