High-Stakes Affair (7 page)

“How did you contact him?” he asked.

“I used your mobile.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and removed the battery, then tossed it onto the coffee table beside the couch. He just hoped the prince hadn’t triangulated the phone call or activated the GPS.

“So can we start over?” she asked, stepping closer. She reached out her hand. “I promise I won’t contact anyone in my family until we know what’s going on.”

He stared at her slender hand, his anger ebbing another notch, conflicting emotions knotting his gut. He knew he shouldn’t trust her. And he sure as hell shouldn’t like her. The blasted attraction simmering between them threatened to destroy everything he’d worked toward for years.

He had to compartmentalize her. Keep this impersonal. He couldn’t care.

But as he gripped her hand, the silky feel of her threatening to lay waste to his self-control, he feared it might already be too late.

Chapter 6

P
aloma didn’t know what disturbed her more—the coroner’s grisly death, Dante’s contention that her brother had tried to kill them or his shocking revelation about how his mother had died.

Slumped at the kitchen table a few minutes later, she stared, unseeing, at his sister’s lab report while Dante prepared them an early lunch. But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on reading the report, she couldn’t stop replaying his words. It was one thing to hear the official account of the Mothers’ Massacre, to think of it as an abstract historical event. But knowing two innocent and helpless children had witnessed their mother’s death…

The pressure in her chest wrenching tighter, she shifted her gaze to him. He stood at the counter, slicing melons and cheese, his big hands wielding the paring knife with confidence. What had her father been thinking? How could he have ordered the guards to shoot? She understood his antagonism toward the separatists; he wanted to preserve the unity of the country at any cost. But to shoot innocent, starving women… He must have realized what the militants were trying to do!

Unable to come up with an answer, she dragged her gaze back to the report. But the unsettled feeling churning through her only grew—because her father had not only acted cruelly but had also given a biased account of the events. And if he’d distorted the facts surrounding that massacre, what else might he have deceived her about? Now she had to question everything she’d once believed—about her country, her family, herself.

Trying to regain some perspective—and quiet the persistent ache pounding her head—she pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes. Her father had made a coldhearted calculation that had cost some women their lives. But Tristan would never behave like that. Would he? He wasn’t the rigid idealist their father was.

Doubts swirled inside her, prompting memories lurking in the recesses of her mind of times when she’d known that Tristan had lied. Times when she’d suspected of him acting cruelly—like when she’d found the doll her mother had given her melted in the fireplace, or when he’d hacked off her hair while she slept—on the eve of her first ball. Was she wrong to defend him? Was she letting her sense of duty—the obligation she felt to protect the crown—blind her to his true nature and lead her astray?

But so what if he wasn’t perfect? He’d done those things as a child. And that certainly didn’t mean that he’d tried to kill them. She knew him. She’d practically raised him. He was gregarious, charming, smart—everything a future monarch should be. And unlike her, he hadn’t screwed up his life.

Dante strode back to the table, interrupting her thoughts. He set a plate of fruit, bread and cold cuts on the table between them, brought out silverware and salad plates for them both, then took his seat. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.”

He reached for a chunk of bread, a frown wrinkling his brow. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday at lunch,” she admitted. By rights she should be starving after the night and morning they’d had. “It’s just that with everything that’s happened…” An image of the coroner’s corpse popped into her mind, and she fought down a spurt of bile.

“You’ll get sick if you don’t eat,” Dante insisted. “At least take a few bites.”

“I guess.” Touched that he cared, she picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled around the edge.

“Have you found anything in the lab report?” he asked, making himself a sandwich.

Still feeling queasy, she turned her attention back to the papers, but the little she’d understood in them had left her even more at sea. “The report’s pretty technical. I don’t understand it all. But you were right. From what I can tell, Lucía didn’t die of a drug overdose. She died from influenza.”

“The flu? That’s crazy.”

“Not necessarily. Influenza can be deadly. The Spanish flu in the 1900s killed over fifty million people worldwide. Some think the death toll was double that.”

“Did they bleed and have a rash like that?”

“Probably not.” She set down her cheese, feeling ill. Those symptoms still seemed closer to hemorrhagic fever. But the report didn’t mention Ebola, as far as she could tell. “I really don’t know enough about medical things to say.”

Dante swallowed a bite of sandwich and frowned. “I thought you worked at the hospital.”

“I volunteer there. But I don’t have a medical background. I just visit with patients and read to the children, things like that.” Making her as superfluous there as she was to the rest of País Vell. “We need to have a doctor explain the results.”

Still frowning, Dante picked up the pages and scanned them as he ate. A few minutes later he tossed them aside. “At least we’ve established one thing. The coroner lied about how she died.”

He was right. “But why?” She sipped her glass of water, trying to figure that out. But like everything else in this mess so far, it didn’t make sense. “Maybe he was just incompetent. I can’t imagine that he’d want to hide a contagious disease. Look what happened to him.”

“But even
I
can’t confuse those lab results with a drug overdose. So there isn’t any doubt that he lied.”

She exhaled, unable to disagree. But what could have been the point?

Dante polished off his sandwich. Then he pushed aside his plate, planted his forearms on the table, and met her eyes. “Okay, let’s break this down logically. Three people have died so far. My sister, the casino owner and the coroner, Morel.”

“And possibly the hospital patient who died last week, Jaime Trevino.”

“Right. So maybe four. And it looks as if my sister got sick first.”

“So if this is a contagious disease, you think Gomez caught it from her?”

“It appears that way. Gomez owned the casino, and that’s where my sister worked. So the casino seems to be at the center of this thing.”

And with all the people who frequented the casino… A chill shuddered up Paloma’s spine. “The coroner could have caught the virus when he conducted your sister’s autopsy. Or Jaime Trevino’s, assuming he died of the same thing.”

“Right.” Dante sat back and blew out his breath. “We need to find out how this Trevino guy caught it, whether he went to the casino or not.”

“That’s assuming he had the virus. Right now we’re guessing. I could be wrong about that.” She lumbered to her feet with a sigh. Feeling slightly dizzy, she carried the plates to the sink. “We need to notify the health officials. Whatever this thing is, it’s serious. They need to quarantine the casino and hospital and contact anyone who might have been exposed.”

Dante joined her at the counter and set their glasses down. “There’s just one problem. If word gets out that Gomez is dead, we’ll never get into his safe-deposit box. They’ll freeze his accounts.”

And if that surveillance footage was in there, the authorities would confiscate that, too, exposing her brother’s misdeed.

Her head throbbing, she leaned back against the sink and tried to think. She had to find that blackmail evidence. She couldn’t risk having it revealed. But if she didn’t report this horrific disease, more innocent people could die.

She exhaled, not happy with either choice. Her conscience mandated that she report this disease. She had to protect the people no matter what. But if that blackmail evidence came to light, people could also die.

“How about this?” she suggested. “As soon as his shift starts, I’ll call that doctor I know, Dr. Sanz. I’m sure we can trust him to be discreet. I’ll tell him about the coroner’s death. I won’t mention Gomez, just Trevino and your sister. We can fax him a copy of Lucía’s lab report and let him decide what to do. In the meantime, we can talk to Jaime Trevino’s family and figure out how he died.”

And keep looking for that safe-deposit box.
But they didn’t have much time. Gomez’s employees could stumble across his body at any time.

Dante tilted his head. “You can use my fax. I need to call Miguel and see what he found out. But I need to buy a new phone first, in case my line got compromised.”

Struggling to ignore the ache clog dancing in her skull, she pushed away from the sink. “All right. Let’s go. But let’s take Jaime Trevino’s address with us. We can stop to see his family after we get the phone.”

Dante stepped in front of her and blocked her way. “Not so fast. I’m going alone this time.”

“Alone? But—”

“I’ll get that phone and come back. You stay here and rest.”

Wishing she could do just that, she let out a wistful sigh. “Thanks, but there’s no time. Not if there’s a deadly disease going around. We can’t let anyone else get exposed.”

“A couple more hours won’t hurt.” Shifting even closer, Dante reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart stuttered hard, his nearness setting off a flurry of nerves. His dark eyes stayed on hers. “You’re dead on your feet, Paloma. You didn’t sleep all night and you’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“I’m not—”

“There’s a guest room just down the hall. Some of my sister’s things are there. You can shower and put on clean clothes. She was a little bigger than you are, but they should fit. Then take a nap. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Lord, but she was tempted. She was so tired, she could hardly stay upright. But standing this close, gazing into his deep black eyes, she was finding it hard to think.

“Besides, it’s safer if I go alone,” he added. “The guards will be searching for us together.”

Her breath hitched, fear stabbing through her at the thought of the royal guards shooting at him. And she realized with a start that she’d begun to care about this man, more than was probably wise.

“I promise I’ll come right back,” he said.

“You’ll be careful?”

His eyes warmed. The corner of his mouth quirked up, firing a streak of heat through her blood. “I’m a thief, Princess. I’ve been evading the police for years.”

“Still…” she whispered, her voice uneven.

His body stilled. His eyes stayed riveted on hers. She inhaled his warmth and heat, the sheer maleness of him barreling through her, holding her in place.

And suddenly his eyes darkened even more, gleaming with a frank sensual awareness she couldn’t mistake.

Excitement zapped through her nerves.

He raised his hand again and grazed her jaw. The soft scrape of his knuckle quickened her pulse.

She knew she should move away. The timing was wrong. She had that blackmail evidence to find, those terrible deaths to solve. And no matter how insanely sexy he was, Dante was the last man she should desire. He was a thief, a rebel, the kind of off-limits man she’d been attracted to in her irresponsible days. Another virile bad boy who’d only lead her astray.

But right now she needed to kiss him, more than she needed to breathe.

His dark eyes dropped to her mouth. A lick of arousal shortened her breath. He widened his stance and leaned closer, his big body brushing hers, and anticipation drummed through her nerves.

He stroked his callused thumb down her throat. Stark shivers danced over her skin. Then he slid his hand to the nape of her neck, urging her closer. Breathless, she parted her lips.

Her eyes fluttered closed as his mouth slanted over hers, the too-soft touch like an electrical jolt torching a frenzy of need in her veins. Even more desperate to touch him, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him close.

He made a low, rough sound of approval in the back of his throat. His big hands cradled her head, changing the angle of the kiss, drawing her closer against his rock-hard frame. And then he parted her lips with his tongue, the bold, sensual invasion heightening the desire swirling inside her, and a fierce rush of pleasure skipped through her blood.

Her head spun. She wriggled even closer, primal needs pulsing inside her, the need to feel him deleting her thoughts. Their tongues dueled and danced. She stroked her palm up his sandpaper jaw, the erotic texture making her moan.

But he lifted his head and stepped back.

His eyes burned into hers. Her pulse still rioting, she gasped for breath. Why had he stopped? He’d wanted her. She hadn’t mistaken the signs. But surprise now flickered through his eyes, edging out the desire.

“I’ll be back,” he said, his voice rough. “Get some rest.” Moving stiffly, he walked away.

She closed her eyes, grabbing the counter for support, feeling completely out of control.

Because suddenly, rest was the last thing on her mind.

Surprisingly, she slept. And as she rode behind Dante on his motorcycle later that afternoon, she had to admit that she felt marginally more human—more rested, cleaner and warmer in her borrowed sweater and jeans. Now, if the aspirin would just kick in and stop that blasted headache battering her skull…

But no amount of painkillers could erase the memory of that kiss. She kept reliving the delirious sensations—the tantalizing feel of his mouth, the erotic scrape of his jaw, the pure excitement she’d felt in his arms. Her entire body ached with a deep, pulsing craving, winding her up like a firecracker ready to go off.

It didn’t help that she clung to his strong back, his wide shoulders filling her vision, her inner thighs cradling his hips. She had to battle the urge to lean forward, to wrap her arms tighter around him, and slide her hands down his steely chest....