High-Stakes Affair (10 page)

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

D
ante 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.

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.