Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) by Nicole Burnham Page B

emerged a moment later with his bloodied shirt folded into the shopping bag, then gestured for Emily to lead the way back outside.  
    Despite the setting sun, the air remained warm and a light breeze carried the fresh green scents of nearby grassy parks and the Río de la Plata through the streets that connected the neighborhood’s modern high rises and upscale restaurants. Emily took in a deep breath and sighed, grateful for the chance to walk the two blocks to the apartment rather than be confined in a stuffy cab.
    “Something amiss?” Though she suspected he usually walked faster, given his long legs, he matched his pace to her leisurely one.
    “No. The opposite, in fact. I’m enjoying the weather. It might be summer here, but it’s still chilly at home.”
    His eyebrows angled in query. “It can’t be that bad in southern California, even in early March.”
    “Probably not, but our show is based in New York.”
    “Ah.” He tipped his head as he studied her. ‘You don’t sound like you’re from New York, though. At least not from any of the boroughs.”
    “Born and raised in Oregon. The land of no accents.” They rounded a corner and she dodged a man cupping his hands to light a cigarette before coming to stroll beside Victor again. “But I’ve been in New York since I graduated college and landed my first job with a magazine. Early March can be bitter. The spaces between buildings create wind tunnels. Icy wind tunnels.” She took note of a young couple walking in the opposite direction, the woman in a short skirt. Once they went by, she added, “I certainly couldn’t wear that this time of year.”
    “You’re not wearing that now.”
    “True. Can’t get away with it for work.” She paused a moment before asking, “So what about you? Or is that too intrusive a question?”
    “No miniskirts for me, any time of year.” Emily couldn’t help but shake her head before Victor explained in a more serious tone, “I’ve spent most of my life in southern Europe. Warm weather suits me.”
    “So if not Italy…Greece? Or southern France?”
    The more time she spent with him, the more he piqued her curiosity. She ached to know where he was from and what he did. About his large family and whether they were the reason he craved solitude. Why his manner led her to believe he tended toward the traditional, yet he claimed he wanted a modern apartment.
    Rather than answering her question, he simply nodded. “It’s part of what drew me to Argentina. It’s sunny here when it’s cooler at home.”
    She suspected it was the most she’d get from him, so she didn’t press. Above them, the streetlights that arced over the broad sidewalk flickered to life. A cyclist went by wearing a dark brown suit, his pants legs rolled up slightly and a messenger bag slung across his body.  
    “Looks like the end of the workday. People who didn’t play hooky to watch the Superclásico are heading back to their apartments.” Victor’s gaze followed a woman in a suit as she dashed into the front entrance of the high rise across the street, a restaurant carry-out in one hand, a bright red leather satchel dangling from the other. “It’s a very young section of town, isn’t it?”
    Emily nodded. “Puerto Madero was built on the former dockyards. It was in rough shape for decades—abandoned brick warehouses, empty lots full of weeds, bridges in disrepair—but the city hired a developer to oversee the revitalization of the whole area. Now it’s all high rises and green space. And nightlife.” She stopped walking as they approached a silvery, glass-fronted building with a revolving door. “Well, this is it. Your possible future home.”
    He glanced up and down the street, taking in the storefronts and restaurants, then looked skyward, assessing the contemporary architecture of the building before he swooped a hand toward the entry and bowed, his Old World charm a stark contrast to the surroundings. “After