“This will be your home for the next little while,” he said, removing his cap and bowing slightly.

I caught a better look at his face. His creamy dark skin and slightly Asian eyes were an alluring mix; for someone so young, he had an air of gravitas about him.

“It’s beautiful, thank you.”

My bags disappeared through the gold doors and I quickly followed them. That regal feeling was heightened when I took the elevator to my eighth-floor suite, where I kicked off my shoes. My sitting room faced a street already choked with morning rush-hour traffic, but the triple-paned windows meant it was as silent as a tomb. Good lord, this was a real suite, the kind where you ate in a room separate from where you slept. I flung open the heavy, gold floor-to-ceiling curtains, my bare feet caressing the deep pile of the Oriental rug. The porter left clutching his tip, and I stood for a moment in the middle of the rooms, squeezing my fists. Then I let out a high-pitched cry of joy, ran to the bed and flung myself onto it.

It was still a few days until the auction, the responsibility of which suddenly flooded my body. I was on a kind of mission, like a woman of mystery and intrigue, I decided. If I were afraid of anything, I would just pretend to be that woman, the fearless kind, the kind who took delicious pleasure thirty thousand feet up and received a suite of rooms for her daring.

After a hot shower, I peeled back the downy layers of bedding and slid between the heavy covers. Just a quick nap, I thought. I hadn’t slept well on the plane. I closed my eyes and woke three hours later to a gentle knock on the door. I opened it to a bellhop, who rolled in a trolley. Perched between a carafe of coffee and a tray of crustless sandwiches was a thick, square envelope, Dauphine spelled out in that familiar S.E.C.R.E.T. scroll. It was odd, if not a little discombobulating, seeing something familiar in a place so far from home. I plucked the card off the tray and sliced it open with a butter knife. Step Four was traced out on one side of the heavy card stock, the word Generosity on the other, and beneath it the line “We are with you every Step, Dauphine.”

It was happening! Another one.

Suspended on a hook above the trolley was a thick garment bag that felt hefty as I carried it to the bed. I unzipped it, exposing a fanciful red dress, sequins on the bodice, cascading to a riot of feathers around the hips and legs. It looked like a giant crimson swan. I held it up against my body in front of a full-length mirror. An invitation to a midnight tango show came drifting out of its wings.

Dancing? No. Not dancing. I avoided it almost as much as I avoided flying. As much as I loved music, I could never do more than nod to the beat in the dark corners of the clubs. Sometimes I danced alone in my apartment. I danced for Luke once, until I undermined the seduction by hamming it up, too self-conscious to pull off a real striptease. But the idea of dancing in front of strangers curdled my stomach. I wasn’t lean or graceful, unlike my sister.

“If Bree only had Dauphine’s discipline, or Dauphine Bree’s thighs, we’d have had a ballerina in this family,” my mother often said. I think she thought it was a compliment, but it gutted me.

I set aside my terror for a moment to marvel at the dress, the bodice’s expert construction, hand-stitched and lined strategically to soften the boning that held it stiff. Its asymmetrical hem suggested tango, for sure, and while red looked good on me, I can’t say that this dress was my style. No. Not at all. A sweat broke across my brow. I could not, would not, dance in front of people. Not with my body, in that dress. And S.E.C.R.E.T., as Cassie and Matilda kept reminding me, was about doing everything you want, nothing you don’t.

It was hours before the tango show. I hit the streets wearing my trench coat and comfortable shoes. Buenos Aires was cool, loud and busy, the mix of old and new clashing on every corner. And porteños seemed to love their outdoors spaces as much as New Orleanians. Even on a crisp fall day, the Plaza San Martín was full of strollers and cyclists, and dogs of various sizes were pulling on dozens of leashes held by incredibly strong walkers. I felt a warmth overcome me. Were it not for S.E.C.R.E.T., I’d never be sitting in the middle of a plaza across from the Casa Rosada watching old men—wearing well-made tweed coats—playing chess, while nearby couples caressed each other in the sun.

I walked the neighborhoods from Recoleta to Palermo, from San Telmo to Boca, scouring second-hand shops, finding out who their suppliers were and how they priced goods. First thing I noticed in a city of tall, thin brunettes with aquiline noses (some inherited, most purchased) is that my curvy ”Americanness” stood out. Nothing I tried on in the vintage stores fit, which left some of the shop girls more mortified than I was.

“Lo siento, señora,” said the tiny, nervous proprietor of a beautifully curated vintage store near the Recoleta cemetery. At another store I couldn’t do up a pencil skirt.

“My darling,” said a kind, elderly store clerk in his perfect English. He’d sensed my funk while cashing out a set of tea towels and a linen tablecloth. “Do not let your body make you sad. It is a good body.”

Thanking him, I left, carefully navigating the narrow sidewalks with the other pedestrians, trying unsuccessfully to act like a local as I tripped over the potholes while ogling the gargoyles and cupolas on some of the more stunning buildings.

In La Boca, eating sweet alfajores and sipping mate, a kind of tea, I watched an elderly couple dancing a slow public tango. He was a few inches shorter than her and twice as small, and she was wearing too much makeup for daytime. But these oddities made them more attractive, more compelling. Their dance was achingly intimate, the way they performed for a crowd of strangers gathering in the square at dusk. I was moved nearly to tears by the music, and the expressions of pain and love on their faces. If she could be so vulnerable in front of so many people, in broad daylight, what the hell was I afraid of? Maybe that was true generosity. Giving of yourself, just as you are, for the sake of a dance.

That night I actually needed Ernesto’s proffered hand to help me out of the back seat of the limo and to unravel the mass of red feathers surrounding my tango dress. I was not at all surprised that the dress fit perfectly, but I was shocked at how flattering it was. The bodice encased me snugly, my breasts spilling over the top. Below the dropped waist, the dress tufted into a mass of feathers that floated down to my calves. I felt like a goddess emerging from a scarlet ocean.

“Gracias.”

“Por nada,” he said, bowing again. “You look … lindísima in that dress, Señorita Dauphine.”

I gave Ernesto a nervous smile and glanced down the narrow alley towards the tango club’s neon entrance. Very few people were on this secluded street at midnight.

“I meet you right here … after?”

He motioned me forward with his white-gloved hands. I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay. As I inched closer to the mournful, lilting music wafting out of the dark club, a kind-faced doorman, also gloved, opened a gap in the velvet curtains hanging in the entrance.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Dauphine.”

Oh dear. I ducked inside, feeling faint. A dozen couples turned to look my way, as though they had been expecting me. I was led around the tiny tables to a banquette against the far wall. As I took my seat, a sprightly waitress wearing a white tutu and black-and-white-striped stockings dropped a pink drink in front of me.

“We’re about to begin, Dauphine,” she said, in what sounded like a French accent. “Can I get you anything?”

Before I could open my mouth, a small, dimly lit band to the right of the stage struck up a ballad. The musicians were wearing blindfolds, their heads dipping and swaying as they played their instruments. Why were their eyes covered? The audience turned their attention to the band and the lone spotlight now illuminating the stage. I sank back into my velvet banquette, hoping just to watch. I could feel my heart pounding against my bodice, certain everyone could hear it too. Then I heard a low, gravelly a cappella voice.

A stunning woman in a dress exactly like mine, but black, slowly moved from the wings of the stage to center herself under the spotlight. Her hands surrounded the microphone, her lips a glistening ruby red. The song was in Spanish, but I could tell its lyrics were sad. Her eyes squeezed shut as she sang something about a girl and her heart and some broken dreams, I think. One of the couples rose from the front row, fell into each other’s arms, dipped low in those familiar turns of the tango—each holding the other up, a leg jutting out, kicking here and there, no light between them. Another woman, in the tight blue dress slit to her waist, pulled her tuxedoed date onto the floor. Their dance released a cascade of four more couples, until the singer was surrounded by a dozen bodies moving in circles to the music. Then the singer turned to look my way, directing her passion to … to me?

The song was about passing time, about a woman who had regrets for a life not lived. Or maybe for living a life half-awake. The singer was mesmerizing. I squirmed in my seat, uncertain how to react to her gaze. She seemed to be very publically seducing me. Or maybe this was just the nature of the tango. Feeling by turns charmed and embarrassed by her attention, I was relieved when a tanned hand beckoned me to stand.

“Va a aceptar este paso?”

The hand belonged to a tall man with short, black curly hair and beautiful black eyes. He smiled, displaying a row of white perfect teeth set against the olive of his perfectly smooth skin. I felt my knees would dissolve to pudding if I stood.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance,” I said, as loudly and politely as I could without being louder than the singer.