by Gail Barrett
The barking abruptly stopped. The cold wind gusted in the sudden silence, sending a plastic bag skittering over the stones. Dante glanced at Paloma walking beside him, the light from a wrought-iron lantern casting a silver sheen over her hair.
She hadn’t set out to harm him; he’d give her that much. His friend Rafael Navarro never would have agreed to help her if she had. And given her reaction to Gomez’s corpse, she also hadn’t expected to find the casino owner dead.
But her blackmail story still stank. Why would anyone threaten to expose her with the wild reputation she had? Unless she really was protecting someone else…
Dante slid her a speculative look. She stared straight ahead, her profile blurred by shadows, her long hair fluttering in the breeze. Who else could she be shielding? Her father? Her brother? Anticipation roared through him at the thought. If she was protecting her brother, that blackmail evidence could be the proof he needed to finally destroy that bloody murderer—hell, the entire royal family—including the spoiled princess at his side.
His conscience twinged, but he beat back any qualms. No mercy. The nobles sure hadn’t shown any to the hapless people of País Vell. For centuries, a few powerful families had controlled the country’s wealth while the impoverished masses struggled to survive—scrabbling for medical care and food, working to put a decent roof over their heads.
And anyone who dared protest was mowed down in a hail of bullets—like his desperate mother, shot point-blank while her two terrified children looked on.
Dante steeled his jaw, beating back the fury, knowing he had to keep his agenda under wraps. Because no matter how innocuous Paloma seemed, she was a royal, his sworn enemy. And he couldn’t risk tipping her off.
He reached the medieval stone cross that had once marked a pilgrim trail and turned down the cobbled lane. Halfway down the block, he reached a thick wooden door in the high stone wall and stopped.
Paloma came to a halt beside him, then peered up at the escutcheon above the door. “This is the Palacio de los Arcos.” Named after the impressive arches that lined the courtyard inside.
“Yeah, so?”
She turned her gaze to his. “This used to be in my family. I came here a few times when my great-aunt Pilar was still alive. I tried to convince my father to buy it after she died, but he said it needed too much work.”
“It was a mess, all right.” So bad, in fact, that he’d bought the condemned estate for next to nothing, barely more than the price of the lot. But what he’d saved on price he’d paid for in labor. It had taken him a year just to stabilize the building and keep it from collapsing.
“And you’re doing the restoration?” she asked.
He’d bought the property under a sham corporation so the police couldn’t connect it to him—but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “That’s right.”
He swung up the iron knocker, tapped a code on the hidden keypad, then pulled open the heavy door.
“That’s clever the way you hid that,” she said.
“I didn’t want to ruin the look of the door.” He stood back to let her through.
She stepped inside, her subtle floral scent twining around him like a lover’s embrace. Disgusted that he’d noticed, he followed her into the courtyard, but the swing of her slender hips, the thick mass of chestnut hair tumbling down her back accelerated his pulse.
He clenched his jaw. No way. He wasn’t going down that futile track. She wasn’t his date. She was a means to an end, nothing more.
She stopped beside the fountain, then slowly turned around, gazing up at the three-tiered gallery of arches towering on every side. In its heyday, the once magnificent palace had hosted a variety of foreign dignitaries, including the monarchs of France and Spain.
Which perfectly illustrated the chasm between their lives.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed. “You’ve done all this work?”
“Yeah.” Bit by bit, in between his charity heists and legitimate stonemasonry jobs. And he still had a long way to go. He scanned the boards piled against one wall, the scaffolding stretched across the courtyard, the mountain of paint cans and saws.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I love the way you’ve preserved the original features. It’s modern, but still antique.”
He met her gaze, impressed that she understood. “That was the point.”
“Well, it worked. It’s really lovely, just amazing. You do fabulous work.”
Despite his resolve to keep his distance, her frank admiration burrowed beneath his defenses and evoked a glimmer of pride. He’d spent years working on the sixteenth-century palace, staining the chestnut beams, piecing together the damaged frescoes, painstakingly repairing the terra-cotta tiles. Shoring up the dilapidated, graffiti-marred structure to create a home for his baby sister and fill the void in her troubled life.
But Paloma wouldn’t understand that. She’d been raised in an opulent castle, surrounded by every luxury, worlds apart from his hardscrabble upbringing, where he’d had to steal to survive.
“This way,” he said, hardening his voice. He strode into one of the few rooms he’d finished and snapped on a high-powered lamp. The harsh light flooded the room, banishing the feeling of intimacy she’d sparked. Still clutching the laptop and bag of disks, Paloma sank onto the leather sofa and glanced around the room. He settled in the opposite chair.
For a minute, he simply watched her, studying her full, pouty lips, the sooty lashes rimming her hypnotic eyes, the shimmering fall of her chestnut hair. Her undeniable beauty washed through him, the feminine lines of her face, the creamy glow of her skin jump-starting his heart. Had she been anyone else…
But she wasn’t anyone else. She was Paloma Vergara, the princess. A member of the family he planned to destroy.
He braced his forearms on his knees. “All right. Let’s take this from the top. What were you after back there? And I want the truth this time.”
She hesitated, her apparent unwillingness to confide in him irritating him even more. “Look, Princess. Thanks to you, I’ve got the royal guards gunning for me. If I’m going to get arrested, I deserve to know what for.”
She pushed her hands through her hair, the honeyed highlights shimmering like gold in the light. Her weary sigh filled the air. “You’re right. It’s my fault you’re in this mess. But I really did tell you the truth—most of it, at least. I’m looking for blackmail evidence.”
He cocked a brow. “And?”
Setting aside the bag and laptop, she rose. She paced to the still-dark windows, then turned and faced him again. “What I’m about to tell you… You can’t tell anyone. You have to promise. Because if the media finds out…”
“Forget it. I’m not promising anything. Not until I know what this is about.”
“But—”
“I said to forget it.” He stood and stalked toward her, stopping so close beside her she had to tilt back her head to meet his eyes. “I agreed to get you into that penthouse, and I did my part. Now it’s time that you came clean.”
Her lush mouth flattened, her eyes flashing with annoyance at his hard line. But after several tense seconds, she released her breath. “All right. The truth is… It wasn’t me Gomez was blackmailing. It was my brother, Tristan.”
Dante’s gut stilled. Excitement leaped inside him, sending adrenaline surging into his veins. He’d guessed right. And this was exactly what he needed—information that could incriminate the prince.
“He gambles,” she continued with a little shrug. “Nothing major. He’s not addicted or anything. He just goes to the casino a couple times a month. It’s not a secret.”
“I’ve heard that.” According to his sister, who’d worked as a waitress at the casino, the prince gambled regularly in the high-roller rooms. “So what happened?�
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“The last time he was there, he gambled with a man he’d never met before. Someone from the Middle East. He didn’t think much of it at the time. But he found out later that the man was a terrorist, a member of the Third Crescent, an al Qaeda offshoot. And apparently the surveillance camera caught them together.”
“So? What’s wrong with that? If he didn’t know who the man was…”
“You’re right. Normally no one would care. But my father just signed an international agreement, promising cooperation in the war on terror. Tristan’s heading the committee in charge of that, so pictures of him partying with a terrorist…” She grimaced. “The timing couldn’t be worse. It would make us look corrupt, especially with the reputation for smuggling that País Vell has.
“And you know what the mood in the country is like. People are angry at my family right now. Any hint of scandal will only add to the unrest. And if people start protesting again, someone else could get hurt.”
Dante rubbed his jaw, his morning beard stubble scraping his palm. “Even so, just gambling with a terrorist doesn’t seem that bad. It’s hardly worthy of blackmail.”
“It will be by the time the tabloids get finished with it. They’ll distort and exaggerate the story until Tristan looks like a terrorist, too. Just the appearance of doing something wrong is enough. Believe me, I’ve learned that the hard way over the years.”
He angled his head, her obvious resentment taking him aback. And for the first time he wondered if he’d misjudged her, and if there was more to her than he knew. Because if the tabloids had exaggerated her behavior, painting her in an unfair light…
Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he cut them off. He didn’t care what she was like. She was a tool, a means to avenge his sister’s death, nothing more.
“So Gomez tried to blackmail your brother?” he prodded, steering his thoughts back to the prince.
“Yes. He told Tristan to pay up, or he’d expose the surveillance footage.”
“And when was this?”
“The gambling trip? A couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night.”
Dante’s heart missed several beats. It took every ounce of effort he had to keep his expression blank. His sister had died that night. And there wasn’t a chance in hell it was a coincidence, not with the prince involved. Whatever had happened in the casino had to be connected to her death.
His excitement rising, he paced across the tiles. Lucía had worked the late shift at the casino that night. Just after her shift had ended, she’d phoned him in a panic, her voice so slurred and incoherent, and hiccupping so badly, he could hardly make sense of her words. She’d claimed that the prince was trying to kill her, that she’d witnessed something dreadful—something involving shootings or shots.
Of course, that last part didn’t make sense. She hadn’t suffered a gunshot wound—only a needle mark on her arm. The coroner had ruled her death a massive heroin overdose, which Dante refused to believe.
But assuming the prince had killed her, the question was why? She might have seen him gambling with the terrorist—but what difference would that have made? She wouldn’t have recognized anyone from the Middle East.
Unless the “shots” referred to a murder. If the prince had killed someone—maybe the terrorist—and Lucía had witnessed the crime, he’d have a motive to shut her up.
But then what about Gomez? How did his death figure into this? What was that weird-looking rash about?
Dante stopped by the entrance to the kitchen and turned around, his gaze traveling to Paloma again. She still stood by the window, her full lips pursed, her wary eyes on his. He didn’t know who or what had killed Gomez, but he did know one thing. Whatever had happened to his sister that night, that blackmail evidence had to hold the key.
Knowing he had to be careful, that one wrong move could make Paloma suspicious of him and destroy his plans, he walked back to where she stood. “So how did you get involved in this?”
She scooped her hair over one shoulder and twisted the ends. “Tristan came to me for advice. He needed to confide in someone he could trust.”
“But why have you look for the evidence?” he asked, pressing. “You’re not a thief. And what if you got caught? Wouldn’t that cause a scandal, too?”
She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, but not as much. It would still make the people angry, but my reputation’s already bad—as you pointed out. No one expects better from me. But Tristan’s going to be king some day. He can’t afford a scandal that big.”
Dante crossed his arms, her willingness to sacrifice herself for her brother ticking him off. Loyalty he understood. But that scumbag prince didn’t deserve a break. “You weren’t the one partying with a terrorist. You shouldn’t have to pay the price.”
She flushed. “You don’t understand. Tristan’s young. He’s made mistakes, but he’ll make a good leader some day. And he’s always depended on me. He’s six years younger than I am. And I guess…I feel more like a mother than a sister to him sometimes.”
He mulled that over, adding it to what he knew of her family’s past. He knew that the queen had died in childbirth. That Paloma’s older brother—the original heir to the throne—had died in a hiking accident when they were kids, an accident rumored to be Paloma’s fault. That the king was an alcoholic who spent his evenings drowning his bitterness in a bottle—when he wasn’t repressing the unlucky citizens of País Vell.
Dante had never sympathized with the royals. He’d been too busy struggling through his own life to care about theirs—too busy burying his murdered mother. Too busy raising his fragile sister and trying to keep her off drugs. Too busy helping the impoverished people of País Vell survive their precarious lives.
“Haven’t you ever felt that way?” Paloma asked. “Isn’t there someone you want to protect?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “My sister, Lucía.”
“She’s younger than you are?”
His jaw turned stiff. “She was younger. Now she’s dead.”
Paloma’s startled eyes shot to his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I know how hard that is.”
Did she? Skeptical, he held her gaze, wondering if the compassion in her eyes was real. Maybe she did understand. Maybe she felt responsible for her older brother’s death. But he didn’t want her sympathy. He didn’t want to feel any connection to her.
And he never should have mentioned Lucía. The wound was still too fresh, his guilt over his failure to protect her still gnawing at him, day and night.
“But you can see, then, why I needed to help?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. I understand.” And that was exactly why he was here. He’d failed Lucía once. He refused to do it again. He had to avenge her killing, no matter what it took.
But one thing was clear. He had to be careful. Paloma had just admitted that she’d do anything to protect her brother, even sacrifice her reputation on his behalf. If she suspected that Dante intended to harm him, she’d make sure he ended up behind bars.
Trying to figure out the best way to play this, he crossed the room to his chair. A second later, Paloma returned to the sofa and sat.
He cleared his throat. “Look, I know you don’t want me involved in this—”
“There’s really no need. You’ve already done your part.”
“I don’t have much choice now that I’ve been caught on camera with you.”
A flush climbed up her cheeks. “That’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken the time to get that laptop…” She shook her head, making her hair spill over her arms. “I promise I’ll talk to my father. I’ll straighten everything out. And I swear I’ll make sure that you aren’t blamed. You really can trust me on that.”
He frowned. He couldn’t force her to stay with him. He needed her co
operation if he hoped to get information from her.
“I have a better idea. Maybe we can work together to find that surveillance footage you need.”
She stilled, suddenly alert. “Why? What would you get out of this?”
He picked his words, not wanting to arouse her suspicions and tip her off. “I told you my sister died. But I didn’t tell you where. She died at the casino a couple of weeks ago.”
“What? How?”
“A heroin overdose. At least that’s what the coroner said.”
“You don’t agree?”
He shook his head. “She’d been clean for months. And her drug of choice was oxycodone. She got addicted years ago when she hurt her back.”
Paloma hesitated. “I know you don’t want to think it, but is there a chance you might be wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time an addict lied.”
“I know.” Lucía had fallen off the wagon often enough for him to know. “But it’s not just that. You remember Gomez’s rash?”
She shuddered. “I’m hardly likely to forget it.”
“I found my sister’s body in the parking lot. She looked… She had a similar rash.”
Paloma’s head came up. “You’re saying she had the same thing as Gomez?”
“I don’t know.” His sister had claimed the prince was trying to kill her, which would rule out any disease. “But I need to find out. If you help me find out what really killed her, I’ll help you look for what you need.”
“But if they both had a disease…” Horror filled her eyes. “Oh, God. What if it’s contagious? What if we got exposed?”
“All the more reason to work together. We both have a stake in this now.” He leaned forward and extended his hand. “So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know.” She scrubbed her face with her hands, then sighed. “Yes. All right. It’s a deal.”
“Good.” His hand closed over hers. The soft feel of her skin jolted through him, electrifying his pulse. And a sudden sliver of warning crept through his mind.