High-Stakes Affair (6 page)

He headed to the nearest cabinets with a sigh. A few drawers later, he realized that Morel was either incompetent at filing or lazy as hell. Giving up on the cabinets, he tried the boxes nearest the desk, assuming they would contain more recent files.

The pendulum clock continued to tick. A truck rumbled past on the road outside. Dante kept on rifling through the records, but with each succeeding box his frustration grew.

“I found it,” Paloma said. “Your sister’s file.”

Abandoning the box he was searching, he strode to the desk and took the folder she held out. He double-checked for Lucía’s name, then removed the papers and folded them up. “Any luck on that hospital guy?” he asked, stuffing the papers into the back pocket of his jeans.

Paloma picked up another sheet of paper from the desk. “I’m not positive, but this name sounds right. Jaime Trevino. The date fits, too. But I can’t find the entire report.”

Dante reached for the nearest stack of paper. “Have you checked this pile yet?”

“No, I—” A sudden rattle came from the front room. Paloma’s startled gaze flew to his.

Dante held his breath and didn’t move. For several tense seconds, he stared at the adjoining door, every sense riveted on the front room.

Then the rattle sounded again.

“Damn.” Unless the coroner had miraculously come back to life, someone was trying to get in.

His heart pounding, he snapped off the lamp. Then he wove through the cabinets to the window and edged aside the drape—just as several guards darted past in the alley outside.

Paloma leaped to her feet. “Who is it?”

“The police.” But why were they here? Why the show of force?

And how were they going to get out? The guards were surrounding the building, making it impossible to escape.

“Upstairs,” he said. “We’ll use the roof.” He flung open the door to the parlor, then rushed past Morel’s bloody body to the stairs. With Paloma close behind him, he sprinted up the staircase, taking the wooden steps two at a time.

But his doubts mounted with every step. The guards couldn’t have found them this fast. No one had known their plans. Unless Paloma had tipped them off… But why would she? And when had she had the chance?

Pushing back his suspicions, he raced up another flight of stairs. He’d grill her about what happened once they’d escaped those guards.

He paused on the third-floor landing to make sure Paloma was still behind him, then ran up the attic stairs. He shouldered open the door, strode through the musty room to the dormer window and peered out.

No sign of the guards. But they were probably standing too close to the building for him to see.

Paloma joined him at the window, her lungs heaving as she gasped for breath.

“We’ll go across the roof to the neighbor’s building,” he told her. “We can work our way down from there.”

“All right.”

He checked her low-heeled boots. “Can you climb in those?”

“Yes. They’ve got crepe soles.”

He nodded at that, reassured. “Good. But stay near the apex, where it’s easier to walk. And try not to make any noise.” He turned the latch on the window and tugged it open. “I’ll go first,” he added. “Grab my hand and I’ll help you out.”

He hauled himself over the window frame and scrambled outside. Mindful of the edge of the roof just three narrow feet away, he circled to the back of the dormer and leaned out over the top. A second later, Paloma’s head emerged.

“Up here,” he whispered, extending his hand. Her eyes huge, her face chalk-white, she reached up and gripped his hand. Clinging to him with a death grip, she crawled out the window and stood. He guided her to the top of the roof.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“As long as I don’t look down.”

He nodded back, impressed. He’d expected her to balk. “I’ll lead the way. Watch your step.”

Slowing his pace so she wouldn’t stumble, he crept across the red clay tiles. When he reached the adjacent building, he leaped down five feet to its lower roof.

“Still all right?” he asked as he helped her down. Landing softly beside him, she managed a shaky nod, increasing his respect. Despite her obvious fear, she didn’t give up.

Still trying to stay silent, he continued across the roof to the neighboring house. Two buildings later, they’d made it on to the roof of a one-story addition, just ten feet off the ground.

Dante peered over the edge at the alley, searching for the best way down. He spotted a stretch of dirt—a flower patch gone to seed. It wasn’t ideal, but it beat leaping onto cement.

But then a guard appeared below.

Dante froze, hoping like hell the guard wouldn’t look up. The man paced back and forth, peering into the shadows, then finally went around the side of the building and disappeared. But the sound of approaching voices indicated he wasn’t alone.

Dante leaned toward Paloma. “Jump right after I do. Then run to the bike. No matter what happens, don’t stop. We won’t have much time.” He held her gaze. “Ready?”

Her full lips tightening, she gave him a nod. His adrenaline surging, he scooted to the edge of the roof and leaped.

He landed in the dirt with a heavy thump, the impact jolting through his legs and clacking his jaw. He jumped up and whipped around, just as Paloma came crashing down. She hit the ground and gasped.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her upright, knowing the guards would have heard them land. Still hauling her with him, he raced toward the Dumpster where he’d parked his bike.

But a man shouted out. Swearing, Dante pulled her behind the Dumpster and ducked. A shot barked out, pinging off the metal just inches from where they stood. His pulse chaotic, Dante hopped on the bike and cranked the throttle as Paloma swung up behind him and clutched his waist.

He rammed the bike into gear and gunned the engine, rocketing down the alley just as a barrage of gunfire broke out. Praying the shots would miss them, he sped to the nearest street and turned. Then he took the bike to the limit, zigzagging through the crooked streets toward his estate.

Several minutes later, when he was sure the guards weren’t behind them, he exhaled and forced himself to breath. They’d escaped.

For now.

But even as he distanced them from the royal guards, he couldn’t outrun his doubts. No one had seen them at the river. No one had followed them to the coroner’s house. And yet the guards had surrounded the building and shot at them, as if they’d divined their plans.

And he could no longer ignore the conclusion staring him point-blank in the face. The princess
must
have betrayed them—but how?

He clenched his teeth, a hot blaze of fury scorching his gut. He knew one thing. As soon as they got to safety, he was going to find out.

By the time they arrived at his estate, Dante was hanging on to his temper by the barest thread. He waited until Paloma entered the courtyard, then pushed his motorcycle inside, letting the door slam shut with a resounding thud. Not trusting himself to speak, he set the kickstand on the bike, stalked to the long bank of windows in the living room and glared out. Thunderclouds gathered in the morning sky, as black and forbidding as his mood.

Paloma joined him at the window an instant later. His jaw like steel, he trained his gaze on her. The guilt in her eyes confirmed his suspicions, telling him everything he needed to know.

“I called my brother,” she admitted, hugging her arms. “Just before we left. I told him you hadn’t kidnapped me and asked him to call off the guards.”

He worked his jaw. “You told him where we were going?”

“I…yes. But this couldn’t have been his fault.”

She couldn’t be serious. “Just how the hell do you figure that?”

Misery filled her eyes. “I don’t know. But he couldn’t have been responsible for this. Someone must have made a mistake.”

Incredulity made his voice rise. “You’re defending him? After he nearly had us killed?”

“I realize that’s how it looks.”

“That’s how it
is.
”

“No, it’s not. That’s insane. My brother would
never
try to kill me!”

“I hate to break it to you, Princess, but he just did.”

Her jaw turning mulish, she shook her head. “Look, even if you believe he has it in him—and I certainly don’t—what would he have to gain? I’m rescuing him from that blackmailer. He
wants
me to find that evidence. He doesn’t have a reason to wish me harm.”

“So how do you explain the guards?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Tristan didn’t tell my father in time. Or maybe the guards acted alone. It’s possible,” she said when he hissed in disbelief. “Just last month our security chief attempted a coup.”

Dante didn’t buy it. Not after his sister’s death. “You keep telling yourself that and you’ll be dead.”

Her amber eyes flashed. She braced her hands on her hips. “What is it with you? Why can’t you believe me?”

“Because those guards just tried to kill us. What else should I think?”

She slowly shook her head. “It’s not just now. You’ve been this way from the start. It’s as if…as if you resent me. Despise me. What did I ever do to you?”

He worked his jaw, struggling to corral the anger, but his tenuous hold on his temper slipped. “You really want to know?”

“I said I did.”

“Fine. Ever hear of the Mothers’ Massacre?”

Her head reared back. “Of course.”

“Well, my mother was one of the women your father killed.”

Paloma blinked, her eyes registering shock.

But he leaned even closer, not about to stop. “You remember how it happened, Princess? The king had outlawed demonstrations, but a bunch a mothers decided to defy the ban. They wanted to protest the price of bread. They were desperate. Starving. Hell, I could count my sister’s ribs. You lived in a castle, surrounded by luxury, while everyone in Reino Antiguo starved. And your goddamned guards shot them—a bunch of defenseless women. Your father gave the order to fire.”

The color leached from her face. “That’s not what he said.”

“I was there, Princess. I was hiding behind the fountain with my sister, holding her hand. I heard him say it. I saw them shoot.” He closed his eyes, the images bombarding him even now. The panic, the screams, the blood. His mother lying lifeless in the plaza, gunshots thundering in his ears. His sister’s terrified shrieks. And the overwhelming feeling of helplessness as he fled the scene, trying to save his sister while the guards charged toward them on horseback, their rifles raised to fire.

He clenched his teeth. Shaking himself back to the present, he leveled his gaze at her. “So tell me again, why should I believe
you?
Why should I think the best of you?”

Tears swam in her golden eyes. She reached out, as if to touch his arm, then slowly lowered her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t believe… That’s not what I heard. I thought the separatists started it, that they were throwing rocks.”

“Yeah.” That part was right. “That’s what they did. They intentionally provoked the guards.” The militants had infiltrated the peaceful group, making a cold-blooded calculation to sacrifice the women so they could rally more people to their cause.

Dante despised them all.

“I don’t know what to say. My father…he’s a hard man. He takes a hard line. He wants to preserve the union at any cost.”

“By murdering a group of defenseless women.” His voice came out flat.

“I know it sounds cruel. It
is
cruel. And I know we need reforms. The monarchy needs to change. I think it needs to be more symbolic, like it is in Spain.” Her eyes pleaded with his. “But it’s not up to me. Father won’t change the primogeniture laws. So Tristan will inherit the throne.”

He turned to stare out the window, resisting the appeal he heard in her voice. He didn’t want to believe she cared. He had too much resentment bottled inside him. He’d spent too many years exacting his own brand of justice and plotting revenge.

Hell, he’d even become El Fantasma, taunting the murderous aristocrats by stealing from beneath their noses and donating their wealth to the poor.

But as much as he hated to admit it, the sympathy in Paloma’s voice sounded genuine. He sensed deep down that she cared.

He plunged his hand through his hair and exhaled, the tight ball of bitterness he’d carried for years unraveling a notch. That massacre wasn’t her fault. She’d been a child when it happened, the same as him.

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me,” she continued, her voice still soft. “I still say there was some mistake, that Tristan’s message didn’t get through. I know my brother. He wouldn’t have wanted to see us hurt. But I won’t contact him again. I promise. Not until we’ve figured this out.”

Dante gripped the back of his neck. He still didn’t want to trust her. She was clearly loyal to her brother. And if she discovered his plan—that he intended to destroy the prince—he didn’t doubt she would turn him in.

But at least she could see her father’s faults. She wanted to enact reforms. So while her loyalty might be misplaced, it wasn’t blind.