by Gail Barrett
He let out a stream of obscenities.
Wincing, she held the phone from her ear. “Calm down,” she told him when he paused to take a breath. “I’ll have it soon. We think he hid it in a safe-deposit box, so we’re trying to find the bank.”
“We?” Tristan’s voice rose. “What do you mean we? Who else is involved in this?”
“Just someone who helped me get into the penthouse. But don’t worry,” she said when he started to swear again. “We can trust him. He’s not going to leak this to the media.”
“You mean like Rick Castro?”
Her face burned at that low blow. She’d dated that slime bag briefly—until he’d posted the nude photos he’d taken with a hidden camera on the internet. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Tristan paused. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have made that crack. But you don’t have the best track record when it comes to men. And I can’t afford to have this come out.”
Irritated, she rubbed the dull ache forming between her brows. “You think I can? I’m the one who broke into the casino. The media will go nuts if they find out.”
“I know, I know. We both need to get that evidence fast.” His voice turned placating now. “So who is this guy who’s helping you?”
“A thief I hired. His name doesn’t matter. But he didn’t kidnap me,” she said, warding off another protest. “So tell Father to call off the guards. If they interfere in this, I’ll never find it in time.”
Tristan didn’t answer.
“Did you hear me?” she asked. “I need you to talk to him.”
“Yeah, I heard you. I’ll talk to him as soon as he gets up. So where are you now?”
“Somewhere safe. Don’t worry about that,” she said when he tried to cut in. “But there’s something else you need to know. César Gomez is dead.”
Silence fell. “Dead?” Tristan finally asked, sounding stunned. “You killed him?”
“Of course not!”
“Then who did?”
“No one, I don’t think. It looked as if he died of some disease.” She shivered at the memory of his bloated corpse. “It was really awful. All that blood…”
Another long silence filled the line.
Trying not to envision Gomez, she dragged in a steadying breath. “Listen, Tristan. We need to find out what happened to him. If this is a disease, it could spread. You need to be ready to take action, just in case. We’ll have to inform the health authorities and implement our emergency plan. Don’t do it yet, but make sure you’re prepared.
“And keep people away from that penthouse for a while. But don’t tell them why. I don’t want anyone to know that we’ve been inside.”
“What are you going to do?” Tristan asked.
“Talk to the coroner as soon as his office opens.”
“But if he doesn’t know about Gomez—”
“It’s complicated. We think there might have been another case or two, but I’ll explain that later on.”
Tristan fell silent again. “What about the disk?” he finally asked.
“I told you, I’ve got that under control.” She heard the thud of approaching footsteps and cupped her hand over the phone. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I find something out.”
“But—”
She hung up and set down the phone, a sudden spurt of guilt bringing a rush of warmth to her face. But that was silly. She didn’t have anything to hide. Tristan had a right to know the status of that blackmail evidence.
Then Dante strolled into the kitchen, looking like the ultimate bad boy with two motorcycle helmets tucked under his arm. His gaze stalled on hers, and awareness quivered through her, rattling her nerves.
And before she could stop it, her gaze traveled over his impossibly broad shoulders to his flat, sexy abdomen and the bulge in his faded jeans. He hadn’t shaved, and the dark scruff covering his jaw added to the carnal look.
Her throat went dry, his blatant masculinity wreaking havoc on her pulse. And she knew with a bone-deep certainty that she had to watch her step. This man was trouble. He had secrets. She’d be a fool to give him her trust.
But as he stalked across the kitchen toward her, his coal-black eyes making her stomach flip, she knew she faced an even greater danger—her own reckless nature and a man who just might be too tempting to resist.
Chapter 5
Storm clouds gathered in the morning sky, their steel bottoms dragging over the mountain peaks, the cold wind heavy with the threat of rain. With Paloma seated behind him, Dante drove his motorcycle along the two-lane road toward the Roman bridge, an insistent feeling of urgency increasing with every mile.
Something strange was going on, something involving his sister’s death. But what? Nothing added up so far. Lucía had claimed that the prince was trying to kill her. The coroner said she’d died of a heroin overdose due to her discolored tongue and lips. But the way she’d bled pointed to a deadly, exotic disease—which didn’t make any sense.
Spotting the old stone bridge through the dusky woods, Dante dropped a gear to slow the bike. Everything about her death confused him, and he needed more than a hunch to go on if he hoped to figure it out. But from the nagging dread beating like a war drum on his nerves, he didn’t have much time.
Kicking his bike down another gear, he scanned the river’s banks. Deserted. Then he shifted his gaze to the bars across the road from the Roman bridge. Their doors were closed, their patio tables and chairs arranged in stacks, thanks to the off-season and early hour. Reassured that they wouldn’t have witnesses, he stopped at the café closest to the bridge and parked.
Paloma climbed off the bike, and he exhaled, relieved to put some space between them again. Having her soft, feminine body wrapped around him felt too intimate, creating a distraction he didn’t need.
Keeping one eye on the woods bordering the empty bridge, he unhooked the laptop and disks from the rack. “You stay here. I’ll deliver this to Miguel.”
Paloma pulled off her helmet and shook out her hair. “I’ll go with you. I want to meet this guy.”
“He might not want to meet you. This isn’t exactly legal,” he added when she frowned.
“He didn’t mind helping us break into the casino.”
“No, but you couldn’t identify him then.”
Her lips pursed. She tilted her head, and the early morning light exposed the dark smudges shadowing her eyes. The sudden urge to protect her stirred inside him, the same push-pull of attraction he’d fought all night. He couldn’t deny her beauty. She had looked like a fantasy in the tabloids but was much more appealing in the flesh—softer, more slender and shorter, with her head coming up to his chin. More human. And she smelled good—feminine—making him want to move closer and taste the silk of her creamy skin.
But it was the anxiety in her eyes, that worry line puckering her brow that wreaked havoc on his defenses, provoking the instinct to do battle on her behalf.
He scowled, alarmed at the direction of his thoughts. She didn’t need his protection. She was a member of the royal family, the most powerful people in País Vell. He couldn’t start sympathizing with her and forget that fact, no matter how vulnerable she looked.
“I’m hardly going to turn him in when I need his help,” she argued.
Dante pulled his mind back to his hacker friend. “He might not believe that.”
She canted her head to meet his eyes. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t believe it. Why are you so skeptical of me?”
Where to start? When her father had ordered his guards to fire on his mother? When her brother had murdered his sister? But this wasn’t the time for that.
“I trusted you,” she pointed out. “I told you about the attempt to blackmail my brot
her. So why won’t you trust me?”
Unwilling to answer that, he adjusted his grip on the laptop and started across the road. “Fine. Come on, then.” He’d let Miguel decide whether or not to show.
Still feeling jumpy, he ran his gaze from the woods bordering the river to the town’s medieval walls. At the end of the bridge was the high stone puerta that had once comprised the entrance to the fortified town. Forbidding watchtowers flanked the opening, their arrow slits and crenellated battlements as sinister as the somber clouds.
“So how do you know this hacker?” Paloma asked from beside him, worry threading her voice.
“I told you. Through Rafe. Supposedly he’s some kind of genius—got a degree at MIT.”
“So why isn’t he working for the government or doing some high-level corporate job?”
Dante stopped at the foot of the arched stone bridge and shrugged. “He’s never said.” And Dante would never ask. Something had driven Miguel Calderón underground, but it wasn’t his place to pry.
The wind gusted again, chasing dried leaves over the path and making the pine boughs creak. Then the shadows shifted beneath the bridge. Dante tensed, his pulse thudding hard as a man emerged on the slope. But it was only Miguel.
The tall, lanky hacker loped up the hill, closing the distance between them with ease. Then his gaze landed on Paloma, and he stopped. He pushed his black-framed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose as he checked her out, a cautious look entering his eyes.
“Are you Miguel? I’m Paloma Vergara,” she said, extending her hand.
He shook her hand and mumbled a greeting, then shot Dante a questioning frown.
“We’re working together on this,” Dante explained, handing him the laptop and bag of disks.
Miguel tucked them under his arm, his gaze traveling to the princess again. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll call you when I’ve taken a look.”
Dante gave him a grateful nod. “And you’ll cover your tracks? We don’t want anyone to know that it’s been hacked.”
Amusement glinted in the hacker’s eyes. “Don’t worry. No one will have a clue.”
“Thanks. We appreciate that.” Dante turned his gaze to the café where he’d parked his bike, that unrelenting feeling of danger prodding him to leave. “We need to go.”
Paloma added her thanks to Miguel, and they headed across the road. “He didn’t ask any questions,” she said. “Doesn’t he care what this is about?”
“Questions can get you killed. In this business, the less you know, the safer you are.”
She shot him a startled glance. “That sounds paranoid.”
“That’s reality. This isn’t some fairy-tale kingdom, Princess. At least not for people like us.”
She opened her mouth, looking as if she intended to argue. But Miguel called out from the bridge. “Dante, wait!”
“Go ahead,” he told her. “I’ll meet you at the bike.” He turned around and walked back. “Yeah?”
Miguel kept his gaze on Paloma, waiting until she was out of earshot before he spoke. “Just a heads-up. I saw a huge contingent of guards coming into town.”
Dante stilled, suddenly alert. “Where are they now?”
“About three kilometers out.” Miguel’s eyes turned grim. “I haven’t seen that many troops in weeks, not since the lockdown after that assassination attempt.”
A chill slivered through his gut. And he knew with a bone-deep certainty that those guards were hunting him. “Thanks, man. Be careful.”
“Always.” Miguel hesitated. “But what’s with the princess? You think we can trust her in this?”
“I hope so.” Especially now that he’d involved Miguel.
The cold wind gusted again, raising shivers on Dante’s neck as he headed across the road. Those guards had to be after him. He’d been caught on camera with the princess, leading them to believe he’d abducted her. Now they would scour the town, searching his business, his house, every bar he’d ever set foot in to smoke him out. And if he were smart, he’d forget that visit to the coroner, hightail it back to his palace and hide.
But with the security noose tightening around him, this might be his only chance to question the coroner about his sister’s death.
“What’s wrong?” Paloma asked when he reached the bike.
“Nothing yet.” But trouble was approaching fast. He pulled on his helmet and climbed aboard. “Let’s go see that coroner.”
But as he kicked the bike into gear, a heavy sense of foreboding weighted his gut. He hoped to hell he wasn’t heading into a trap.
They reached Isaac Morel’s residence a short time later. The coroner lived in a three-story building located in the heart of the ancient city, amid a warren of tangled lanes. His office was on the bottom floor.
Dante drove past the residence, scanning the surrounding buildings for signs of a stakeout, then headed up another lane.
“Where are you going?” Paloma asked, leaning closer against his back.
“I want to check out the area first.” He cut through a nearby alley and circled around the block, puttering past a man hosing off the sidewalk and a delivery truck at a bar unloading beer. A stray dog trotted past, rooting in the gutters for trash.
Just a typical sleepy morning in País Vell.
So why was this damned premonition of danger warning him to stay away?
Shifting his motorcycle down a gear, he approached the coroner’s office again. Still clear. Knowing he couldn’t keep circling forever, he steered into the alley behind the neighboring building and stopped. They both climbed off, and he pushed the bike behind a Dumpster, angling it for a fast escape. A late-model Fiat occupied the space by the coroner’s back door.
Dante removed his helmet, another wave of urgency filling him with doubts. But no one knew their plans. It would take the guards time to reach this street. They could talk to Morel, get the information they needed, and leave long before the guards showed up.
Paloma led the way around the building to the front door. Dante hung back, keeping a wary eye on the street as she rang the bell.
No one answered.
She hit the buzzer again, then shot him a questioning look. “What do you think? Should we try the back? Maybe he can’t hear the bell.”
“All right.” This time, Dante took the lead. He strode back into the alley, went up to the door and knocked. When the coroner still didn’t answer, he tried the knob.
It turned.
His heart sped up.
Paloma sent him a startled glance. “That’s odd.”
“Yeah.” His sense of trepidation rising, he pushed open the door and entered a narrow hall. A now familiar stench stopped him cold.
Holding out his arms, he blocked Paloma’s path.
“Oh, no,” she whispered from behind him. “Not again.”
“Yeah.” Another dead body. What the hell was going on? “You should wait outside.”
“No. I need to see this.” Covering her nose with her sleeve, she scooted around him, prompting a reluctant spurt of respect. For a pampered princess, she didn’t shirk unpleasant tasks.
His nerves clamoring harder, he trailed her through the unlit hallway to a narrow kitchen and paused to glance inside. Dirty dishes crowded the sink. A wheel of cheese stood on a small wooden table, next to an open bottle of wine. Isaac Morel’s last meal?
They continued down the hallway, the wooden floor creaking beneath their feet. Then they entered the coroner’s office, a dark, dusty room with file cabinets and cardboard boxes crammed like beehives throughout the space. An old-fashioned pendulum clock hung above the desk, its loud ticks drawing his gaze. It read the correct time—meaning Morel had wound it recently. The coroner couldn’t have been dead for long.
The front parlor adjoined the office. Paloma preceded him into the room, then abruptly stopped. Trying not to inhale the stench, Dante checked to make sure the shutters covered the windows and flicked on the overhead light. His gaze shot to the body on the floor.
He swallowed hard.
Like Lucía and César Gomez, the coroner lay in a sea of blood. Steeling himself to walk closer, Dante catalogued the grotesque purplish rash, the way his skin had puffed up like an inflated paper bag. The coroner had chewed off his tongue, leaving his mouth a bloody maw. He’d bled from his nose and eyes.
Paloma made a sound of distress. Her face sheet-white, she bolted from the room.
His own stomach roiling, Dante forced himself to stay put, noting the twisted position of the coroner’s body, how he’d stretched out his hand, as if making a final, frantic plea for help. Sickened, he turned off the light, followed Paloma into the office and shut the door. She clung to the desk chair, trembling and gasping for breath.
“What is that?” she cried, hysteria making her voice rise.
“Hell if I know.” He felt just as spooked. Three people had died now, all in the same macabre way. “But whatever it is, we need to find out. Fast. You search the desk.” He motioned to the piles of paper cluttering the top. “See if you can find anything about my sister or that patient you were talking about, the one with a similar rash. I’ll look in the files.”
He thought at first she couldn’t do it. She was shivering so badly, and her face looked so bloodless, he feared she was going to faint. But she sank into the desk chair and reached for the nearest pile, prompting another wave of respect.
He hadn’t expected her to have grit. The tabloids had portrayed her as a shallow, irresponsible wild child who cared only about attending her next celebrity-studded event. But apparently there was more to her than that.
Forcing his mind back to the coroner, he ran his gaze around the jam-packed room. Morel didn’t use a computer, just an antiquated paper filing system—which accounted for the file cabinets and boxes stacked to the rafters throughout the room.