by Gail Barrett
He’d had no damned business touching Paloma. They would never have a future together; the very idea was insane. He didn’t have noble blood. He was a commoner, a rebel from the separatist territory. Even worse, he was El Fantasma, an enemy of the crown.
And if all that weren’t enough, he was using her to exact revenge. His plan hadn’t changed. He still intended to destroy the monarchy, and Paloma was his means to that end.
Except that he couldn’t think of her that way anymore. She wasn’t only the princess, a member of the family he loathed. She was a courageous, spirited woman, a woman her family had badly wronged. A woman who genuinely cared about the country.
A woman he had complicated feelings for.
He scrubbed his face with his hand, his conscience protesting hard. He was using her, all right—just as the rebels had used his mother for their cause.
Which didn’t make him any better than them.
He jabbed at the log again and sighed. He’d made a mistake, indulging in the blinding pleasure of her embrace—one he couldn’t repeat. Because when she found out the truth…
And she would find out. He couldn’t halt the momentum now. She’d already learned about the drug ring. She’d soon discover that Tristan had murdered Lucía just as he’d killed Felipe years ago. And he might have done something worse. Dante had the ominous feeling that whatever the hell the prince was up to, the reality was worse than even he could imagine.
And it would destroy every remaining illusion Paloma had.
Should he tell her? Should he confess everything right now? He tightened his grip on the poker, so damned tempted to do just that—wake her up, reveal the truth and beg her for another chance.
But a chance at what? Exactly what did he want from her?
“What time is it?” she asked from behind him.
He turned his head and looked back. She had propped herself up on one elbow and clutched the blanket to her chest. Her face was flushed, and her long, glorious hair was in sensual disarray, tumbling over her bare shoulders like waves of silk. Her lips were still swollen from their lovemaking; her thickly lashed eyes limpid and huge.
And he realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t tell her the truth. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter her remaining fantasies about her family. Not yet.
“Two in the morning,” he said, rising. He set the fireplace poker in the stand and strode back to her side. Then he eased himself down and hauled her into his arms, making sure the blanket stayed around her to keep off the chill.
For a long time, he simply held her, her head resting against his chest, a comfortable silence filling the air. And he realized with a start that he liked being with her like this—inhaling the scent of her skin and listening to her breathe.
And no way was he going to examine why.
After a moment, she sighed. “Listen, Dante. I’ve been thinking. I know things look bad for Tristan, and that he’s probably smuggling fake drugs. But I don’t want to tell my father yet.”
He stilled. “You want to hide this?”
“No.” She lifted her head, then angled around to look into his eyes. “Not at all. We need to stop him. We can’t risk having people die from tainted drugs. But right now we don’t have enough evidence. Even if we get those pills tested, Tristan could cover his tracks. He’s not dumb. He’s probably figured out a way to blame it on someone else. And my father won’t believe me without proof. I don’t have much credibility with him. Tristan has a lot more power and influence with him than I do.
“We have to think about the people, too. When they find out what he’s been doing, they’re going to revolt. There’ll be riots. They could get hurt. And who knows how my father will react to that.”
She was right. The king could gun them down, just as he’d done before. But it galled him to protect the prince. He wanted to destroy him, to make him pay for his crimes.
But was it justice if more innocent people died? He bit back a harsh reply.
“I know,” Paloma said softly, as if sensing what he was thinking. “It feels wrong not to report this at once. But let’s find that blackmail evidence first. Maybe the proof we need is in that. And then we’ll decide what to do.”
Dante frowned at the fireplace, buffeted by conflicting emotions, feeling as adrift as the shifting flames. He needed to avenge his family. He wanted to protect Paloma. He had to act for the greater good. But how could he do all three?
Not seeing any solution, he sighed. “All right. We’ll keep this quiet. But only until we have proof.”
Her eyes softened, sparkling with the same gold flecks that shimmered in her chestnut hair. Then she reached up and feathered her fingers over his jaw. “You’re a good man,” she whispered.
His guilt edged up a notch. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re wrong. I know what this is costing you. My father had your mother killed. I don’t blame you for resenting us. I’d feel the same.”
Compassion shone in her eyes. And a sudden fullness thickened his chest. She still didn’t understand the depths of her brother’s depravity. And he needed to tell her the truth right now. He had to own up and confess what he suspected before she discovered that he’d deceived her, and he hurt her even more.
But then she rose to her knees. She let go of the blanket, letting it fall to the floor. She knelt naked before him, her bare skin gleaming in the firelight, her beauty reeling him in.
His lungs ceased to function. He dropped his gaze to her pouting breasts, and her nipples pebbled, demanding his touch. His eyes swept over the sensual curve of her hips, the soft, feminine line of her waist, the sweet paradise beckoning between her thighs.
His throat turned dry, his mind completely blank. Fierce hunger pumped through his loins.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. But she was what he needed.
And even if it damned him later, he couldn’t resist.
Paloma woke up several hours later, confused. Her throat was on fire. Her eyes felt scratchy and dry, as if sandpaper were stuck under her lids. And that blasted headache lashed her skull without mercy, the pain so piercing she wanted to cry.
With an effort, she cracked open her eyes. She was lying on Dante’s leather couch, covered with blankets. The fire had died, leaving the faint scent of wood smoke lingering in the air. Dull gray light seeped through the windows overlooking the valley, indicating that morning had come.
She lifted her hand to her stuffy head. Great. She’d caught a cold. Nothing like crashing back to reality after the most fabulous night of her life.
Unless it wasn’t just a cold…
That thought startling her, she swung her feet to the floor and stood. A sharp wave of dizziness rolled through her, and she grabbed the back of the couch. Her legs threatened to buckle. Black dots swam in her vision, and as she blinked to clear her eyes, the symptoms the widow had mentioned flashed through her head—the headache, the fever…
No. She couldn’t start imagining things. She just needed coffee. Food. Of course she was weak; she hadn’t had a decent meal in days. But the thought of eating made her stomach churn, and she fought down the urge to gag.
Still feeling light-headed, she pulled on Dante’s bathrobe and cinched it at the waist. She straightened the pillows and folded the blankets, leaving them in a stack on the couch. Then she headed into the kitchen in search of Dante, the stone floor cold on her bare feet. He wasn’t there, but the flat-screen television was on, the sound muted. Touched that he’d tried not to wake her, she detoured to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup.
After several deep gulps, she topped off her cup, then stumbled back to the table and sank into a chair. She knew she needed to think about the past night and put it into perspective somehow. Because Dante… She shut her eyes
and shivered hard. What a fascinating, virile man.
A parade of erotic images flashed through her mind, and she flushed. That man had skills. And she was in way over her head. He was too male, too exciting, too much like everything she’d ever dreamed. Potent. Dangerous. Addictive. A little too wild. Way too complicated, given their conflicting roles in life.
And she didn’t have time for an affair! She had to find a way to stop her brother and save her people from a potential outbreak of a deadly disease.
The television news came on, drawing her gaze to the screen. Grabbing the remote control, she turned on the sound. Then she continued sipping her coffee, half listening to the headlines, praying the caffeine would ease her headache and stop the dizzy feeling twirling through her skull.
The newscaster didn’t mention the coroner’s death, which was good. Dr. Sanz must have kept his promise and hushed that up. And there was no news about her supposed abduction, which reassured her as well. Maybe Tristan had finally come through for her and convinced her father she was fine.
But then what about those guards? Why were they still after her? That part didn’t make sense.
The camera switched to a view of the hospital, and Paloma sat up. A reporter stood in front of the entrance, interviewing Dr. Sanz.
“A particularly nasty flu season,” the reporter was saying.
“That’s right,” the doctor said. “We’ve already seen an upswing in cases, particularly in the south.”
“What do you suggest people do?” the reporter asked.
Dr. Sanz straightened his glasses, the gesture reminding her of Miguel. “Basic hygiene is key, of course. Wash your hands several times a day. Cover your face and nose if you cough or sneeze. Stay home if you’re sick. Don’t go to school or work. And we’re urging everyone to get a flu vaccine at once. We’re stocking the clinics now. The king has ordered extra vaccines, so there’ll be plenty to go around.”
Paloma slumped back in her chair, confused. She doubted her father had ordered those vaccines. He would delegate a job like that. So was this Tristan’s doing? Was he trying to atone for his mistakes by making sure people didn’t get sick? But would someone capable of selling fake pharmaceuticals even care?
Dante entered the kitchen just then, carrying her laundered clothes. Their eyes locked, and he stopped. And his stark male beauty thundered through her, bringing memories of the night roaring back. His mouth ravaging hers. His muscles tensing and rippling beneath her hands. The glorious feel of him moving inside her, driving her to peak after shuddering peak.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, and his growling voice heated her blood.
Her entire body flushed, her mind stalling on exactly how good he’d made her feel. “I’d feel better if you kissed me,” she admitted, suddenly breathless.
He didn’t move. Heat arched between them, making her heart rate jump.
But then the television switched to a commercial, and the sudden blare of music brought her back to earth. Aware that he hadn’t answered, she flushed. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”
He shifted his weight, something that looked a lot like guilt moving through his eyes. “Listen, Paloma…”
“No. Let’s not talk about it now, all right?” Oh, God. He had regrets. And that was the last thing she wanted to hear right now. “Last night was amazing.” The understatement of the year. “But I don’t want to rehash it now.”
It stung. She was having a hard enough time dealing with her brother’s treachery without suffering Dante’s rejection, too. But what had she expected with her bad reputation? A declaration of love?
“We need to talk about it sometime,” he said.
“I know. But not now, okay?” Not until she’d had time to erect some defenses. Not until the caffeine kicked in and her head wasn’t going to explode.
Hoping to change the subject, she gestured toward the screen. “It looks like Dr. Sanz came through, by the way. They’re stepping up the flu vaccines.”
“That’s good.” Still frowning, he set her clothes on the counter, then headed to the coffeepot. She helplessly followed his movements, admiring the flex of his muscled back, the way his worn jeans tightened when he grabbed a mug from the shelf.
She closed her eyes on a sigh. She’d known what she was doing. They’d succumbed to their mind-boggling chemistry and had sex, nothing more. And no matter how glorious the night had been—or how right she’d felt in his arms—it was done.
“I got a call from Miguel,” Dante said, and she looked at him again. “He found the bank account and safe-deposit box. It’s in the Banco Pirineo, a small regional bank just over the border in Spain.”
Relief flooded through her. “Good. We can head there when it opens and see if the blackmail evidence is inside.”
Dante took a long swallow of coffee, then leaned back against the counter and shook his head. “It’s not that easy. The bank uses a biometric identification system.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning they compare your fingerprints to the ones on file. If they don’t match, you can’t get in.”
Her hopes plummeted. “So we can’t get at the box.”
“Sure we can, but we need to change the fingerprints on file to mine. Miguel’s bringing a scanner by. He’ll make me a fake identification card, too.”
“He can do all that?”
“He says he can. I didn’t ask how.”
She frowned at that. This certainly was complicated. And what if, after all this effort, the blackmail evidence wasn’t there? Trying not to worry, she massaged her pounding temples. “When is he stopping by?”
He glanced at his watch. “He should be here in half an hour.”
No time to waste then. “I’ll go get dressed.”
She rose and grabbed her clothes from the counter. But another wave of dizziness roared through her, making stars erupt behind her eyes.
Dante leaped across the kitchen and grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”
Nausea roiling through her, she pressed her hand to her mouth. She felt weak, boneless, as if her legs were starting to melt. And that headache! Every strand of hair screamed in pain.
“I’m fine,” she lied, trying not to let her voice shake. “I’ve just caught a cold, probably from that drive down the mountain in the rain. Some aspirin should help.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see the doubt in his black eyes. And she couldn’t blame him. She felt like hell, so miserable she could hardly stand.
But she didn’t have time to get sick. She had too much at stake to let a head cold sideline her now.
“I’m fine, Dante. Really,” she insisted. “Just point me to the painkillers, and I’ll be ready to go.”
His eyes still skeptical, he released her arm. She summoned a smile, feigning a strength she didn’t feel.
But as she staggered toward the bathroom, trying valiantly to keep herself upright, a sudden vision of Gomez’s corpse stole into her mind, and a chill of dread whispered down her spine.
Chapter 10
Paloma was lying through her perfect teeth.
Dante sat beside Miguel at the kitchen table, following her progress with brooding eyes. She puttered around the room, washing dishes and wiping the counters, nibbling at some grapes and cheese.
He knew this woman. He’d memorized her expressions over the past two days and known her intimately last night, so intimately it had taken a long, frigid shower to knock some sense into his head and keep him from doing what his body demanded—making feral, passionate love to her again until they were both too sated to breathe.
He’d miraculously managed to gather some self-control. But even if he couldn’t touch her, he still noticed everything about her, including the glaze in her bloods
hot eyes, the feverish flush reddening her skin. Her appetite had disappeared, and the way she wobbled around the room, he feared she was going to fall.
“Your prints are in,” Miguel said from beside him.
Dante gave him an absent nod. There was no doubt that Paloma was ill. That drive through the freezing rain hadn’t helped, and neither had the lack of sleep. But was there any chance she’d contracted that disease? Could she possibly have come down with it that fast? He’d been just as exposed as she had, and he felt fine.
“You’re now César Gomez,” Miguel continued, drawing his attention back to him. “Six-two, one hundred eighty pounds.” He flipped to another screen, and Dante’s photo appeared. “Here you are. As long as no one at the bank remembers him, you’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” Dante’s fingerprints were now in the system, replacing the ones Gomez had on file. He’d practiced Gomez’s signature, memorized the answers to his personal questions and obtained a fake ID. “Anything else we need to do?”
“No. I just need to cover my tracks so they don’t find my trail in their system, and then we’re done.”
“Great.”
Miguel continued tapping the keyboard and flipping through various screens. His thoughts arrowing back to Paloma, Dante rose and joined her at the sink.
Heat poured off her satin skin. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her upper lip. Circles darkened her bloodshot eyes, evidence of her fatigue.
Despite his vow to resist her, he ran his knuckle along her jaw, her unnatural warmth making his belly clench. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Better. That aspirin helped.”
The hell it did. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, and she flushed. “You need to rest. Stay here and take a nap while I go to the bank. I’ll come right back.”
“No. I’m coming with you.”