Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (36 page)

He laughed aloud as he poured two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He’d managed only meager sips of champagne at the reception following the
At Home Abroad
finale. He’d been engaged in conversation after conversation, teasing Rita about her flirtation, telling Ignacio and Mike how much fun he’d had at the soccer match despite the head injury, and assuring Maryam he didn’t hold it against her when she’d talked about
Today’s Royals
. Seeing their reactions tonight had been entertaining, having met them all without the expectations of his name and heritage intruding on their initial impressions of each other. Even tonight they were far more relaxed in his company than most people he met, and he relished it. They were able to see each other for who they really were. No special treatment, no façades.

Then there was Emily. During his weeks away from her she’d constantly occupied his thoughts. Still, he was unprepared for the intensity of the desire that rushed through him at the sight of her standing onstage in that breathtaking pink dress, her glowing smile bewitching the crowd. Another emotion struck him as he stood near her watching the newsfeed from Sarcaccia. It took him a few moments to identify it, but when he did, it startled him.

Homesickness. Not for his island home, but for Emily.

The soft scent of her hair, the familiar feel of her lower back when he’d gently placed his hand there. Standing beside her on that stage felt like coming home. A crazy thought, since they’d only spent a week together in Argentina. Oh, but what a week it had been. The sex had been phenomenal, certainly, but it was more than that. It was the woman. Her resourcefulness, her wit, her talent. The light of her smile. The way she felt in his arms when they danced the tango. Her playfulness as he practiced
el cabeceo
in the park. And—though he’d failed to value it—her honesty.

He raised the whiskey to his lips. At the moment he took his first swallow, a knock sounded at the door. Frowning, he set the tumbler on the counter and made his way down the hall. A peek at the eyehole revealed a woman awash in pink. He couldn’t open the door fast enough.

“You didn’t use the key.” He stepped back to let her in, but she remained in the hallway clutching her gold purse in front of her.
 

“I’ve never been handed a key to a hotel room that wasn’t my own. It seemed wrong to simply let myself in.”

“How long have you been knocking?” It was an inane question, but her obvious discomfort kept him from saying what he wanted to say, which was along the lines of,
Forgive me, talk to me, don’t ever leave.

“Only once. Rita and I stayed to help the janitorial team, then we stopped in my office to set up a few meetings to plan the new season.” Her look of uneasiness grew. “It took me awhile to get here. If it’s too late, I can—”

“Never.” He reached for her elbow and gently guided her inside, then led her down the hall, past the study and the floating staircase, to a seat on the living room sofa. He watched her face as she took in the suite’s high ceilings, restored marble fireplace, and luxurious furniture and rugs.
 

“It’s not like the room I had in Argentina,” he admitted.

“That was nice. This is…something else.” She withdrew the room key from the side pocket of her purse, where he’d slipped it earlier, and placed it on the alabaster-topped coffee table.
 

“Extravagant? Over the top?”

“Befitting a true prince.”
 

“About that” —he sat beside her on the sofa and waited until she lifted her face to meet his gaze— “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for weeks, but wasn’t sure how to say what needs to be said.”

Her expression remained calm, though he didn’t miss that she buried her fingers in the skirt of her dress. “Straightforward is generally best.”
 

“I was an ass our last night together in Buenos Aires, when we talked in the alley. You were right to let me know that you’d figured out who I really am and I was wrong to get angry with you for having figured it out. I accused you of conduct I associate with those who’ve wronged my family in the past despite the fact you never showed the slightest tendency toward it.”

“Writing made up stories? Stalking royalty so I could expose their private lives?”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, hoping he could convince her of his regret. “I was wrong not to trust you when everything you did and said proved that I could. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was soft and accepting, but her gaze dipped from his face to the front of his shirt, where his tie hung loosely around his neck. Gently, he cupped her chin and raised it so he could look into her eyes.
 

“Emily?”

She blinked, as if gathering her thoughts. “You could have called and said that.”

“It’s not the same.” He ran his thumb along her jawline before releasing her. “I knew I was in the wrong by the time I returned to my hotel room that night, but I wasn’t sure an apology would fix it or if it would even matter to you. But the longer we’ve been apart, the longer things went unsaid between us, the more I realized that it mattered to me. I owed you a personal apology, even if you didn’t want one. Frankly, I owe you much more than that.”

She remained silent, though he could tell her mind was going a mile a minute. Finally, she said, “Is that what all this is? Did you make that call to James Owens and fly here from Sarcaccia because you…you think you owe me?”

“Of course not.”

She didn’t bother hiding her skepticism. “You know I wanted the show renewed more than anything. But I don’t want it this way. Not as an apology or a gesture, no matter how lovely. I wanted it renewed because it earned its place.”

“I
am
apologizing, but bringing
At Home Abroad
to Sarcaccia isn’t part of that. It’s separate.” She didn’t look convinced, so he edged closer and took her hands in his, needing her to understand the truth of his words. “I attended a soccer match last weekend and it reminded me of the one we saw in Argentina. My brother Stefano has been working on boosting tourism, and it occurred to me that the timing would be perfect to have Sarcaccia featured on a show like yours. You said you were looking for a country with sun and beaches, so” —he shrugged— “I picked up the phone and called James Owens at the beginning of the week. I introduced myself without mentioning that I’d met you and asked if there would be another season of your show. He said yes.”

Skepticism laced her tone. “He told you this days ago? But not me?”

“He asked me to, and I quote, keep it under my hat, as he wanted to make the announcement during your live finale. He told me that the show’s ratings spiked over the last few episodes, enough for him to justify the renewal. Then he praised you and Rita to the skies, telling me how creative you were with the show. He asked why I was interested, though given the compliments he’d just heaped on the show, I suspect he knew why I was calling.”

Vittorio couldn’t keep the broad smile from his face as he remembered the conversation. “I told him almost word for word what I said on the news broadcast tonight, that the Barrali family would love to see
At Home Abroad
in Sarcaccia, and that it would be good for us and for the network. I promised limited but exclusive access to Prince Stefano’s wedding if Owens could arrange to feature Sarcaccia in the coming season.”

“And he jumped on it, even though location has always been a decision Rita and I make together.”

“He did. I told you, I’m very good at managing people.” Though the person who mattered most to him wasn’t smiling. “I hope you’re not angry.”

“No, I wouldn’t say angry. Commandeered, maybe.” She slipped her hands from his and stood. He waited while she paced in front of the windows. At long last she turned to him and said, “You genuinely want the show in Sarcaccia? Not that I have a choice anymore—the announcement’s been made—but I need to know whether this is truly for tourism or because you have a misdirected sense of guilt—”

“Tourism. Plain and simple.”
He crossed the room to stand at the windows. Through the parted curtains, he could see the lights on the far side of Central Park. Quietly, he asked, “But is it wrong of me to want you there, too?”

She stopped pacing and opened her mouth to argue, but stopped short, her hazel eyes wide.
 

“The show is business,” he said. “You, on the other hand, are personal. More than anything, I want to know that you can forgive me for my lack of trust in you.”

“Of course I forgive you,” she touched his arm, then pulled back as if afraid of prolonged contact and turned to stare out the windows. “I don’t like that you didn’t trust me, but I understand it. You were horribly betrayed before you left for Argentina and your family’s been burned by reporters in the past. You had every reason to be leery of me.”

“You gave me every reason
not
to be leery of you. You were nothing but generous and kind.” As he stood beside her looking out into the night, another thought occurred to him, one he’d had briefly backstage as he watched the finale. “Speaking of generous, why did you edit me out of the finale? Was it because I lost my temper with you in the alley?” Or because, as Alessandro seemed to believe, Emily felt something for him?

She shrugged. “It was the right thing to do. You signed on as an apartment hunter, not to share your entire life. If we’d put you on the air, that’s what would’ve happened. You’d have eventually been recognized.” From the corner of his eye, he saw an ironic smile light her face. “Of course, we had no idea you’d out yourself.”

“Guess I could have saved you some editing time.”

“Maybe. In retrospect, it turned out to be a better episode with the edits, and that’s even before you came strolling onto the stage with your brother.” A gentle laugh bubbled from her. “He told me that he’s the better looking twin, by the way.”

“Of course he did.” Typical Alessandro. “Owens never saw the original footage, did he?”

She shook her head. “He’s not involved in the show itself, only in programming. Rita and I are the only ones who knew your identity before tonight.” Emily shot him a remorseful look. “I had to tell her why I wanted the changes. She’d have taken it to her grave.”

“I imagine she would’ve.” He’d suspected Emily would have to tell Rita at some point, given that they were equal partners in the show. More and more, he could see why the women had become fast friends. “How does she feel about going to Sarcaccia next season?”

“We talked after you left.” Emily’s eyes narrowed as she gazed outside. “We agree it’s a good location with a lot to offer, but we’re both bothered that we didn’t have the opportunity to scout it first and that you and Owens arranged it without our input, let alone any warning.” Angling her head to study him, she said, “We also agreed that public announcement or not, we won’t do it if you or your family want to control the content.”

“I’m not surprised.” He couldn’t help but grin, remembering their debate about gender roles as they’d walked through the park in Recoleta. He would prove to Emily that he wasn’t anything like her ex-boyfriend. That man had been a fool. “I have no intention of controlling anything you do for the show, though I’m happy to provide whatever support or resources you need. It just so happens I’m well connected in Sarcaccia.”
 

He reached for her then, unable to stop himself from running his hand along the shoulder of her dress. He’d never thought he’d love pink until he saw it on Emily. “Use me however you wish.”

* * *

Vittorio had no idea what his touch did to her. Or perhaps he did, and that was why he took his time tracing his way from her shoulder to her back as he complimented her on her dress.

This was so dangerous. Standing in a romantic hotel suite with a man whose tie was loosened enough to reveal the dark, tempting skin of his neck. She craved the taste of him, the feel of his pulse beneath her lips. Swallowing, she forced herself to keep her attention on the twinkling lights outside.
 

He stepped behind her, framed her shoulders in his large hands, and looked out at the night. His masculine scent teased her senses in invitation. If she went to Sarcaccia, what would it mean for the two of them? Was he looking for a string of one-night stands, or something more? She couldn’t ask without sounding presumptuous, yet she couldn’t let him believe there could be more between them. It was a relationship destined to fail, no matter how much he might care for her.
 

She closed her eyes, though the city lights still flickered in her vision. The burn of tears welled inside her. She wanted him to love her, desperately, but knew the more she allowed herself to crave it, the more agony she’d endure in the long run.

“You know what this makes me think of?” His warm breath caressed her ear.

Grateful his face was far enough behind hers he couldn’t see her fighting against tears, she said, “Tell me.”

“A woman standing on a balcony, looking down on a city, singing ‘Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.’”

Oh, he knew how to make her laugh. “This is New York. And it’s not a balcony.”

“But you’re every bit as brave when faced with a challenge.” His hand slid to hers. “Come with me.”

Trepidation filled her as he led her toward the staircase. Given what she’d seen of the suite so far, she guessed that it led to the master bedroom. She could not, would not, allow herself to go there.