by Gail Barrett
Just as her survival would be. The odds were definitely against it. Last he’d heard, a hundred people had already died.
Including the prince.
Dante hissed, glad there’d been some glimmer of justice in this affair. But as for Paloma… He turned and scanned the room—the doctor’s framed diplomas hanging on the walls, the medical textbooks crammed on the shelves. All the education and money in the world couldn’t defeat a deadly virus and save the woman he loved.
Dr. Sanz entered his office just then. Dark circles underscored his eyes. His face looked sallow, and his lab coat rumpled, making Dante doubt he’d slept in days. “Dante, it’s good to see you.”
“Dr. Sanz.” He reached out and shook his hand.
“Have a seat.” The doctor circled his desk and slumped into his chair. Then he tossed his glasses onto the desk and rubbed his eyes.
“How is she?” Dante asked, sitting down, his eyes glued on the doctor’s face.
Dr. Sanz let out a heavy sigh. “Not well. I wish I had better news, but I don’t.”
Dante’s hopes tanked.
The doctor scrubbed his face with his hands, then exhaled. “Coffee? Water?”
“No, thanks.”
Dr. Sanz rose, grabbed a plastic bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner and unscrewed the cap. After guzzling half the contents, he sat back down. “Unfortunately, she didn’t get the antidote in time to stop the disease.”
“I know.” Thanks to her stubborn insistence on saving her countrymen first.
“We’ve tried all the experimental drugs, but they haven’t worked,” the doctor continued. “We’re doing everything else we can—keeping her hydrated, maintaining her oxygen and blood levels, replacing the electrolytes and coagulation factors she’s lost. We’ve stitched her arm and treated the secondary infection from the gunshot wound. But frankly, there’s nothing else we can do except let the disease run its course.”
Dante clenched his jaw, outrage building inside him. “You’re saying we just sit here and wait?”
The doctor exhaled again. “We’re trying to save her, believe me. But we’ve lost a hundred and three people so far. We’ve got close to another hundred actively infected in the quarantine ward. I’m sure there’ll be more cases that haven’t manifested yet. And the fact is, she’s hung on longer than most.”
His jaw rigid, Dante rose and paced to the door. He wanted to slam his fist into the wall. Charge into the quarantine area and do something to make her well. The idea of sitting around twiddling his thumbs while Paloma battled for her life went against everything he’d stood for his entire life.
“We need to fight this,” he argued. “We can’t just do nothing and let it win.”
Dr. Sanz sighed. “I know how you feel. Losing any patient is hard, but the princess…” He shook his head. “But there’s only so much we can do. We need a miracle now.”
A miracle? Dante scoffed, knowing the likelihood of that. A miracle hadn’t saved his mother. A miracle hadn’t saved his sister. And he’d be damned if he’d rely on divine intervention to save Paloma, too.
“Look,” the doctor said, steepling his hands. “This might sound far-fetched, but there’s a lot about medicine we don’t know. And sometimes, for whatever reason, attitude helps.”
Dante stopped and scowled. “What are you saying? That she’s given up?”
“This disease has taken its toll on her. She’s lost her spirit. She needs hope, something to live for, something that will make her want to fight. If you could give her that…”
“How? Are you going to let me in to see her?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. We can’t make any exceptions. The risks are just too high.”
“Then how the hell—”
“I don’t know.” The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “I was just thinking out loud, I guess.” He capped his bottle of water and rose, looking even more weary now. “I’ll keep you posted on any news.”
Dante’s stomach plunged, the resignation in the doctor’s voice chilling him even more. “When will we know if she’s going to make it?”
“In the next few days. We’re in the second week now, when she’ll either defervesce, meaning her fever will lessen…”
“Or?”
“Or she’ll undergo multi-organ failure and die.”
Dante shoved open the hospital door a few minutes later and strode outside, Dr. Sanz’s words echoing in his mind. Hope. Paloma needed hope. But how was he supposed to rally her spirits when a hundred people had already died? When he couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t see her? When he couldn’t tell her how much he loved her? When he couldn’t explain that even if he couldn’t have her, even if they went their separate ways and never saw each other again, he needed to know that she was alive and well in the world?
And that without her, he’d be devastated. Empty.
Lost.
Dodging the clusters of reporters, he crossed the lawn, his fury over life’s injustices growing with every stride. Unlike her despicable brother, Paloma deserved to survive. She was the most selfless, most courageous person he knew. She’d sacrificed everything for her country, expecting nothing in return. It wasn’t fair.
“Mr. Quevedo!” A reporter ran up to him and shoved a microphone in his face. A man lugging a huge video camera jogged at her side.
Damn. They’d recognized him.
Trying to ignore them, he sped up. Talking to the media was the last thing he wanted to do right now. They’d hounded him since that night at the castle. They’d camped outside his stonemasonry business, trying every trick they knew to find out where he’d gone. Thankfully, he’d bought the Palacio de los Arcos under a sham corporation’s name, so no one could connect it to him, guaranteeing him some peace.
He snorted at that. Peace. Right. As if he’d been able to rest while Paloma lay in the hospital, battling for her life.
Several more reporters rushed up. A crowd started to gather, impeding his progress and hurling questions his way.
“Could you tell us about the reception?”
“What’s your relationship to the princess?”
“Are you really El Fantasma?”
“Did the princess contribute to her brother’s death?”
That did it. Furious, he whipped around. Then he planted his hands on his hips and glared at the burgeoning crowd. They were a damned bunch of vultures, every last one of them—not just these reporters, but the entire population of País Vell—criticizing the most noble person he knew while she lay there dying, all because she’d wanted to save them.
And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.
More reporters swarmed around him. Word had spread faster than that virus, bringing throngs of journalists racing his way.
“Mr. Quevedo,” someone shouted. “Could I talk to you? We’d like to hear your version of events.”
He’d talk, all right. It was time he set the record straight.
The crowd swelled even more. Cameras clicked and flashed. People held up their cell phones, probably streaming his image live on to the internet. Dante waited until the mob began to hush, wanting maximum exposure for this.
“All right. I’ll tell you what happened,” he said.
And he did. He told them of Paloma’s plan to protect her brother, her loyalty to her family, how she blamed herself for Felipe’s death. How she sprang him out of prison, where Tristan had locked him up to hide Lucía’s death. He spoke of the blackmail evidence, the prince’s ties to Vell Pharmaceuticals, and his counterfeit medicine plot. How he was using the separatists, laundering money in the casino and killing innocent civilians with his fake drugs.
Dante talked about Paloma—about her dedication, her courage. How she’d gone after the trut
h, even knowing it might harm the monarchy. How she had caught the disease but had knowingly soldiered on, wounded, dying, chased by her brother’s guards, relentlessly determined to expose her brother’s crimes.
How she’d risked everything, nearly falling in the garderobe chute, only to be held hostage by the murderous prince. About her loyalty and love for the country. How she’d forgone the opportunity to get the antidote that would have saved her so she could prevent innocent people from suffering her fate.
He talked about the exaggerated reports. The way the prince had fed stories to the tabloids, causing the people to despise the one person in the royal family who deserved to lead. And that despite it all, she’d still tried to protect them, even knowing their unfair opinion of her.
Then he admitted that he was El Fantasma. That he’d dedicated his life to destroying the monarchy, and that like everyone else, he’d despised her at first. That he’d believed the frivolous image the tabloids portrayed.
But that she was nothing like he’d first believed. She was courageous. Caring. The best their country had to offer.
And she was the woman he loved.
He stopped. Absolute silence fell over the crowd. The wind whispered in the nearby pines.
He loved her. He’d just shouted it to the universe. But the woman who needed to hear it the most, the one he’d give his life to save, would never know.
His heart shattered, he turned and walked away.
Paloma squinted at the people encircling her bed. At least she assumed they were people and not extraterrestrial beings, although the way she kept fading in and out of consciousness, she wasn’t sure. They wore puffy plastic suits, rubber gloves and boots and strange giant head coverings that looked like mutant jungle gear. Inside their helmets they wore goggles and gas masks. Hoses ran from their suits, connecting them to oxygen tanks.
She blinked to clear her vision, then decided she wasn’t hallucinating when they didn’t disappear. But it was hard to stay focused with the excruciating headache torturing her skull. She’d lost all sense of the day or time.
Hoping desperately to see Dante, she struggled to make out the faces behind the protective helmets. Pairs of worried eyes stared back, the only sound the weird rushing noise as they breathed into their masks.
“I’m not going to make it, am I?” she cracked out.
“Of course you are,” a man said, his voice hollow. Still tethered to the oxygen tank, he stepped forward, and she thought she recognized Dr. Sanz. She tried to smile at the stock answer, but it took too much effort to keep her lips curved up. She wondered if she was losing control of her facial muscles in the final stages of the disease.
“We brought you something.”
Paloma rolled her eyes toward the new voice. A smaller person stepped forward, a woman carrying a stack of newspapers in her gloved hands. She set them on the tray beside Paloma’s bed. Paloma glanced at the top paper, which had a photo of the front of the hospital. Flowers covered the grounds, acres of them, as if someone had created a memorial.
Her heart sank even more. “Did my father die?”
“No, no. He’s fine.”
“They’re for Tristan, then?” She was too exhausted to feel angry at him anymore. She’d gone from rage and resentment to resignation and acceptance. What had happened wasn’t her fault. She’d done what she could to help him, but he had an evilness inside him she couldn’t prevent. And she wasn’t going to waste one more second of her rapidly ebbing life thinking about him.
“No,” the nurse said again. “Those flowers are for you. Look at the articles. See?”
Surprised, Paloma turned her attention to the papers again. The nurse picked up the stack, an awkward undertaking with her gloved hands, then flipped through the pile so she could see. Paloma glanced at the headlines, her blurry vision making them hard to read.
“Princess saves her country,” the nurse read aloud. “Daring princess risks her life. Truth about the royals revealed.”
Paloma blinked. What on earth?
“You’ve become a hero,” the nurse said, a smile in her muffled voice. “People are holding candlelight vigils and praying for your recovery. Thousands of people are outside the gates right now. They’ve even defied the curfew because they want you to know they care.”
Thunderstruck, Paloma looked at the doctors ringing the bed. They all nodded. Too overcome to process it all, she raised her hand to her throbbing head.
“We’ve got something else to show you,” Dr. Sanz said. “Something we’re sure you’ll want to see.”
The nurse returned the newspapers to the tray beside the bed. Then she walked over and turned the television on. She popped a DVD into the player, turned up the volume, fumbling a bit with her gloves.
Everyone shifted out of the way, leaving a clear line of vision to the screen. Someone closed the drapes and dimmed the overhead lights. The DVD started up, and suddenly Dante came on the screen. Paloma’s heart stumbled to a halt.
He looked thinner, haggard, exhausted. Lines of fatigue creased his face. He hadn’t shaven in days, and a dark coat of whiskers covered his iron jaw.
And he was so incredibly handsome, so much like everything she’d ever wanted, that a huge yearning swelled inside her, the desperate need to talk to him, hold him, touch him.
Hot tears sprang to her eyes. Was this the last glimpse she’d have of the man she loved?
She loved Dante. She’d finally come to realize that during her time in the hospital. She loved his courage, his skills, his drive. The protective way he’d tried to shield her from harm. She loved his honor, his integrity. How he’d dedicated his life to helping the downtrodden people, determined to right the wrongs her family had done.
And her one regret was that she hadn’t told him. It wouldn’t have changed their future. She knew he didn’t feel the same about her—and how could he, given her family’s past? But she still should have told him the truth.
Reporters pushed and swarmed around him. The camera bobbed and wove, and she rubbed her eyes, hoping the dizziness would pass. Then the picture stabilized, and the camera homed in on his face.
“All right,” he announced, and his deep voice rumbled through her heart. “I’ll tell you what happened.”
The crowd fell still. She stayed riveted to the screen, her emotions a maelstrom inside her, as his dark eyes connected to hers. And then he began to talk. About her. About Tristan. About her family and the blackmail. About the terrible ordeal they’d gone through. And he rallied to her defense.
Her throat turned thick. A huge swell of love cramped her chest. But he still forged on, giving a litany of her good qualities and minimizing his own role in the affair. She blinked back her tears, determined to rectify that if she survived.
But he didn’t stop there. He spoke of his upbringing and beliefs, his prejudice against País Vell’s nobility. He admitted that he was El Fantasma, that he’d embarked on a crusade to destroy the monarchy—every last one of them, including her.
“But I was wrong,” he said, still looking straight into the camera. “And I love her.” The words arrowed straight to her heart.
The DVD ended. Her throat was so thick, she could hardly breathe. She looked around and realized everyone had left the room, sensing she needed privacy, no doubt.
Her hands trembling, she picked up the pile of papers, squinting at the photos of the flowers and gifts. She thumbed through the articles—about her, the people, Dante.
And then she caught sight of another newspaper the nurse had tucked under the pile. El Fantasma Loves Princess the headline screamed.
She closed her eyes. An unbearable longing wrenched her heart. Dante loved her. She no longer had any doubts.
He’d given her a gift more precious than anything she believed possible. H
e’d risked everything—his pride, his freedom, his heart—to tell the truth. And he’d given her back her people’s respect.
For the first time she had something worth fighting for. Worth living for. Worth surviving for.
She was going to claim the man she loved.
Chapter 15
“She left the hospital this morning,” Miguel said.
Dante grunted in response. Then he flipped over the wooden door he was sanding and centered it on the sawhorses he’d set up in his courtyard to keep the sawdust out of the house.
“I saw it on television,” Miguel continued. He leaned back against a pillar and crossed his arms. “You should have seen it. People were throwing flowers and waving flags. The car could hardly get through the crowds.”
He’d seen it. He’d been glued to the television like a helpless fool, so crazy in love with her that even a glimpse of the sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom IV, the king’s state vehicle, had nearly destroyed his resolve. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint he possessed to keep from barging into the castle and begging her to spend her life with him.
Grabbing hold of his electric sander, he removed the worn piece of sandpaper from the machine and inserted another. He still couldn’t believe she’d recovered. She’d joined the rare 10 percent of cases who’d actually survived Ebola, although the doctors had no idea why. Maybe it was sheer luck. Maybe there’d been enough left of her ravaged immune system to finally fight it off. Or maybe the people had given her hope, rallying her to survive. But a month ago, her fever had finally broken, and she’d started to mend. They’d kept her in the hospital until now to make sure a secondary infection didn’t set in, posting daily, sometimes hourly updates on the news.
He’d devoured every one.
He’d been as bad as any addict, clinging to every newscast, reading everything about her he could. He’d hunted for news online, checking articles in every language he understood. And every reminder of her—the photos, the stories, hell, even his own damned house—had been driving him out of his mind.