Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (10 page)

Then she spied him in the midst of the scuffle. Her heart went to her throat as he wended his way against the tide of fans attempting to flee the lower seats, until two battling men flew out of their row and into his path. He slid sideways to help a woman out of harm’s way, then disappeared beneath the men and a blur of fists and pulled clothing.
 

“Come on,” Ignacio urged, wrapping a hand around her elbow and pulling her toward the gate. “I have enough footage. Let’s get out of the way of security so they—”

“Wait!” She ripped free from Ignacio’s grasp and headed for the stands. “Victor’s down there! Under those men!”

“What?”

“Bob. I mean Bob. We need to get him.”

Even as the words left her lips, the bigger of the two men slipped, dragging the other with him down the stairs at the same time Victor shoved them both in an attempt to extricate himself. While using the railing to stand, he offered a hand to the woman he’d protected a moment before, sending her up the stairs and away from danger before he descended toward the field.
 

“What’s he thinking?” Ignacio muttered.

Emily couldn’t answer. She took another few steps toward the wall separating the spectators from the field as the police set upon the two out-of-control men. At that moment, Victor’s hand went to the back of his head.
 

Horror squeezed the air from Emily’s lungs as his fingers came away covered in blood.
 

A low whump, then a torrent of apologies in Spanish came from behind her as an armed police officer with the build of a bull collided with Ignacio from behind, sending his expensive camera equipment to the ground. From the corner of her eye, she saw Victor leap the barricade and take three long strides in their direction. The officer’s attention swiveled from the camera equipment to Victor. The heavy-set man reached for the weapon at his waist at the same time he commanded Victor to stop.

“He’s with us. It’s all right,” Emily pleaded in Spanish, stepping between the gigantic officer and Victor. Her heart thumped audibly in her ears as the officer paused, eyeing the press credentials hanging from around her neck before scrutinizing Victor once more to assess the potential threat he posed.

 
The officer’s hands dropped. He jerked his head in the direction of the gate and grunted for Emily to get Victor to the emergency aid station, then strode past them to take up a spot at the bottom of the section to stop others from climbing over the barricade and to ensure a clear pathway for the other officers, who now had several of the fans in handcuffs and were leading them out of the stands.

“What the hell was that, Emily?” Victor’s eyes blazed as he spoke. “You should’ve stayed where you were. You could’ve been hurt!”

“I could say the same to you.” She grabbed his hands, flipping his bloody palms upward. “And you
were
hurt. Come on, let’s get you to a medic.”

“I’m fine. Head wounds bleed a lot. You, on the other hand, could’ve been shot.”

An odd note crept into his voice on the final word. She glanced up, meeting his eyes for a split second before Ignacio moved behind Victor and angled the taller man’s head down to inspect the wound.

The mixture of concern and anger she saw in Victor’s brief look was nothing like the anger he’d displayed when he’d cornered her in the Palermo apartment. This was protective. Caring. And not caring in the manner one might care for a child or a friend, but in the manner a man fought to protect a woman he treasured.

The shock of it clogged her throat and caused tears to well in her eyes. She blinked them back, embarrassed, before the men could see.

“It’s not too bad, despite the blood,” Ignacio said as he stretched for a better look. “Only a small cut.”

“I wasn’t about to be shot. He wouldn’t have drawn the weapon,” Emily argued, though it came out sounding weaker than she’d anticipated. “But you could have a concussion.”

“I don’t.” Before she could say another word, he added, “I’ve had one before. This doesn’t compare. However, a bandage might be in order if we want to go look at that flat later.”

“More likely a stitch or two,” Ignacio said. “Let me grab my equipment and we’ll head to the medical area.”

“Are you kidding? No apartment tonight.”
 

Victor shrugged. “It’s your decision, of course, but I’m up for it if you are. Until the last five minutes, I was having a fantastic time. It’s been ages since I’ve had a day like this.”

“You’re crazy.”

Whoops and applause rattled the stadium as the Boca Juniors put the ball in the net to tie the game. A slow, incredibly sexy smile spread across Victor’s face as they walked off the field. “I could’ve suggested we stay to watch the rest of the match and get the bandage later.
That
would be crazy.”

“Now I know you’ve hit your head.”
 

Once they entered the first aid area under the stands, a young female medic quickly took stock of Victor’s cut. As Ignacio had guessed, it needed a couple of stitches, but a thorough check by the supervising doctor convinced Emily that Victor wasn’t suffering from a concussion. As the medic stood behind Victor and cleaned the area to be stitched, Emily offered him an apology. Never in all her years of work had anyone been injured filming one of her shows. No guest had dealt with so much as a splinter.
 

“Of course we’ll replace your shirt,” she said. “And if there’s anything else we can do—”

“You’re forgiven.” He waved a freshly-washed hand in dismissal. “I was serious about this being fun. More than I expected. And don’t worry about the shirt. Blood washes out.”

Another roar came to them from above. The medic glanced at a television screen showing a feed from the stadium and informed them that the Boca Juniors had scored again. She finished her stitching and put a narrow protective covering over the wound, then handed Victor a set of instructions for keeping the area clean. Though it was written in Spanish, he assured her he could translate and slipped the paper in his back pocket.

“I think this is fine, but I’d like to take it back to the office to test it,” Ignacio said to Emily, indicating his battered camera equipment. “Are you two going back to Recoleta or joining Mike at the apartment?”

“Recoleta.”

“Apartment.”

Emily eyed Victor. “We can do the apartment tomorrow, you know.”

“I’m confident I can keep the back of my head out of the shots as easily tonight as I can tomorrow. Let’s do it.”

Humor glittered in his eyes. She wondered if he’d enjoyed attending soccer matches in Europe this much, and if not, what explained the difference.
 

“Fine,” she acquiesced. “Apartment, then. But you’ll need to change clothes. And if you feel the least bit headachy—”

“I’ll inform you. Or you’ll question me so much I may develop one.” He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the exit. “Come on. Time for you to dress me.”

* * *

For the first time in months, Queen Fabrizia went through her bedtime routine without an upset stomach.

“I had a phone call,” Alessandro had whispered at the dinner table a few hours ago. “He’ll be home soon.”

“When?”
 

“Didn’t say, but I suspect any day.” Alessandro changed the subject as a member of the kitchen staff entered the dining room to clear the table, but once the family was alone again, he added, “I believe him.”

Optimism lit Sophia’s eyes before a happy smile danced across her face. Massimo took a long sip of his wine, then glanced at his future wife, Kelly, who’d joined them for the meal, and exhaled in relief.

“Let us know if you hear anything further.” King Carlo’s voice held none of the emotion exhibited by his children. He forked a bite of tenderloin into his mouth, then asked Massimo about the tour he’d taken of a veterans’ outpatient clinic that afternoon.

They all understood. Not only was the subject not to be discussed where they could be overheard by the staff, Carlo felt it wasn’t worth discussing until they had hard evidence Vittorio’s plane was wheels up, on the way back to Sarcaccia. The crown prince’s absence had gone on too long and been too deeply felt for the king to assume it would end soon.

Still, as Fabrizia returned her toothbrush to its crystal case and reached for her favorite nighttime moisturizer, hope filled her. Vittorio wouldn’t have told Alessandro of his intention unless he meant it. Nor would Alessandro have repeated it.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Carlo announced as he entered the expansive marble-floored bathroom, then walked up behind Fabrizia to plant a kiss on her shoulder, just beside the thin strap of her peach nightgown. He stripped off his workout clothes, tossing them into a hamper hidden inside the room’s built-in cabinetry. “By the way, we need the treadmill inspected. It squeaks when it gets over a five percent incline.”

“I hadn’t noticed. I’ll let maintenance know.” She turned to admire her husband as he removed his watch and placed it on the countertop. After all their years together, the sight of him naked sent a shiver through her. More so now than when they first married.

“Care to join me?” He took a step closer, then cupped her face in one large, strong hand. “I’m sensing something…dirty…that should be addressed.”

“Give me a minute and I will.” She dropped a quick kiss on the inside of his wrist, then watched in open admiration as he entered the glassed-in shower before she turned toward the bedroom. A smile lifted the edges of her mouth.
 

He might not be willing to admit it, but Carlo harbored hope, too.

She removed the diamond studs from her ears while she walked to her closet, then placed them in the velvet-lined box her husband had given her as a first anniversary gift. After selecting a dress for the next day and setting out matching shoes and accessories, she made her way back to the shower. Even from the bedroom, she could smell his masculine shampoo. He should be ready for her by now.

A low buzz made her pause. She glanced toward the nightstand to see the screen lit on Carlo’s private cell phone. Only the family and a few important members of parliament had that number.
 

Please, God, let it be Vittorio. Let him come home.
The blocked number displayed on the screen sent her pulse racing. Knowing Carlo would want her to answer, she clicked the appropriate button.

“Hello?”

For a few long seconds, no one spoke, though she could hear the wail of an ambulance or police siren in the distance.
 

“Fabrizia?”

She sank onto the bed. It had been years since she’d heard the throaty, feminine voice, but it was etched on her memory as if engraved with a knife. “Yes.”

“You answer his phone?”

And you refuse to use my title?
“He’s in the shower. Is something wrong?”

“Of course something is wrong. What, you think I call him for fun? Those days are long past.”

So this is how it’s going to be.
“What can I do to help, Teresa?”

“Get your son home.”

Carlo’s voice echoed against the bathroom tiles. He was singing. So happy.

“Do you see the news, Fabrizia? Ever go on the Internet? Or do you have an assistant who does that for you?”

“Of course I see the news.” She sounded much calmer than she felt, thank goodness. It’s what Carlo would want.

“Then you know my oldest son has been photographed.”

“Yes. Carlo and I have discussed it.” Though it was in December and no more photographs of Rocco Cornaro had appeared, at least to her knowledge. She’d been monitoring the situation carefully.

“Yesterday, Rocco was approached at the market. A man stood beside him, looking at the spinach. He asked my son if he had bought from that particular farmer before. When my son said yes, the man said, ‘Interesting. How long have you been here, Alessandro?’”

“How did he respond?”

“He told the man that he must have him confused with someone else, as his name is not Alessandro. But the man said, ‘Forgive me, my mistake. You look very much like a man from Sarcaccia named Alessandro. I saw you yesterday, as well, when you visited your lover, and I made the wrong assumption.’ Then the man apologized again and left.”

Fabrizia clenched her back teeth. She could feel Teresa’s fear and understood it. But what could she do?

“Whoever that man is, Fabrizia, he thinks my son is yours. And he obviously followed my son to his wife’s apartment the day before yesterday—”

“His wife’s apartment?”

“They are separated. Not that this is your concern.” Teresa’s voice held a mixture of anger and fear. “Get Alessandro home. Otherwise, we’re all in danger. This man could go to the press. He might
be
the press. And if he digs too far—”

“I understand. I’ll handle it.”

“—he will discover that Carlo has left his children all over the globe.”

Fabrizia rose from the bed. In a deliberate, commanding tone, one she rarely wielded, she said, “Teresa, I said I would handle it.”

A snicker came over the line. “You don’t frighten me, Fabrizia. You have far more to lose than I do. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my son.”