Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (4 page)

She swallowed hard in an attempt to push the image from her mind. She'd approached a total stranger, an action that wasn’t in her nature, in a desperate effort to save her show, and she’d come away from the attempt with nothing more than a case of mad lust. To top it off, she'd likely offended him with her question about his accent. She had to forget about her encounter with Victor and find a way to beef up the content they planned with the Winstons.

As the women rounded the final corner before arriving at the office, Rita’s cell phone rang. A half-beat later, Emily’s phone rang as well. Emily reached into her handbag just as Rita said into her phone, “We’re almost there. Yes, she’s with me.” She paused, listening, then said, “All right, tell us when we get there. Bye.”

Emily glanced at her phone’s caller ID and, seeing that her call also came from the office, she let it go to voice mail and frowned at Rita as the older woman rolled her eyes skyward.
 

“I’m not sure what’s going on, but they need both of us right away.” Rita let out an exaggerated sigh. “Welcome to another Monday morning.”

Emily forced a smile. “Well, they say bad things come in threes. First, we strike out in our attempt to get an attractive house hunter. Second, we have an apparent meltdown in the office. One more bad thing and we’re home free, right?”

“We don’t know how bad the office is yet,” Rita warned as she pulled open the glass door, then held it for Emily.
 

As Emily stepped inside the sunny space, a dozen somber faces greeted her. She strode to the center of the room, where a map of Buenos Aires was spread over a glass-topped conference table. After depositing her handbag in one of the chairs, she said, “All right. What happened?”

Maryam Tabrizi, one of the show's associate producers, grimaced. “It’s not good. The Winstons’ real estate agent just called us.”

Emily put a palm to her forehead. “Don't tell me—”

“Their son had a bicycle accident while riding to one of his classes at Stanford. Thankfully he'll be fine, but he has to have surgery tomorrow morning for a badly broken thumb.” Maryam shook her head. “Mrs. Winston asked if it’s possible to delay filming for a week or two so they can fly back to California.”

“What did you say?” Rita asked. “We’ve already pushed the schedule back as far as we can.”

“There’s no way we can do it, but I didn’t want to tell her that, not until I’d spoken with you two.” Maryam looked from Rita to Emily. “I simply told the agent that I’d have either you or Rita call as soon as possible. She gave me the number for the Winstons’ hotel here in Recoleta, but said they were hoping to check out before noon so they could get on a flight this evening.”

“Whew.” This morning, Emily thought things couldn’t get worse. Without the Winstons in town, there’d be no finale at all. The network wouldn’t give her the budget needed for an extension, not when the show’s fate was already up in the air. Network executives would likely greet any request for an extension with a cancellation of the final episode. On the other hand, never in a million years would Emily keep parents from an ailing son.
 

“Rita, call the Winstons. Assure them that they’ve made the right decision. Tell them we hope their son has a quick recovery and not to worry about the show, that we have contingency plans for just this type of situation. Then call their real estate agent and tell her the same.”

“Got it.”

To Maryam, she said, “Have one of the assistants find out which hospital is doing the surgery and arrange to have flowers delivered. In the meantime, I’d like you and Rita to get together to talk tango.”

“Tango?” One of the cameramen, a lanky Australian named Mike, whistled from the back of the room. “Rita and Maryam? Now that'd make great television.”

Laughter echoed through the office, prompting Emily to shoot a grin in Mike's direction. It raised her spirits to know the staff had a sense of humor about their situation. It was part of what she loved about working with them. Even when everyone was frustrated, they kept a positive attitude.

“Sorry, Mike. They’re discussing a possible tango segment.”

A chorus of “awwww” echoed through the office.

Emily made a show of plugging her ears against the sound. Once the room quieted, she turned back to Maryam. “Rita knows what we need. While you two get started on that, have the rest of the staff get on the phone and canvass our real estate contacts one more time. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a client who’s willing to shoot this week. High-end properties are preferable, of course, but we’ll take anything at this point. Expand the search area outside Recoleta and Palermo to include Barrio Norte and San Telmo.

“And Mike?” She turned toward the cameraman. “If you have time, maybe head to those neighborhoods and get some beauty shots while the weather’s clear. That way we have the footage ready to go if we need it. But keep your cell phone close in case we need to go elsewhere.”

As the staff scattered, Emily caught sight of the
Buenos Aires Herald
on Maryam’s desk. The page was folded to the real estate listings.
 

“Mind if I borrow this?” she asked Maryam, who was already waving for Emily to take it.

Rita looked at her askance. “What are you thinking?”

“I have an idea. Give me a sec.”

It probably wasn't the best idea, but how could she let her coworkers down? They'd spent almost ten months of the last two years away from home, giving up precious time with their families in order to film the show on location. They worked as hard as she did, yet received far less glory for their efforts.
 

“Anything Rita or I can do?” Maryam asked.

Emily shook her head. She scanned the page until she found the ad she sought, the one under the photo of a sparkling high rise, and then read the description. The figure listed at the end shocked her. Few people spent that amount of money on a one-bedroom apartment, even in pricier cities like Paris or London.
 

“I’m going out,” she announced. “Call me if you come up with any leads.”

She stuffed the real estate listing into her handbag and headed out the door before Rita, Maryam, or anyone else could protest. And before her own nerves got the better of her.
 

* * *

Emily tried to appear relaxed and friendly as she discreetly scanned the well-heeled buyers strolling through the luxury apartment overlooking the Plaza Sicilia in Buenos Aires’ park-filled Palermo neighborhood. Though she was unfamiliar with the real estate agent who hovered near the front door, Emily had managed to talk her way into the exclusive showing. She hoped that with the soft gray suit and ivory blouse she’d selected for work this morning she blended in with the other buyers, even if she didn’t have their financial resources.

She’d been thrilled when she’d stepped inside. Not only was the apartment private, occupying the top floor of one of the area’s tallest buildings, its gleaming hardwood floors, expansive views, and airy modern decor were certain to appeal to viewers of
At Home Abroad
. An attached rooftop terrace complete with a small swimming pool, teak chaises, and a living wall of potted bamboo would take the episode over the top visually. Who wouldn't want to imagine themselves sunning in such a divine spot?

However, much as she’d wanted to interact with the potential buyers and gauge their interest in appearing on her show, it was out of the question. No one entered an open house expecting to be approached by a television host, and she was certain the real estate agent wouldn't approve.
At Home Abroad
maintained its network of real estate contacts by allowing agents the ability to broach the subject with their clients privately, and only if they felt it appropriate.
 

On the other hand, there was nothing to stop an individual at the open house from approaching her, which was why Emily had spent the last twenty minutes circling the space.
 

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all she had. Unfortunately, with only a half-hour left until the real estate agent closed the doors, the specific individual Emily had in mind hadn’t appeared. The only buyers remaining were a well-dressed older couple, and Emily suspected from the whispered conversation she’d overheard while they toured the master suite that they lived elsewhere in the building and had only come to see the penthouse out of curiosity.

Emily gave the couple a polite nod as they entered the spacious living room. Wanting to give them solitude to continue their conversation, she moved away from the floor-to-ceiling windows and into the apartment’s sleek, European-style kitchen. An audible sigh escaped her as she allowed her hand to trail across the sparkling white quartz topping the ebony island. She'd give herself five more minutes, then she needed to head back to the office and check on progress. If she didn’t have a shooting schedule finalized by tonight, she’d be forced to call her network’s headquarters in New York to explain the situation.
 

It would be an out-and-out declaration of failure.
 

She closed her eyes, forcing down the bubble of despondency rising in her chest. She still had a few hours. If she couldn’t make something happen, perhaps the staff could. They’d certainly worked miracles in the past. Or, if worse came to worst, perhaps she could tap into her savings and float the cost of the extension herself. Waiting for the Winstons to return from California would wipe out her account, but if it gave the show a fighting chance, she’d do it.

A shift in the air made her open her eyes. She stifled a gasp as she found herself eye-to-upper body with the very man she’d been hoping to see. How had she not heard his approach?

Victor stood less than three feet in front of her, his marked-up newspaper rolled in his hand. Despite the fact he wore the same loafers, dark jeans and white Oxford-cloth shirt as this morning, no one could doubt he belonged in an apartment as luxe as this one. He carried himself as if he already owned the place.

Taller, broader in the shoulder and narrower in the hip than she’d realized during their brief encounter, when a table had served as a buffer between them, he dominated the space between the island and the kitchen’s rear wall of cabinets. He’d sent her heart into a slow flip this morning, but being this close to him fired every nerve in her body. If he spun her around and lifted her onto the counter behind him right then and there, she’d—

“Now you’re stalking me?”
 

She met his gaze, but the chill in his eyes only served to emphasize the iciness of his tone.
 

Her fantasy died, the connection they’d shared this morning completely severed by his quiet, accusing words.
 

“No, it’s not—”

“That’s why you put your business card beside my newspaper instead of handing it to me.” He stepped even closer, leaving her trapped between his body and the kitchen's massive island. “You wanted to see which ads I’d circled so you could follow me.”

She shook her head, hoping he couldn't see how disconcerted he made her. She’d put the business card on the table rather than handing it to him because she’d been afraid he’d pull her fingers to his lips once more and he’d know how utterly desirable she found him. She hadn’t thought twice about the ads she’d seen marked, not until she’d arrived in the office and heard about the Winstons. But how could she explain her action without admitting her intense attraction and looking like a fool?
 

“Then explain your presence.”
 

“I will, if you give me some space.” Why was he so angry?

He tossed the newspaper onto the island countertop and then surprised her by leaning forward, bracing a palm on either side of her. Her heart leapt into her throat as he spoke. “I’m not giving you anything. I want you to explain yourself. Who’s employing you? How did you get in here? This showing required pre-registration.”

She blinked. Employing her? Who was this man, to have such a strong reaction to seeing her here? She ignored his second question and said, “I told you this morning. I’m the host of
At Home Abroad
.”

“And that’s why you’re following me?” His steady gaze bore into her as he spoke, as if he could draw out what was in her mind through sheer intimidation. “Or are you here for some other reason?”

 
It took every ounce of her fortitude to maintain eye contact. He’d imprisoned her in the space between his arms to compel her to respond, certainly, but there was something besides anger in his cold, assessing gaze, an emotion she hadn’t expected.
 

Astonished, she said, “I make you uneasy.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I’m not afraid of anyone, let alone an oh-so-innocent-looking American in skinny high heels.”

“I didn’t say afraid. I said uneasy.” Which was exactly the way he made her feel. Panicky, yet attracted and fascinated at the same time. But what could possibly make him uneasy around her? It wasn’t sexual interest, though this morning she’d seen that, too. This was another emotion entirely.

His upper lip twitched as he stared at her, the same involuntary movement she’d noticed this morning when she’d asked if his name was Vittorio. What was it he thought she wanted? This wasn't about appearing on her show.

“You’re trying to distract me.” His strong, handsome face was only inches from hers now, so close she could kiss him with the barest of movement, if he didn't strangle her first for her perceived infraction. “Explain yourself or I’ll have the real estate agent throw you out. I doubt she wants to risk a sale because of you, not on a property with a commission as high as this one.”