Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (5 page)

“All right.” Emily resisted the temptation to push him away. Putting a hand on his chest to give herself room to think would only worsen her predicament. “I admit that I saw which ads you circled.”

“So you did follow me.”

“No, not at first.” At his look of consternation, she explained, “When I said goodbye to you this morning, I had no intention of coming here. I’d taken a chance approaching you at the restaurant. When it didn’t work out, that was that.”

“Then why did you inspect my newspaper?”

She couldn't help but show her exasperation. “It wasn’t on purpose. I put it out of my head as soon as I left my card on the table.”

“Yet here you are, which leaves my mind to all sorts of imaginings.”

Was he flirting with her, or threatening her?
 

Both options were decidedly hazardous.

“You’re making it rather hard for me to concentrate, let alone explain.” He had to realize it. Men with looks like Victor’s knew the effect they had on women. She eased to the side in an attempt to escape the prison in which he'd trapped her.
 

He moved his right hand a few inches, but only so he could gesture for her to continue speaking.
 

What did Victor do for a living? she wondered as his hand came back down on the heavy quartz countertop. Not only did he apparently have the budget for this apartment, he acted as a man used to getting his way.

On an exhale, she said, “I went back to the office, fully intending to shoot the episode as planned. But when Rita and I walked in from breakfast—Rita’s the show’s other executive producer—we learned that the couple we originally scheduled asked to delay filming. Their son was in a bicycle accident and they wanted to fly home to the United States to be with him. Of course I thought they should go.” Seeing the doubt in his expression, she added, “I’m not heartless.”

“I didn't accuse you of being heartless. Only deceptive.”

He pushed away from her and leaned his hips against the top edge of the opposite counter. At the same time, Emily heard the distinct sound of high heels striking hardwood in the adjacent living room. Before Emily could respond to Victor's accusation, the real estate agent rounded the corner, carrying a thick information packet emblazoned with the building’s name. She greeted them both with a polite, professional smile. “I hope you’re finding everything in the apartment to your liking. Do either of you have questions so far?”

Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry to be taking so long. Were you trying to wrap up?”

“You’re the last, but please, take all the time you need. It’s a stunning property.” She turned her full attention to Victor. Handing him the information packet, she said, “This outlines the building’s amenities. If you haven’t had a chance to see this unit’s private rooftop terrace, I’d be happy to show you its features.”

“I’m still analyzing the features here in the kitchen,” Victor replied, his gaze drifting back to Emily, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. He set the packet down on the counter and told the agent, “I’ll be sure to find you if I have any questions about the terrace. Thank you.”

The dark-haired woman glanced from Victor to Emily, then back again. “Of course. I'll be in the den whenever you're ready. It’s located just inside the front door.” Though the woman's demeanor remained professional, Emily suspected the agent thought she'd interrupted a romantic encounter.

“I believe you’ll have time to finish your explanation now,” Victor said once the sound of the agent’s footsteps faded. He didn’t move to trap her again, yet the way he crossed his arms over his formidable chest left Emily no doubt about his determination.

Choosing her words with care, she said, “As soon as I realized our season finale was in jeopardy, I had the staff start calling around, trying to come up with other possibilities. That’s when I remembered the ad I’d seen circled in your newspaper. It stood out because it was beneath a huge picture of this building. I decided to come here on the off-chance you registered for the showing.”

“I said no.” The firm set of his jaw left no doubt he was a man who meant the word when he said it.

“I realize that, but I had to try. And I thought that, even if you weren’t here, perhaps I could talk to the real estate agent afterward and get a lead. It’s a gorgeous building, exactly what we’d like for the finale. And if we don’t start shooting by tomorrow morning, everything we’ve worked to accomplish is lost.”

“Lost?” A dark eyebrow arched. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

She shook her head. “We supposed to wrap by the end of next week. The expense of keeping the staff in Buenos Aires until the Winstons return from the United States will blow the season’s budget. If I ask the network for an extension and a budget increase, they’d likely say no and cancel the episode. Without a great finale to cap off the season, they’re almost certain to cancel our series.” There. She’d said the words aloud and managed not to choke on them.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” His expression softened for a moment. Turning to look out the window at the end of the kitchen, he said, “There are views from every room in this flat. I can even stand at the cooktop and see parks. The botanical garden. The city skyline. And because it’s higher than the surrounding buildings, with glass that has been specially treated, no one can see inside. It’s completely private. And it’s a one-bedroom unit. No guest room, no guest bath.”

He turned back to face her. “It didn't occur to you after I explained that I had no desire to appear on television, and after you read the description of this flat, that what I’m seeking is privacy?”

“Of course, but” —how could she phrase this?— “when we met...well, I can’t put a finger on it, but you struck me as someone with a lot of warmth.” No man who kissed her hand the way he had, with such fire in his gaze, could be as coldhearted as he wanted her to believe. “When our plan for the finale fell apart, I thought I might be able to talk you into helping me out of a jam. That’s all.”

“In my experience, women who use deceptive means to get help—out of a jam, as you put it—never, ever have a man’s best interest at heart. Especially mine.”

Chapter Three

Well. A woman had obviously done a number on Victor to make him distrust all other women. She took a step toward him. “Victor, I—”

“You are an enticing woman.” His forehead creased as he waved off her words. “The answer is still no.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, leaving his newspaper and the information packet behind.
 

Emily let the breath whoosh from her lungs. As much as she’d felt drawn to Victor, as much as she was certain he’d felt the same, she’d obviously wasted her time in coming here. She hadn’t thought she could feel worse than when she’d arrived at the apartment, but his distrust—and curt dismissal—accomplished it.
 

Tears pricked at her eyes for the first time since she’d landed the hosting gig. Whether it was frustration over the episode or disappointment in the way things had gone with Victor, she didn’t know. Maybe it was both.
 

Or maybe it was the fear of seeing so many people—good, talented, hardworking people—lose their jobs after they’d poured their hearts and souls into making the Argentina season spectacular.

At that moment, she felt a vibration from her handbag. Digging inside, she withdrew her cell phone and read the new text message from Rita.
 

No luck yet. You?

Grateful for the momentary distraction from thoughts of Victor, she typed back
Working on a Plan B, will call shortly
.

Once she got downstairs, she’d make two calls. First to her bank, and then to Rita.

* * *

Vittorio uncurled his fists as he crossed the apartment’s threshold to stand in the penthouse’s circular elevator lobby. So much for the pleasant memory he’d hoped to retain from this morning’s breakfast. Emily Sinclair—assuming that was really her name—had gall.
 

In front of him, a sleek electronic panel marked the floors as the elevator made its ascent. Behind him, he could hear Emily saying all the right things to the real estate agent, thanking the woman for allowing her extra time to walk through the flat.
 

He wondered what lies Emily had told to gain access.
 

He wondered whether to believe anything Emily said.

Now that he considered the idea, it seemed farfetched that of all the people to notice him sitting in a near-empty Buenos Aires café scanning property listings, it'd be the host of a real estate show. Despite what his gut said about Emily, with her honest face and beguiling smile, logic told him it was far more likely she was she one of the long line of private investigators and paparazzi who’d tried to locate Alessandro, hoping to get the first confirmed photo of the missing prince, and that she’d managed to track him to Argentina and come up with an original approach in hopes of doing just that.
 

All Emily had to do was ascertain his identity by whatever means necessary—a carefully dropped question, a glimpse at his identification—whip out a camera, and she’d be an instant millionaire. When she’d asked if his name was Vittorio, he should’ve known she was fishing for information, hoping that “Alessandro” might react to the use of his twin brother’s name.
 

He might be sporting an uncharacteristic beard, a deeper tan, and longer hair than when he’d last been photographed, but anyone looking for Alessandro’s features when studying his face would believe they had their man. Worse, what if after sitting across the table from him she realized that it was he, rather than Alessandro, who’d disappeared? Surely a stranger wouldn’t have the ability to tell them apart, let alone after such a brief meeting. His own mother occasionally had to look twice to be certain which son had entered the room. Then again, he’d been foolish enough to identify himself as Victor. He shouldn’t have been so trusting, no matter how harmless she appeared.

His gut had been dead wrong about a woman before and it had almost cost him everything. No reason to think his gut would be right now.
 

The light on the electronic panel froze on the third floor. Vittorio ran a hand through his hair in frustration and willed the elevator to move so Emily wouldn’t have the opportunity to study him again. He’d have been better off if he’d turned and walked out of the apartment the moment he’d seen her in the kitchen. But when he’d rounded the corner from the living room and noticed her standing alone with her eyes closed, a heady mixture of beauty and vulnerability, he couldn’t resist approaching her. It wasn’t until he’d taken those few steps forward that he’d realized her presence couldn’t be coincidence.

He could kick himself for failing to call Maria Cappalli as soon as he’d left the restaurant this morning. The Royal Police Chief Investigator would have run a quick background check on Emily, and he’d have known in minutes whether his breakfast companion was who and what she claimed.

He punched the button again a split second before he heard the click of the apartment door. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Emily now stood behind him. A few painful seconds ticked off before she spoke, a slight tremor edging her words. “I wanted to let you go ahead, but I couldn’t stall any longer without looking suspicious. The agent needed to do her final walk-through before locking up.”

He said nothing, despite the temptation to mock her use of the word “suspicious,” keeping his attention focused on the elevator panel. When the doors finally swished to admit them, he propped open one side with his arm and gestured for Emily to enter.

“No, I can wait.”

“Get in,” he ground out, allowing himself a quick look at her. Though she stood tall, shoulders back and proud, pinkish streaks tinged her cheeks and her eyes were bright with restrained tears. She paused, considering, then strode past him into the mirrored, walnut-inlaid carriage.

He shouldn’t have looked. Her defiant, I-can-handle-anything demeanor reminded him of his sister, Sophia.

Once inside the elevator, he turned away from her and hit the button for the ground floor. They were nearly to street level when she spoke again, her voice steadier this time. “If it makes any difference, I’m sorry. I thought I was doing what was best for the show and for my employees. I didn’t mean to intrude. The rest of my team doesn't know I’m here. Other than Rita, who was eating breakfast with me this morning, they don’t even know you exist. So I promise, you won’t have to worry about seeing me—or anyone from my show—again.”

Good to know—assuming she told the truth—but he only tipped his head in response.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a light bounce, then the doors opened. Once again, Vittorio moved to the side so Emily could exit before him. Much as this woman drove him to distraction, certain acts were ingrained from birth.

“Thank you,” she said as he moved ahead of her to hold open the glass door leading out to the street. “You're very polite.”

“And apparently a rotten judge of character,” he muttered as he blinked against the bright sunshine. The walkways of the popular neighborhood had thickened with the noontime crowd while he’d been indoors. Many moved purposefully in the direction of the neighborhood’s shops and restaurants, while others carried bagged sandwiches and drinks in search of an open bench in one of the area’s many parks.