by Gail Barrett
“There wasn’t as much danger then. La Brigada hadn’t launched an attack in years. And we weren’t going far, just to the lake behind the castle. We were still on gated grounds.”
She stared into the flames, watching the sparks shimmer and swirl as her mind continued to travel back. “We had a picnic and swam for a while. There was a raptor circling the lake, a hawk. Puffy clouds in the sky.” Funny how details like that lingered after all those years.
“The nanny and the guard wandered off. They told me to keep my eye on Tristan, who was skipping stones into the lake, but I got restless. There was a field of wildflowers nearby. I could still see Tristan, so I thought it would be okay if I went over to pick a bouquet.”
She swallowed hard. “I got distracted. I sat down and started weaving the flowers into a crown. I could still hear him throwing stones. And then I realized it was too quiet. I didn’t hear him anymore. I’m not sure how much time had passed. I jumped up, and he was gone, but I caught a glimpse of him running down the trail. He wanted to find Felipe, who’d gone to climb some rocks.”
Her belly churned. Her breath sped up. Sweat moistened her upper lip. “I chased him, yelling for him to wait, but that only made him run faster. By the time I caught up, he’d found Felipe and climbed way out on a boulder. He was standing right at the edge.”
Shivering, she closed her eyes. Dante shifted behind her, placing his heavy hand on her shoulder, the solid weight anchoring her somehow.
“Felipe went after him and tried to coax him back. But Tristan didn’t understand. He thought it was a game. He dodged him, and Felipe fell. He tumbled off the rock but somehow caught a branch and hung on.”
She pressed her hand to her throat, remembering the horror in Felipe’s eyes. The absolute panic and helplessness she’d felt.
“I knew I couldn’t pull him up. Felipe yelled at me to go for help. I got Tristan off the rock, and then I ran back down the trail, screaming to the nanny and guard. They finally heard me and started running toward me, but they were too far away to help. So I raced back.”
“Paloma…”
“No, I want to tell you.” Inhaling, feeling as winded as if she’d just run up that trail, she forced herself to go on. “When I got back to the rock, Felipe had managed to pull himself partway up. He was reaching for another branch. I couldn’t see exactly. Tristan had climbed back out on the rock and was blocking the way. I could hear Felipe shouting at him to move, to get back. That he was stepping on his hands and loosening the dirt.
“And then…and then…” Shaking, gasping, a cold sweat beading her face, she forced herself to remember it all. “Felipe fell.” His high-pitched scream had echoed in her skull—until it abruptly stopped.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Dante slid his hand to the nape of her neck. Then he rubbed her back, the gesture comforting, steadying, helping to dispel the horror she felt.
“Where was the guard?” he finally asked.
She inhaled. “They showed up a few seconds later.”
She twisted and met his eyes, feeling as if she were standing on a precipice herself. And suddenly, she wanted to tell him the rest, the horrific truth she’d never revealed. The fear she’d never dared name.
“But just for a minute,” she whispered. “When Tristan turned around, there was something in his eyes. I thought…he looked…triumphant. Gleeful. I thought for a second that he’d made Felipe fall.”
Dante’s gaze held hers. For several heartbeats, he didn’t speak. Then a log snapped in the fireplace, and she blinked.
“But that can’t be right. It happened so fast that I’m sure I imagined that. And everyone said it was my fault. I shouldn’t have wandered off. I should have called for help at once.”
Dante’s jaw hardened, and he sat up. “You were twelve. The guard and nanny were responsible for you. They were the ones to blame.”
She exhaled. “I know. My father fired them immediately.” Felipe’s death had devastated the king. First he’d lost his wife, then Felipe, his heir and favorite son. And he still blamed her. She felt his resentment and condemnation every day.
While she lived with the shame that she’d shirked her duty, that she hadn’t saved her beloved brother Felipe.
That she’d survived.
She let out a heavy sigh. “I was never popular, but I became a pariah overnight after that. I tried to make up for it, but I couldn’t do anything right. So I focused on helping Tristan instead.”
She’d wanted to feel needed, valued. To win her father’s approval and assuage the guilt. To prove she wasn’t as irresponsible as everyone said. And that maybe she deserved their respect.
“But nothing helped. Everyone still despised me. Any mistakes I made got magnified, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. And then…I gave up. I went wild—drinking, drugs. Living down to my bad reputation. Doing anything I could do to forget.”
“Did it help?”
“No.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I just hated myself more. The tabloids hounded me. My reputation tanked. I was the poster child for dissipated living, giving the separatists a reason to demand independence again. That’s what finally made me stop. I didn’t care about myself. But I realized the damage I was doing to País Vell.”
Dante dropped his hand, but he shifted closer, his broad shoulder supporting her back. She leaned against him, grateful for his compassion. His silence. His understanding.
Somehow it felt right.
“And that’s it. That’s how I got my reputation.” She managed a wobbly smile.
But he didn’t smile back. “Paloma, you weren’t responsible for any of that. Not Felipe’s death. Not Tristan’s behavior—either then or now.”
Guilt rose like a phoenix inside. “But Tristan—”
“It wasn’t your job to watch him.”
“It wasn’t just that.” She inhaled, gathering the courage she needed to voice her deepest fear. “I’d raised him, Dante. After my mother died, I was practically a mother to him. And if he could do something that atrocious…it had to be my fault. It had to be because of me. That I was lacking somehow.”
Dante’s eyes flashed fire. “You were a kid. You needed a mother yourself. What was your father doing during all that time?”
Drinking. “He fell apart after my mother died. I think she’d kept his drinking under control. And without her influence…” She shrugged.
“That was his weakness, not yours.” He raised his hand, using his knuckle to brush her cheek, the tender gesture warming her heart. “You weren’t responsible for raising your brother,” he repeated.
“Maybe not. But knowing that and feeling that are something different.”
Their gazes held. Understanding flickered between them. And she knew he’d felt the same loyalty to his younger sister, the same need to protect her from harm.
The moment stretched. Rain pelted the windows, and lightning cracked outside. Dante’s eyes held her steadfast, those dark, shimmering pools sucking her in.
She’d exposed her starkest fear. She’d confessed her shame and pain. And she’d handed this man the power to ruin her family, to bring down the monarchy, to accomplish the separatists’ cause.
El Fantasma’s cause.
She’d never been so vulnerable in her life.
So why did she feel so safe?
His eyes dropped to her mouth. He slowly traced the curve of her lower lip with his thumb, and her heart skipped in erratic beats.
She knew he’d meant the gesture as comfort, compassion. They were two battered souls connecting for an instant in time. But sensual thrills cascaded over her skin. Her breath backed up in her lungs.
And she desperately wanted to move closer, to inhale his alluring scent, to plunge her hands through his thick black hair.
To feel his steel-hard muscles flexing under her palms as he kissed her, his mouth slanting hard over hers.
She wanted to forget the world, forget the pain, forget the treachery of her brother’s lies, and simply lose herself in the madness of this man’s arms.
His eyes burned into hers. He went stone still, the planes of his face drawn taut. And then he shifted even closer, sliding his hand to the nape of her neck, and she forgot to breathe.
The thunderstorm faded away. The room dimmed, the world receding as her existence narrowed to this one man, this one place, this single moment in time.
His warm breath fanned her face. A maelstrom of need swirled inside her, making it hard to think.
“Paloma,” he growled, his deep voice rumbling through her nerves. He reached out with his other hand and cupped her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “You sure you want this?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. This wasn’t a game. And it wasn’t going to be just one kiss. If they started this thing, they wouldn’t stop. There’d be no turning back, no regrets. No blame or lamenting mistakes.
She gazed into his hungry eyes. And she knew right then that she’d never wanted anything so desperately in her life.
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
His hard jaw flexed. He splayed his big, callused hand over her neck, sending tremors dancing over her skin. And then he pulled her against him, prompting a rush of lust in her veins.
Was this an escape? Another rebellion? Was she reverting to her reckless behavior and making a mistake?
Maybe so. But as her eyes fluttered closed and he fused his mouth to hers, she had the feeling that for once in her life she was finally doing something right.
Chapter 9
Dante claimed Paloma’s mouth, the lush, moist taste of her provoking an instant surge of insanity and laying siege to his resolve. He knew that he shouldn’t do this. She was the princess, his sworn enemy, the woman he was using to get revenge—the last person he should have in his arms on this stormy autumn night.
And she was vulnerable right now. Her brother’s evil behavior had destroyed her illusions, leaving her emotions raw. He had no right to seduce her during this moment of weakness, no matter how certain she’d said she was.
But none of that seemed to matter. He didn’t know why, whether it was her staggering beauty or her. But her kiss had plowed through his defenses, obliterating his common sense. It had ignited something primitive inside him, making him want to drive himself so deeply inside her that the world would cease to exist.
He plunged his hands through her silky hair. Then he hauled her even closer, needing to feel her sweetly curving body pressed against his. And she kissed him back, making a wild, sensual sound at the back of her throat that electrified his nerves. He’d never felt such immediate hunger, such a total conflagration of need.
Breaking away from her mouth, he rained kisses down her jaw and neck. She shuddered and clutched his hair. Then her head fell back, her tiny, mewling whimpers sending a rush of heat through his blood.
Struggling to bank the burgeoning hunger, he returned his mouth to hers. Their tongues dueled and danced, the deep, drugging kisses reeling him in. She tasted of brandy and tea and something unique, something so insanely intoxicating he couldn’t even stand to stop to breathe.
Tipping backward, he pulled her atop him on to the rug. She let out a low, breathless laugh, then propped herself up on her elbows, and her gaze connected with his.
Time stopped. For several thundering heartbeats he just stared up at her amber eyes, his hoarse breath sawing the air. He took in the perfect lilt of her lips, the mesmerizing line of her throat, the way the golden light carved shadows on her creamy skin. Her luxurious hair framed her face, the satiny mass gleaming in the muted light.
But it was the total trust in her eyes that bulldozed his heart. The honesty. She wanted him—Dante Quevedo. Stonemason and thief.
His throat turned thick, a profound feeling of tenderness swirling inside him, a maelstrom of feelings he couldn’t name. A need to protect her, defend her, cherish her.
And he knew right then that he was lost. This was far more than casual sex, far more than a momentary diversion, far more than two lonely people seeking comfort in the night. Whatever the hell was going on here, he was in way over his head.
Lightning flashed, bathing the room in a silver glow. Her luminous eyes on his, she sat up, straddling his waist, and untied the belt of her robe. Then she peeled it off, baring herself to his gaze.
His heart stuttered hard. His starving gaze devoured her, worshipping the contours of her breasts, admiring the play of shadow and light on her tawny skin. She was full, ripe, perfect, her dusky nipples pouting for his touch.
His breath rasping, he lifted his hands and palmed her breasts, then ran his hands down the curve of her waist, over her flat, feminine belly and curving hips. She arched back and closed her eyes. Her soft moan of need sent a hot shaft of lust straight to his loins.
His hands unsteady, he gently rolled her beneath him, then braced himself on his forearms to keep from crushing her with his weight. He continued his exploration with his mouth and hands until she gasped and whimpered with need. Another hot surge of hunger knotted his guts.
His body pulsed hard, his need growing too insistent for him to contain. Paloma clutched his arms, her ragged pants nearly driving him over the edge. The need to be inside her making him crazy, he inched his way back up.
“You’re so damned beautiful,” he growled against her throat. The tabloids hadn’t done her justice. Neither had the nude photos circulating on the internet. She was more erotic than he’d ever believed, better than any fantasy he’d ever had. He reclaimed her lips, giving vent to the violent need inside him, demonstrating how close he was to the brink.
“Don’t stop now,” she pleaded when he broke away.
“Just getting rid of my clothes.” Rising, he tore off his sweater and flung it aside. He pulled a condom from his jeans, handing it to her as she sat up. Then he made short work of his pants.
She paused. Her eyes skimmed down the length of him, her frank approval exciting him even more.
“Let me,” she murmured, ripping open the packet.
He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, every muscle in his body tensing as she took him in her hands.
Then he closed his eyes, the feathery feel of her fingers nearly making him disgrace himself. He gritted his teeth, sweat popping out on his brow with the effort it took to stay in control. She petted and patted and stroked, finally managing to roll the condom on. He was so aroused he could hardly stand.
She took his hand, urging him down. Nudging her legs apart, he settled between her thighs. And then he kissed her again, working his mouth down her body, needing to explore every intimate inch of her, to know her, taste her and brand her as his. She bucked and shivered against him, her soft mewls firing his blood. Still he continued the torture, using his hands and lips and tongue and teeth until she stiffened and gasped.
With a rough growl of approval he spread her legs even farther, then fitted himself to the entrance to her warmth. The slick, hot feel of her as she convulsed around him nearly razed his self-control.
She shuddered and opened her eyes—eyes glazed with the pleasure he’d caused. A fierce sense of satisfaction surged through him, a feeling of pure male triumph and possession—and something more.
His breath backed up in his throat. A sudden feeling of rightness flooded him, as if something in his world had changed. As if a lifetime of barriers had eroded, and this woman, this incredible, courageous princess, was his rightful mate.
As improbable as that seemed.
He lowered his mouth to hers, the kiss unbridled and intimate and wild. Then he slowly, steadily drove inside her, her
sleek, wet warmth welcoming him home.
They both groaned.
He couldn’t stop. The pleasure was too exquisite, the hunger too insistent, and primitive needs took charge. He began to move, finding the perfect rhythm, coaxing her back to the edge.
He kissed her mouth, her breasts, her throat. She ran her hands down his back, her soft, savage sounds making him crazed. His senses whirled. His breath grew labored and rough. He moved faster, harder, his heart slamming against his rib cage, while she wriggled and thrashed and moaned.
She tensed, then cried out, her inner muscles contracting as she found release. And then he was beyond all patience, beyond all restraint, consumed by a feral madness he couldn’t contain.
“Paloma,” he breathed.
Her lips parted. Her eyes were feverish, her expression tortured. Urgency overwhelmed him as he lost his final grip on sanity. And then he hurried over the brink, surrendering to the bliss, ecstasy pumping him dry.
But long moments later, as he drifted back to earth, the feel of her sweet body still shivering around him, he gazed at this woman who’d rocked his world.
And he wondered what the hell he’d just done.
Dante awoke several hours later. The fire burned low in the grate. The power was still out, and the candles were languishing in their glass holders, the low flames licking carelessly at their wicks. The worst of the storm had subsided, and lightning flashed in the distance, just a soft rain pattering the roof.
He shifted his weight, careful not to disturb Paloma as he eased out from under her. Then he tucked the blanket around her and slid a pillow under her head.
And for a long moment he just took her in—her plump, erotic mouth; the soft, flushed curves of her cheeks; the perfect symmetry of her finely arched brows. He stroked a stray strand of hair off her cheek, the satiny texture tugging at his heart. She was beautiful. Passionate. Nothing like he’d first imagined.
And completely wrong for him.
He turned away from her with a sigh. Rising, he pulled on his jeans, padded barefoot to the fireplace and moved aside the screen. He added another log, using the poker to stir the embers to life, then leaned back on his haunches and stared into the flames, unable to hold the guilt at bay.