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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