by Gail Barrett
Didn’t she trust him? He searched her gaze, knowing she had every right to have doubts. She’d shared her body, her heart, her fears, while he still harbored secrets that were going to cause her pain.
But her eyes glimmered with concern. She was afraid for him. His heart warmed at the thought. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had worried about him—not since his mother had died.
Moved, he reached out and cradled her jaw. “Stay here, Paloma. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I…” She slid a glance at Miguel. Stiffening, she stepped away. “I’m almost ready. Just give me one more minute, and we can go.” She beat a fast retreat from the room.
Confused by her hasty departure, he knit his brows. But it was just as well. Her nearness made her hard to resist.
“You do remember who she is, right?” Miguel said, his voice tight.
Dante turned around to face the hacker, the hostility in Miguel’s eyes putting him on guard. “I’m hardly about to forget.”
“Then what the hell are you screwing her for? You tick her off, and we’ll both end up in jail.”
His jaw hardening, he crossed his arms. “It isn’t like that.” She wasn’t like that. “She’s not what you think.”
“Right,” Miguel scoffed.
“She’s different. She’s on our side.”
Miguel shot him a look of disbelief. “Christ. You’ve got it bad.”
Did he? Was he letting his hormones lead him astray?
Uncertainty penetrated his anger, and he frowned. He understood Miguel’s concern. He’d been just as quick to condemn her at first. Hell, he’d spent decades waging his own personal war against the nobility, eager to cause them pain.
But Paloma was different. She wasn’t the party animal the tabloids portrayed. She was compassionate, loyal, principled. He couldn’t be wrong about that.
Could he?
Miguel snapped his laptop closed, unplugged the biometric scanner and rose. Then he loaded up his equipment and headed for the courtyard, pausing in the doorway to glance back.
“I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, man. For all our sakes.”
So did he.
Dante pulled his motorcycle to a stop just off the Plaza Mayor in the small Spanish city of Piedra Negra and parked. Thanks to their convoluted route through the mountains—down smuggling trails and shepherds’ paths—they’d arrived in the city late in the afternoon. The off-road course had enabled them to evade the guards but had done little to calm his nerves. A feeling of impending disaster plagued him, growing stronger as they neared the bank.
What if someone recognized them? What if, despite Miguel’s expertise, they triggered an internal alarm? What if he failed to protect Paloma, and she got hurt—or worse?
And what if she really had caught that disease and he failed to get her help?
Battling back a surge of anxiety, he pulled off his helmet while Paloma did the same. She swung down from the bike, then sank onto a nearby bench, not quite stifling her moan. Fatigue lined her face. Tremors racked her slender frame. And from the way she kept clutching her forehead, he knew the painkillers she’d swallowed hadn’t worked.
But she hadn’t complained, hadn’t taken the easy way out and quit. She’d clung to his back, staying on that bike through sheer dint of will on their torturous trek through the mountains.
Giving in to the need to touch her, he lowered himself to the bench beside her and slid his arm around her back. She leaned against him and closed her eyes, obviously too exhausted to protest. “What’s our plan?” she murmured, her eyes still shut.
His chest tight, his protective instincts surging, he turned his attention to the plaza’s entrance. People streamed through the high stone archway—young couples, women pulling shopping carts, an occasional tourist carrying a camera and map.
“The bank’s inside the plaza,” he said. Miguel had located it on Google Maps. “I’ll go get that disk while you wait here with the bike.”
She pushed herself upright again. “I’ll go with you.”
“It’s too risky. I’ll be less noticeable alone.”
“Then I’ll wait outside the bank and act as your lookout. I can signal if something goes wrong.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up, and he shook his head. “Nice thought, Princess, but you’re famous. If someone takes a close look at you, we’re done.”
Not able to argue that, she sighed. “All right. I’ll stay here and man the getaway bike.” She managed a wobbly smile.
A warm feeling flooded his chest, his admiration for this woman soaring even more.
Miguel was right. He had it bad.
Knowing he had to focus, he scanned the street. Pigeons pecked at a patch of dirt. Dishes clattered in a nearby bar. A mother walked past, holding her young child’s hand. It was a typical November afternoon in a quiet, Pyrenees mountain town. And all he had to do was walk into the bank, confiscate that blackmail evidence and get back out.
So why couldn’t he shake the persistent dread?
“Listen, Paloma. If anything goes wrong, if there’s any sign of trouble, head down the street to the corner and wait for me there. I mean it,” he said when she started to argue. “Don’t do anything foolish. Just wait for me at the corner, no matter what.”
Her eyes troubled, she managed a nod. He squeezed her shoulder and rose.
“Dante.” He paused and glanced down. “Be careful,” she whispered, her eyes dark with fear.
“Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll get that disk.”
And demolish any illusions about him she had.
Realizing that was the source of his dread—the reluctance to reveal that he’d deceived her—he walked up the cobblestone street. He wished he could avoid the confrontation, but there was no point putting it off. The sooner she realized his role in this, the better off she’d be.
Resigned to the inevitable, he turned the corner into the plaza, a wide medieval square with porticoes along each side. Keeping his pace measured and slow, and resisting the urge to shoot furtive glances around him like a guilty man, he headed to the bank. A policeman stood guard outside.
Dante’s pulse quickened as he reached the door. He nodded to the guard, swung open the bank’s glass door, and went inside. After passing through the metal detector, he strolled into the lobby and glanced around.
He was in.
His heart drumming, he joined the short line at the tellers’ cage. Pulling out his cell phone, he pretended to check his calls while he scoped out the bank, locating the entrance to the vault, the surveillance cameras mounted on the walls, the emergency exit sign at the end of the hall.
“Next,” a woman called.
Dante approached the teller, a dark-haired woman in her early twenties, wearing too much makeup and a low-cut blouse. “I’d like to get into my safe-deposit box,” he said.
“Of course. May I see your identification card, please?”
Dante took out his wallet and slid her the fake ID. Knowing it wouldn’t bear close scrutiny, he tried to distract her. “It’s quiet today,” he said.
It worked. The teller leaned closer, providing him with a better view of her cleavage, and he obliged her by checking it out. “I could use some excitement, that’s for sure,” she said, a suggestive look in her eyes.
He shot her a wicked smile.
Her color heightening, she parted her painted lips. Then she jerked her gaze back to her computer, tapped for a second on her keyboard and slid him back his card. “Right this way,” she said, sounding breathless.
She murmured to another teller, who nodded and glanced at him. Knowing the cameras were recording his movements, Dante kept his hands loose, his shoulders and expression relaxed as he followed he
r to the vault. But he had the acute sensation that he was being watched.
The teller stopped at a cabinet and opened a drawer, then handed him a card to fill out. He wrote down Gomez’s name and the date, signed the card with Gomez’s signature and gave her another smile.
Her eyes gleaming, she held up her hand to the scanner, and it beeped her in. He did the same, then risked a casual glance back. Three bank workers huddled together in the lobby, and a frisson of awareness crawled through his nerves. Had he somehow tipped them off?
His apprehension climbing, he followed the teller down the polished hallway, her hips swiveling in her too-tight skirt. She stopped before a wall of safe-deposit boxes and inserted her key in one. As he handed her the key they’d found in Gomez’s safe, her fingers trailed over his palm, and he struggled not to flinch.
Clearly taking her time now, she opened the drawer and handed him a long metal box. Trying to hide his impatience, he braved another glance toward the lobby as she escorted him to a booth. A man ran past, his suit coat flapping, a frantic expression on his face. Damn. What the hell had gone wrong?
“I’ll only be a second,” he told the teller as he stepped inside the booth.
“I’ll wait down the hall. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.” She whirled on her stiletto heels, then sauntered toward the lobby with an exaggerated swing of her hips.
Dante jerked the curtain closed, his thoughts spinning as he scanned the booth. No window. No way to escape. He swore.
All hell was about to break loose.
Paloma sat on the bench by the motorbike, her tension mounting as the minutes ticked past and Dante didn’t return. But she knew he would be all right. He had nerves of steel, years of experience slipping in and out of houses undetected, and enough fake paperwork to fool the bank. Nothing was going to go wrong.
Then a police car screeched to a stop at the curb. She sat bolt upright as several uniformed policemen piled out and sprinted toward the plaza, their black boots pounding the pavement—and their weapons drawn. Alarmed, she glanced around. What had happened? Where was Dante? This couldn’t mean anything good.
Then another squad car roared up to the plaza and stopped, and two more policemen leaped out. One cop raced into the plaza, but the other headed straight for her. A surge of adrenaline brought her to her feet.
“Everyone out,” he hollered. “Clear the street!”
The pedestrians around her scurried away. Paloma ducked her head, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her.
“Go on,” he yelled again. “Hurry up. Everyone out right now!”
Not seeing much choice, she started walking toward the corner, moving as slowly as she dared. But more cops crowded the intersection, stopping traffic and directing people away.
She stole a glance back at the plaza. Still no sign of Dante. And now what should she do? If she didn’t stay on the corner as he’d instructed, he wouldn’t know where to find her. And what if he needed her help? A policeman blew his whistle, the shrill sound nearly detonating her skull as the crowd jostled her along. At the following intersection, she stopped.
Shivering and sweating, her legs so weak she could hardly stay upright, she propped herself against the side of an old stone building and tried to think. She would not abandon Dante. Her family had done him enough harm.
Which meant that she had to go back.
But how?
She lurched toward a deserted alley running between the buildings and glanced around. The cops were too busy directing traffic to notice her, so she snuck into the alley and hurried back toward the street where they’d parked the bike. Her footsteps echoed on the stones. An unnatural silence throbbed in the air.
Then a gunshot barked out.
Paloma jerked up her head, her heart somersaulting into her throat. The shot had come from the plaza—where Dante was.
Her pulse racing triple time, she started to run.
She sprinted to the end of the alley, then peeked around the corner at the motorbike, her lungs gasping for air. Damn it! Where was he? She snapped her gaze toward the plaza just as he stumbled into view, dragging a terrified woman in his wake.
Oh, no. He’d taken a hostage! Now what were they going to do?
His expression furious, he drew closer, positioning the frightened woman so she shielded him from the police. The cops charged into the street behind him, their weapons drawn—but held their fire.
Now what? How were they going to get away? Even more police converged on the street.
Dante reached the bike. Knowing the cops would shoot the minute he released the woman, Paloma rushed from the alley and waved her arms. “Help! Help!” she cried.
The police swung their attention to her.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Dante shoved the woman aside and jumped aboard the bike. Paloma hopped on behind him as the hostage darted away. A flurry of gunfire broke out.
Dante cranked back hard on the throttle, causing the bike to leap into motion in a cloud of exhaust. Police whistles blew. More shots rang out, and a searing pain scorched her arm, sending her slumping against Dante’s broad back.
She’d been shot!
They swerved down the street, the motorcycle smoking and fishtailing badly, while a burning heat devoured her arm. She gritted her teeth, trying desperately to hold on to Dante and ignore the pain. But the bike vibrated and slid, threatening to upend them, a metallic clatter filling the air.
They swerved around the corner, then roared down the empty street, skidding all over. The police had shot out their tire. There was no way Dante could control the bike. Terror lodged hard in her throat.
Sirens rose. More shots rang out. The bike wobbled and shook, the metal rim clanking against the uneven stones. Trying not to pass out, she struggled to beat back the searing pain, but black spots formed in her eyes.
Dante made a sharp right turn, then raced down another street. She clung to his back, too terrified to think. Then suddenly he swerved again and flew down a ramp into an underground parking garage. He slammed on the brakes, and her head snapped back.
“Get off,” he yelled.
While she staggered upright, he sprinted down a row of cars. He lunged over to one and expertly jimmied the lock, setting off an alarm that threatened to split her skull. But he flung open the door and did something to make it stop.
“Get into the back and lie down,” he ordered, climbing behind the wheel.
Feeling numb, crazed, wondering how her life had turned insane, she dove into the backseat. She barely managed to latch the door as he took off.
“Stay down,” he said, barreling back up the ramp. “No matter what.”
Bleeding, and in so much pain it was all she could do to keep from crying out, she flattened herself to the floor and prayed.
One hour, two cars and three mind-numbing close calls later, they picked the lock on the back door of a closed attorney’s office on the outskirts of town and went inside.
“What the hell were you doing?” Dante demanded, his voice ringing with anger as he shut the door. “Why didn’t you wait at the corner, like I told you?”
She dragged in a breath, her own temper badly frayed. “The police wouldn’t let me. They were clearing the street. And I was afraid you wouldn’t find me if I moved on.”
“Find you? You’re lucky to be alive. Do you have any idea how risky that was jumping out like that? You could have been killed!”
“So could you,” she countered. “Those cops were going to shoot you the minute you got on the bike.” Shaken, knowing how close they’d come to doing just that, she hugged her arms.
But pain scorched through her biceps, and she gasped.
Dante’s gaze snapped to her arm. His jaw turned slack, and he paled. “You’re bleeding.
They shot you.”
“I’m fine,” she lied as he rushed toward her. “I’m sure it’s just a graze.” Which hurt as horribly as her aching head.
His jaw rigid, his big hands trembling, he gently peeled away her bloody sleeve. His face turned whiter yet. “Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hurt?”
“I haven’t exactly had a chance.”
His eyes met hers. And the stark fear in them softened her heart. He might despise her family. He might regret their night of passion. But he was worried about her. He cared.
“Please tell me you found the disk,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “I’d hate to think I got shot in vain.”
“I’ve got it.” His eyes were grim. “But we need to get you to a doctor fast.”
“Later. It’s really not that bad,” she insisted. “Just help me bandage it, and then let’s take a look at what we’ve got. We might not have another chance.”
His eyes held hers, his desire to protect her clearly doing battle with his common sense. Then he released his breath. “All right. Here, sit down.” He led her to the closest chair. “I’ll find something to wrap it in.”
He rushed into the bathroom and started banging cabinet doors. Within seconds he emerged with a white box. “I found a first-aid kit.”
“Don’t worry about cleaning it,” she said. “We don’t have time. I’ll go to the hospital later and get them to patch it up.”
“You’re damned right you will.” His jaw bunched tight. He lowered himself to one knee. Then he took out the roll of gauze and wrapped it around her arm, his strong hands gentle and sure.
“So what happened back there?” she asked, trying to keep her mind off his tantalizing nearness, along with the throbbing pain. “Did they recognize you at the bank?”
He secured the gauze and set the first-aid kit aside. “Hell if I know. I doubt I triggered an alarm. Miguel’s too careful for that.”
“But there was nothing about you on the news. There’s no reason they’d recognize you.”