Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (9 page)

And while he wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of returning to Sarcaccia and resuming his role as crown prince, at least he now knew he could handle a surprise onion.

Women, on the other hand, were another matter. Carmella’s unexpected deception exorcised that part of him. He had no interest in bedding one since the day he’d discovered her real reason for pursuing him and he’d ended the relationship.
 

At least not until he met Emily Sinclair.

* * *

As Vittorio lay with his head on his pillow the night following his lunch with Emily, listening to the hum of street noise below his hotel window, he convinced himself his attraction to her was a freak occurrence, the result of months with only brief, necessary female contact.
 

Thinking of her as
touchable
. Flirting with her. Kissing her hand. It wasn’t like him, especially not the person he’d become since opening Carmella’s letter.

But as Vittorio walked into La Bombonera stadium behind Emily and her crew in the bright light of day, it took only a glimpse of the fall of golden hair against her tailored white blouse and watching the sway of her hips in a pair of curve-hugging slacks to discover his libido hadn’t died with Carmella, it had only gone dormant. The radiance of Emily’s smile as she turned to wave to the stadium’s head of operations, who’d given them permission to film, sent a surge of heat through Vittorio he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time, one that made him realize that his response to Emily yesterday wasn’t a fluke.

He exhaled, resolving to enjoy the entire experience…the television cameras, the jubilant noise, the scent of freshly-grilled meats that permeated the air, and even his reborn sense of desire. It might not be quite the way Alessandro would’ve embraced the day, but it was adventure enough for Vittorio.
 

They paused at the edge of the field, where a local makeup artist quickly touched up Emily’s lips with a thin brush, then fluffed powder over her nose and forehead. He’d had his own face touched up for a camera more than once, particularly before hosting televised charity events. Necessary, he knew, but awkward. Yet there was an effortlessness to Emily’s last-minute preparations—the makeup check, a review of her script with Rita, a discussion with her cameraman, Ignacio, about the angle of the sun—that put Vittorio at ease when the makeup artist approached him and asked to do a quick shine check before she left for her next job.

Vittorio’s attraction to Emily was more than the physical, though. When she introduced him to Mike, the gregarious Australian cameraman who’d capture Vittorio’s experience at the game between the local Boca Juniors and their cross-town rival, River Plate, he found himself admiring the way Emily interacted with her coworkers. Her confident demeanor and the respect with which others spoke to her left no doubt she was the star of the show, yet her lack of hubris and the efficiency with which she’d scheduled the filming proved she was willing to do the hard work necessary to make the production a success.
 

She did everything so effortlessly, he almost didn’t notice that she’d introduced him to everyone as Bob.

After ensuring everyone knew their duties for the day, she turned to him with a smile. “You ready to have a good time, Bob?”

His responding grin came naturally. “With a fired-up crowd like this? Don’t think I have a choice.” Then he added in a whisper from the side of his mouth, “Do I look like a Bob?”

“No, but it’s what I popped out of my mouth.” Louder, she said, “Just beware of the troublemakers. I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s plenty of partying going on. I hate to think how much alcohol they’ll consume by halftime.”
 

“I’ve attended games in Europe. I think I can handle myself.”

“I never doubted it.” She gestured toward the side of the field. “I’ll be over there with Rita and Ignacio to film a segment about fan traditions and the popularity of the sport. Mike will be with you, about ten rows above us. All you need to do is have a good time and be yourself. Feel free to chat with the fans around you, have something to eat, or cheer along with the crowd. Whatever comes naturally. Mike will get what he needs.”
 

“You won’t be in the stands?”
 

“No, but I’ll find you at the end. While we’re filming, one of our associate producers, Maryam Tabrizi, plans to contact some tango clubs and restaurants. She’s also talking to real estate agents about doing walk-throughs of a few apartments that meet the criteria we discussed at lunch yesterday. If we can hit one of the apartments later today, it’ll give us more flexibility. Sound good?”

He nodded, surprised at his regret over witnessing the soccer match without Emily at his side. Her cameraman pointed out a spot near the corner of the field with good light where she’d be away from pre-game foot traffic. Checking the time, she flashed her press pass to a security guard at the edge of the field, then moved to film the introduction to her segment. Vittorio watched in admiration as Rita stood behind Ignacio and signaled Emily to begin. Emily’s face transformed, her stance took on an air of casual comfort, and she hardly looked at her cue card as she spoke, noting the history of Argentine
fútbol
—better known to Americans as soccer—the passion of the spectators, and the distinct characteristics of La Bombonera stadium. Finally, she said, “Expat Bob White took a break from his apartment hunt to soak in the experience today from a prime seat at midfield, where he was welcomed by stadium regulars as they cheered on the local Boca Juniors against their rivals from River Plate in a game known throughout Argentina as the
Superclásico
.”

After the cameraman cut, she waved to Vittorio and Mike, then moved a few feet down the field, where she and Ignacio would capture scenes from the game itself. Mike handed Vittorio his ticket, and the two of them ascended to their seats. As with the games Vittorio attended in Europe, energy rippled through the crowd. A man in the row in front of Vittorio taught him the words to one of the team’s cheers, and by midway through the first half, Vittorio was singing along with the crowd, lost in the spectacle. As he’d told Emily, he’d been to matches in Europe, having cheered on Sarcaccia against their rivals from Italy, Germany, and France, in particular. But he’d always been in the royal box at home games and in a secure, VIP guest area when at foreign locations. A certain level of decorum was expected in both his dress and his demeanor. But today, he wore light, casual pants and a white shirt, roared with the crowd, helped a fan sitting beside him hold a flag aloft, and happily downed a beer.
 

Then a second.

A lean man sporting blue and gold face paint to match his Boca Juniors team jersey clasped Vittorio’s shoulder, urging him to sway back and forth with the rest of their section as a new cheer began. Though Vittorio didn’t know the words, by the second time through, he picked up enough to sing along. Beside him, Mike paused in his filming to join in, his Australian accent booming through the row.

A sense of lightness filled Vittorio, and not as a result of the alcohol. He couldn’t remember the last time he truly sang. At public events in Sarcaccia, he frequently joined in the singing of the national anthem, but he’d always been careful to keep his voice low so it couldn’t be recorded. Here in La Bombonera, he was anonymous. No one cared whether their seatmates could carry a tune. It was all about the enthusiasm with which one let their voice be heard. There was a camaraderie rarely shared by strangers outside of sport, and he reveled in it.

When the refs made a series of controversial calls resulting in a penalty kick—and goal—against the home team less than a minute before halftime, he joined in the fans’ rowdy jeers, careful to keep his comments family-friendly in case they were aired.

“I think we have plenty of good footage,” Mike said at halftime after checking his cell phone. “Maryam locked down an apartment we can see tonight if you’re up for it. Rita and I are going to head there now to get some daylight shots. Emily will finish up her on-field work with Ignacio during the second half and then meet you at the gate where we entered.”

Vittorio thanked Mike, then followed him up the stairs to the refreshment and restroom area for a quick break before returning alone to his seat. He chatted with the men and women around him, but found himself scanning the field for Emily as the second half began. Almost immediately after kickoff, two players collided while jumping to head the ball, resulting in a brief shoving match. A few minutes later, a bad slide tackle resulted in a yellow card for a popular Boca Juniors midfielder. The crowd went crazy, with most fans yelling obscenities at the referees over the perceived bad call. On the sidelines, the players began gesturing that the midfielder’s tackle was clean, which only served to further inflame the crowd.

Finally, Vittorio caught sight of Emily and Ignacio standing a few feet to the side of the visiting team’s bench, which was directly in front of his section. She seemed safe enough, given the security detail standing behind the players, but a niggling feeling caused him to survey the stands behind her. A group of intoxicated men in their twenties waved their arms while shouting obscenities in the visiting team’s direction. Two middle-aged men dressed in River Plate colors yelled back from across the aisle, using colorful Spanish to tell the group of drunkards to go home. One of the security officers eyed the fans and spoke into his radio at the same time Emily turned toward the group and frowned. Ignacio lowered his camera and said something to Emily, but she didn’t appear to hear him.

Vittorio made distracted excuses to those around him as he cut out of his row and moved toward the field, dodging the cheering fans who filled the stairs as River Plate lost the ball on a bad throw-in and the Boca Juniors sent it flying to an open player down the field. The River Plate goalie leapt for the ball, snatching it from the air and knocking the Boca Junior striker flat on his back in the process.

At once, the crowd erupted, a wave of anger carrying their fists skyward as they called for the goalie to be ejected. The young men Vittorio had spotted before surged into the aisle, attempting to grab the duo who’d chastised them a moment before, even as a surrounding group of calmer fans struggled to hold them back. One of the security guards leapt the barrier separating the stands from the field at the same time Vittorio ducked past a burly River Plate fan to reach Emily.

From nowhere, a scrawny male with sharp elbows knocked into Vittorio’s back, then a woman attempting to move up the stairs smacked into Vittorio’s knees. He braced himself against the railing so he wouldn’t fall forward and crush her, but lost his footing and careened backward instead. Pain split his vision as the back of his head slammed into the concrete. He managed to get a hand up to stop the woman from falling on top of him and give her space to step to the stair above him, but in the next second, a large male body landed on top of him, knocking his head against the cold, hard edge of the stairs once more. His sight blurred, but his peripheral vision registered a moving fist. Vittorio jerked and it missed him, instead sinking into the soft side of the man struggling to get off of him.

Vittorio gave the man a mighty shove, but the effort was fruitless. Twisting his head to the side, Vittorio looked down to see at least a half-dozen security guards and police ascending the stairs. One grabbed a man by the back of his jersey, then pushed him face-first over the nearest seat and slapped a zip tie around the man’s wrists to secure him.

The officer glanced up the stairs, locking eyes with Vittorio just as Vittorio gave the man on top of him another shove. In that instant, Vittorio realized that if he didn’t move, and quickly, he’d end up leaving in the back of a squad car.

Chapter Six

Emily watched in fascination as River Plate’s goalie drop-kicked the ball, sending it further than she thought possible to drop at the feet of one of his team’s strikers. While the members of River Plate’s team cheered from the nearby bench, the odd rumble of voices throughout the stadium made her realize that few others were watching the game. Instead, fans craned their necks to see the section immediately behind Emily. She spun, amazed at the change in demeanor in the section behind her. Where fans had been singing moments before, security guards and several police officers now scampered over the wall to break up a fight that had erupted in the lower stands.

As if pulled by an invisible force, Emily’s attention sliced from the commotion near the field to the seats a few rows back. Early in the game, she’d glanced up at Mike and Victor to ensure all was well and had been rewarded with the sight of both men’s jubilant cheering. While she was used to Mike’s perpetual good humor, the unabashed joy on Victor’s face took her aback. She’d thought him good-looking from the moment she’d caught sight of him in the café, but his dark, forbidding aura made it clear he preferred to keep others at arm’s length. However, the genuine smile that lit his features as he drank in the sights and sounds of the game transformed him, making him seem both approachable and—if such a thing were possible—more deeply attractive than before. She found her gaze drawn to the tenth row whenever the fans reacted to a play on the field, craving the sight of Victor’s reaction. Now, however, she saw no sign of Victor’s dark head amongst the stunned fans, all of whom were fixated on the chaos unfolding before them.
 

She frowned, scanning the stairs extending above his seats toward the concession area, but there was no sign of him, only a security officer descending, urging fans to stay clear of the disturbance below.