High-Stakes Affair (11 page)

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

P
aloma 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 bloodshot 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.”

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 her 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.