“I’m a thief, Paloma. It won’t matter what you say. They’ll assume that I coerced you and toss me back into jail.”

“Not without proof, they won’t.”

“Since when do they need proof to arrest someone?”

“I don’t know what happened with your arrest,” she admitted. “But you don’t have to worry about tonight.”

Dante slanted her a glance. “There’s still one problem.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you.”

He didn’t believe she’d stand up for him? “Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I said I would. And my word is good.”

“You’ve been lying to me from the start.”

“The reason I need that tape doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. I’m in this mess as much as you are, so you damned well owe me the truth. And until I get it, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Princess. You’re stuck with me until I decide I’m out.”

Dear Reader,

I love edgy heroes. The more cynical, disillusioned and bitter they are, the more they fascinate me. That’s why I invented the Stealth Knights—heroes who straddle that murky line between right and wrong, who are neither all-good nor all-bad, and who prove that nothing in life is as clear-cut as it seems.

The hero of High-Stakes Affair, Dante Quevedo, is one such complicated man. A modern-day Robin Hood, Dante dedicates his life to righting the injustices done to his downtrodden people, albeit through unorthodox means. But when circumstances force him to team up with his sworn enemy, Princess Paloma Vergara, he discovers she isn’t the frivolous royal he believed—and that the woman who once seemed completely wrong for him might instead be exactly right.

I hope you enjoy this latest installment in the STEALTH KNIGHTS miniseries.

Happy reading!

Gail Barrett

About the Author

GAIL BARRETT always knew she’d be a writer. Who else would spend her childhood grinding sparkling rocks into fairy dust and convincing her friends it was real? Or daydream her way through elementary school, spend high school reading philosophy and playing the bagpipes, and then head off to Spain during college to live the writer’s life? After four years she straggled back home—broke, but fluent in Spanish. She became a teacher, earned a master’s degree in linguistics, married a coast guard officer and had two sons.

But she never lost the desire to write. Then one day, she discovered a Mills & Boon® novel in a bookstore—and knew she was destined to write romance. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart.

Gail currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com.

High-Stakes
Affair
Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedication

To Liz and Amanda, for making my sons so happy.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the following people for their enormous help with this story: Loni Glover for her emergency brainstorming sessions; Ken Archer for providing me with accounting details; Elle Kennedy for her much-needed encouragement; Judith Sandbrook and Mary Jo Archer for their invaluable critiques; and last, but not least, my husband, John, for not complaining when I went AWOL to finish this book.

Chapter 1

If there was one thing Dante Quevedo knew intimately, it was revenge. He’d lived it, breathed it and plotted it for twenty years. And tonight it would finally be his.

He pressed the trigger on the remote control detonator, then watched as a potent mixture of C-4 and diesel fuel exploded, shooting brilliant orange flames high into the midnight sky and rumbling the ground beneath his feet. With a quick surge of satisfaction, he slid the detonator back into his knapsack, then slipped through the inky shadows to the machinery shed where the casino’s emergency generators were housed.

The bomb’s fire leaped and roared in the darkness. Security guards rushed past, shouting into their radios as they raced toward the rocketing blaze. Dante crept around the shed, the thick smoke shielding his movements from the surveillance cameras mounted on the walls, and paused at the metal door. Using his custom-made stainless-steel diamond pick, he jimmied the lock and stepped inside.

He glanced at his watch. Sixteen minutes. Not much time to disable the backup generators and get himself in place. Then the hacker would work his computer magic and cut the main power to the casino, allowing Dante to break into the penthouse, the aristocrat who’d hired him in tow.

Misgivings stirred inside him, but he shook them off. He’d agreed to the deal—his release from prison in exchange for getting the unknown woman inside. Her reasons, her goal—hell, even her identity—didn’t matter.

Only Dante’s chance for vengeance did.

Resolve fisting deep inside him, he strode to the generators’ control panel, located the power switch and turned it off. Then he sawed through the fuel lines with his wire cutters and opened the drains on the tanks to buy more time. Diesel fuel poured out, the harsh fumes stinging his nostrils and watering his eyes. Knowing time was dwindling quickly, he returned to the door and peered outside.

Smoke still billowed past. A cacophony of sirens pierced the air as emergency vehicles sped up the Pyrenees mountain slope. His adrenaline rising, Dante stepped from the shed and locked the door, then melted into the night.

Picking up his pace now, he jogged to the stolen hatchback he’d parked at the periphery of the gravel lot. Nine minutes. He opened the trunk, tugged a crisp white dress shirt over his T-shirt, then yanked on his jacket and tie. Still hurrying, he stuffed his lock-picking tools into his pocket, brushed the leaves and twigs from his suit trousers, and stowed his knapsack beneath a nearby shrub. If all hell broke loose, he didn’t want any evidence traced to him.

Moving slower to avoid attention, he strolled casually past the valet parking and up the casino’s wide stone steps. Located in a medieval fortress, País Vell’s opulent playground attracted high rollers from around the world. Dante nodded to the uniformed doorman, stepped into the chandelier-studded lobby and paused.

The domed ceiling soared above him. Huge marble columns shouldered the mezzanine, its gilded railing glinting in the refracted light. Bells jangled from the adjacent gaming pit, the cheerful noise razoring through him like a garrote to his heart. His sister Lucía had died in this casino. She would never laugh, never hear those sounds again.

He steeled his jaw against a rush of emotions, guilt over his failure to save her bludgeoning his heart. Her death haunted him, all right. He couldn’t stop reliving her final, frantic phone call—that she needed him to help her, that the prince was trying to kill her, that she had witnessed something dreadful during her waitressing shift and had to leave. Dante had raced to the casino, only to find her body dumped in the parking lot like discarded trash. Bloody. Mutilated.

Dead.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the burning need for vengeance threatening to incinerate his hard-won control. But he’d get revenge; he had no doubts about that. He’d find the evidence he needed to destroy the prince—and every other member of the royal family—no matter what it took.

But he had a bargain to fulfill first.

Still careful not to attract attention, he stalked across the marble lobby to the gaming pit, then wove past the baccarat tables and roulette wheels to the private highlimit rooms off the palace’s central hall. He checked his watch. Five minutes. The aristocrat would be in one of the high-roller rooms by now. The plan called for her to enter the hallway nearest the medieval watchtower a minute before the power went off. Dante estimated they’d have half an hour to break into the penthouse, find whatever she wanted and return to the hallway before the maintenance people restored the power.

Veering past a display of medieval armor, he headed to a nearby restroom and ducked inside. Two minutes. He drew in a breath, mentally reviewing the palace’s layout as another minute ticked down.

His belly tensed. A familiar surge of excitement drummed through his veins. One minute left. The game was on.

He stepped back into the hall.

Right on schedule, a woman sauntered down the hall toward him, her slender hips swiveling in her snug black pants, her long legs covering the distance with graceful strides. Dante took in her firm, high breasts, her sweetly curving waist. Thick dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, gleaming like burnished chestnuts in the muted light.

He knit his brows, something about her niggling his memory, prompting a feeling of familiarity he couldn’t place. He shrugged the sensation off. He couldn’t possibly know her. He had little contact with País Vell’s wealthy elite—except when he broke into their estates, relieving them of their cash and jewels.

Conscious of the surveillance cameras recording his movements, he turned toward the water fountain—just as a man strode behind her into the hall.

Dante’s heart skipped. He eyed the newcomer’s short, burly build, the bulge of a sidearm beneath his suit, the hyperalert way he scanned the hall. A bodyguard. What the hell? No one had mentioned him.

Suspicions crowding inside him, Dante leaned over the fountain and dipped his head to drink. This couldn’t be a trap; why bother springing him from prison only to arrest him again? Besides, he trusted his friend Rafael Navarro, the former thief who’d arranged this deal. Rafe never would have set him up.

But then who was the unknown aristocrat? Why would she bring a bodyguard along? And what the hell was he going to do now?

He took several long swallows of water, waiting until the woman had nearly reached him, then angled her another glance. His eyes connected with hers, and recognition kicked him straight in the gut.

Paloma Vergara.

The princess.

His jaw slackened in disbelief.

But it was her, all right. He could hardly mistake her infamous oval face, those mesmerizing amber eyes. He scanned her dark winged brows, her sinfully carnal mouth, that elegant, fine-boned jaw. She continued gliding toward him, her head held high, her slender spine erect, centuries of privilege and breeding evident in every regal step.

A hot rush of fury scorched his gut. No wonder Rafe had kept her name a secret. If Dante had known her identity, he never would have agreed to this job. The royals had gunned down his helpless mother. They’d murdered his baby sister. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d help anyone even remotely connected to them.

And this princess … He thinned his lips in disgust. Paloma Vergara was a notorious wild child, a pampered, frivolous tabloid queen whose escapades had outraged the nation for years. She spent her useless life partying, squandering money earned on the backs of the downtrodden people—epitomizing everything he despised.

She drew even closer, her gaze locked on his. Suddenly, she stumbled, a flash of uncertainty flickering in her eyes. But she recovered her poise and strolled through the door of the women’s lounge, trailing a taunting wisp of perfume.

His face muscles rigid, anger pounding his veins with the force of that bomb blast, Dante turned back to the fountain and swore. He should call this off. He should walk away right now. She was the princess, his enemy, a member of the family he’d sworn to destroy. And now he had her bodyguard to contend with, a complication that could get him killed.

But he’d promised to take her into the penthouse in exchange for his release from jail. The princess had done her part and freed him, so how could he renege on the deal?

He scowled at the gurgling water, an onslaught of conflicting emotions waging a full-blown war in his head. Every survival instinct he possessed urged him to get out now. But his word meant everything to him. His lifestyle might not be conventional—stealing from the aristocrats to help País Vell’s poorest citizens—but he followed his own strict code of honor, meting out justice and revenge.

Abort the mission or adjust? He had only seconds left to decide.

He took a final swallow of water. The princess’s bodyguard stopped, taking up his post beside the restroom door. Ten seconds. Dante continued debating his choices, but a grim feeling of inevitability settled inside. Bottom line, he’d given his word. He had to complete this mission, no matter what.

Hoping to hell he wouldn’t regret this, he turned off the fountain and prepared to strike.

Princess Paloma Vergara had done plenty of things she wasn’t proud of in her life. She’d shown up drunk at a state dinner. She’d had an affair with a man who’d turned out to be a foreign spy. She’d even appeared naked on the internet, thanks to a particularly sleazy boyfriend with a hidden telephoto lens.

But breaking into the casino penthouse was a new low, even for her.

Leaning against the wall inside the restroom, she pressed her palm to her belly to suppress a burst of nerves. But she could hardly miss the irony. She’d been trying for years to rehabilitate her image, to overcome a lifetime spent disappointing her family and finally prove her worth. Now she was about to obliterate a decade of progress with just one act.

But she was desperate. She had to get into that penthouse and confiscate the blackmail evidence tonight. The casino owner would destroy the prince’s reputation—and possibly the entire monarchy—if she failed.

And better that she do this than her brother Tristan. At least if she got caught, no one would blink. Her reputation had been ruined years ago.

Nothing would go wrong, she reminded herself fiercely. This thief, Dante Quevedo, was reputed to be the best. He’d sneak her into the penthouse to find the incriminating surveillance footage and whisk her safely back out.

More anxiety swirled inside her at the thought of the man loitering in the hallway, the memory of his stark, dark face and furious eyes bringing a rush of heat to her skin. She’d expected someone older, shorter … more manageable.

But Dante Quevedo … She swallowed hard. He was too big, too male, too dangerous. He radiated testosterone and power. And the hostility in his midnight eyes …

She inhaled deeply, refusing to let him unsettle her. So he wasn’t what she’d expected. Tough. No matter how much he disturbed her, she couldn’t back out now.

She glanced at her watch. Two seconds. Her heartbeat accelerating, she straightened and faced the door.

The lights winked out. The casino’s mechanical systems powered down, a sudden unnatural hush descending on the pitch-black air.

Her tension rising, Paloma swung open the restroom door and stepped back into the hall—just as a sickening thud reached her ears.

She cringed. She’d hoped her bodyguard Carlos would wait for her down the hall. But if he’d interfered and hurt the thief … What was she going to do now?

A tiny light flickered on. The narrow beam of a penlight drew her gaze to the floor—where Carlos lay slumped at Dante’s feet.

Her jaw dropped. Carlos was an expert fighter. How had this thief managed to take him down?

“What did you do?” she cried, rushing to him. “You didn’t hurt him?” The last thing she wanted was to cause her protector harm.

“He’s fine. He’ll just have a headache when he comes to.” Dante’s flinty eyes narrowed on hers. “But what’s with the bodyguard? He wasn’t part of our deal.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to sneak off without him, but he wouldn’t let me out of his sight.”

Dante only grunted in answer, then held his penlight out. “Here. Hold this.”

Still staggered at Dante’s prowess, she grabbed the penlight and aimed it his way. His back muscles flexed under his suit coat as he gripped Carlos beneath his arms and dragged him across the hall.

“Open the door,” he ordered, his deep voice rumbling in the dark.

Feeling even more off-kilter, she opened the restroom door. Dante dumped Carlos inside and reached for the penlight again. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

“Right.” They had to hurry to commit a crime.

He strode down the hallway, the small light bobbing in the dark. Her sense of unreality mounting, Paloma scurried behind him, trying to keep up with his lengthy strides. Disembodied voices floated through the darkness—casino workers running through nearby corridors, rushing to restore the power.

But her thoughts kept returning to the bodyguard sprawled on the restroom floor. What would he do when he regained consciousness? Would he assume she’d been abducted and raise the alarm? And what if she and Dante got arrested? What if she couldn’t find the blackmailer’s evidence, and the royal family was ruined?

Fighting back a flurry of anxiety, she rushed after Dante down a private hall. This plan would work. It had to. She’d find that computer disk and return to the hallway before the power came back on. She had too much riding on this to fail.

Dante stopped at the tower door. A remnant of the medieval stronghold, the circular, three-story watchtower led to the penthouse, where the casino owner, César Gomez, had his private suite. Dante tugged on a pair of gloves and swung open the door.

She shot him a look of surprise. “It wasn’t locked?”

“It’s electronic. That’s why we cut the power.”

Of course. Completely out of her depth now, she followed him through the door. He led the way up the spiral stone staircase, taking the steps two at a time. She hurried after, her nerves coiling tighter as they neared the penthouse floor.

Would Gomez be at home? That was the milliondollar question, the one she’d been trying to answer all night. He hadn’t answered her phone calls. His employees hadn’t seen him in days. She prayed he’d left town on an impromptu vacation, because if he found her snooping through his penthouse …

She swallowed hard. It didn’t matter. No matter what the danger, she had to take the risk. It was pointless to pay a blackmailer to stay silent; his demands would only get worse.

And she didn’t dare let him expose that surveillance footage. Not now. Not with the country on edge. The sight of her brother partying with an international terrorist—no matter how innocent his actions had been—would further anger the citizens, leading to even more violent unrest.

They reached the fire door at the top of the staircase, and Dante paused again. “Wait here until I check it out.”

Nodding her agreement, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath.

Dante opened the door and peeked out. “It’s clear. Come on.”

Her pulse skittering wildly, she followed him from the stairwell into a wide stone vestibule carpeted with Belgian rugs. To the right stood Gomez’s private elevator, now dark. On the left loomed the door to the penthouse suite, its heavy planks covered with iron studs.

Experiencing another burst of anxiety, she glanced around, the ominous silence fueling her doubts. Because if anyone got wind of this break-in …

But she was committed now.

Dante handed her the penlight again. “Hold this while I pick the lock.”

“I thought the locks were electronic.”

“This one has a battery backup.”

That made sense. “You need the light?” she asked, shining it at the door.

“No.” Tugging two metal picks from his coat pocket, he lowered himself to one knee. Then he inserted the tools in the lock and closed his eyes.

Paloma shot another nervous glance behind her, then returned her attention to the thief, taking in his hard, chiseled mouth, his flat, masculine cheekbones, his thick shock of straight black hair. He probed the lock by feel, his big hands surprisingly gentle as he worked the picks, intense focus etched on his handsome face.

No, not handsome, she amended. His features were too strong for that, his nose a little too crooked. He was … virile. Blatantly and unapologetically male. She skimmed the cords of his sinewed neck, the impossible breadth of his shoulders, the black beard scruff shadowing his jaw.

She experienced a wayward thrill.

She stiffened, shocked. She could not be attracted to this man. He was a thief, a common criminal. And she’d worked far too hard to subdue her wild streak to backslide into temptation now.

The lock gave way. Motioning for her to be quiet, Dante rose and cracked open the door. He listened for a moment, his ear to the small opening, then signaled for her to follow. Trying to keep her mind off Dante and on the job she needed to do, she slipped inside.

A feeling of wrongness instantly struck her. She glanced around the penthouse, intense dread gathering at the base of her spine, but nothing appeared out of place. Moonlight filtered through the deep-set windows. A profound stillness gripped the suite, assuring her that they were alone. She scanned the grand piano rising like a phantom in the moonlight, a huge dining-room table with high-backed medieval chairs.

Of course she’d feel jittery. She’d never committed a crime before. What did she expect?

“What are you looking for?” Dante asked, his voice low.

She opened her mouth to tell him, then stopped. The blackmailer was targeting her brother. It was Tristan’s secret to reveal, not hers.

Impatience flashed in Dante’s eyes. “Look, Princess. We’ve only got a few minutes until the power comes on, and I don’t intend to be here when it does.”

She couldn’t afford to get caught, either. And two people could search faster than one. “I’m looking for a computer disk.”

“What’s on it?”

His blunt question caught her off guard. “Does it matter?”

“If I’m going to steal something, I’d like to know why.”

“We’re not stealing. Not really,” she added when he shot her a look of disbelief. “It’s footage from a surveillance camera. It has something … incriminating on it. Blackmail evidence.”

Dante snorted.

She blinked, his skepticism taking her aback. “You don’t believe me?”

“Hardly.”

“But … why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous, that’s why. Why would anyone blackmail you? Your reputation’s already bad.”

His obvious disdain made her face burn, but she couldn’t argue his point. The tabloids had bad-mouthed her for years—and rightfully so. She’d made so many mistakes since childhood that País Vell’s citizens despised her now.

And no matter how hard she tried to redeem herself—no matter how many charities she funded, no matter how many hours she volunteered each week at the royal hospital, doing everything from fundraising and reading to patients, to entertaining the children in the pediatric ward—she couldn’t change their minds.

Which was exactly why she was here. She knew better than anyone the damage a bad reputation could do. And she refused to let that happen to her brother, Tristan, the heir to País Vell’s throne.

She raised her chin. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m trying to stop a blackmailer, whether you want to believe me or not. Now, I suggest we get to work.”

Dante didn’t move. His gaze stayed clamped on hers, his skepticism clear. Then his eyes shifted to her mouth and heated with sensual awareness, making her pulse go berserk.

So he felt the attraction, too.

But his mouth hardened into a scowl. “Have it your way, Princess.” He slapped the penlight into her hand. “You check the cabinets. I’ll look for a safe. Did you bring gloves?”

“Yes.” Her voice came out breathless. Her heart racketing around her rib cage, she pulled a pair of leather gloves from her back pocket and put them on. Wrong man. Wrong time. Definitely the wrong place, she reminded herself sternly. She had to concentrate on finding that computer disk, not let her unruly hormones lead her astray—no matter how compelling Dante was.

He disappeared into the shadows. Still badly rattled, she forced her attention to the suite. Starting at the nearby wet bar, she searched the liquor cabinet and cupboards, then continued around the room. The dining area yielded nothing. Neither did the sideboard, the closet in the spacious bedroom or the bedside table drawers. Kneeling, she shone the penlight under the bed. Nothing, not even dust.

Her desperation growing, she rose. That computer disk had to be here, and she had to find it tonight. But she was fast running out of time.

She spotted Dante searching the office and headed his way, catching up with him at Gomez’s desk. “I doubt he’d keep it here,” she said, but she rifled through a drawer, just in case. “It’s too obvious.”

“You’d be surprised what people do. Half the time they install safes, then don’t even bother to put their valuables inside.”

She paused at that, his words a stark reminder that she hardly knew this man. She knew he owned a small stonemasonry business on the edge of town. He was supposedly a thief, which his actions tonight confirmed. She’d even heard rumors that he might be El Fantasma, the Ghost, a modern-day Robin Hood who plagued the aristocrats of País Vell. And he’d spent the past two weeks locked up in the royal prison, although with his arrest record oddly missing, no one seemed to know why.

She shook her head. Dante’s background didn’t matter, not with that damaging surveillance footage threatening the security of País Vell. But neither could she afford to discount his expert advice. In case Gomez had left the incriminating evidence in the open, she fished a plastic bag from his wastepaper basket, then scooped up every flash drive and computer disk she spotted, no matter what their labels said.

“I need the light,” Dante said from across the room. He swung aside a wall painting, exposing a safe.

He’d found it. Relief spiraling through her, she rushed around the desk.

“Aim it at the keypad,” he added.

Moving in even closer, she complied. But standing this near, the heat from his muscled body teasing her senses, she couldn’t keep her gaze off him. She skimmed his short, tousled hair, the grooves bracketing his sensual mouth, the black beard shadow coating his throat. Another shimmer of awareness fluttered through her, and she dragged in a calming breath. There was something riveting about this man, something that appealed to her in a basic, primal way.

Something she had no business indulging in right now.

Not ever. She’d put an end to her rebellious streak and sworn off inappropriate men. She had a duty to her country to fulfill.

Dante’s long, lean fingers tapped the keypad. The safe popped open, and he edged the door aside.

“That was fast,” she said.

“He’s sloppy. He’s worn off the numbers on the keys he uses most, so it was easy to figure out. And I got lucky. These electronic keypads go into lockdown if you enter four invalid codes. I got it right in three.”

Not sure whether to be impressed or appalled, she peered into the open safe. But all she saw was a stack of ledgers, and her hopes instantly tanked. “That disk has to be here.” She couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice.

Dante glanced at his watch. “I’ll look in the bathroom while you check. Then we need to go. We’re cutting it close as it is.”

Not wasting any time, she took out the stack of ledgers and searched the safe. She found a bag of antique coins, a few pairs of diamond cuff links—but no computer disk. Cursing César Gomez, she held the ledgers by their spines and shook them, in case the disk was wedged inside.

A tiny manila envelope fell to the floor. Bending down, she picked it up and looked inside. It was a key—but to what? Obviously not this safe. Unless there was another one in the room? But surely Dante would have found it by now.

On the off chance that it mattered, she stuffed the key into the bag with the computer disks, replaced the ledgers and closed the safe. Then she headed to the bathroom, her last resort. But as she stepped inside, Dante hustled over and blocked her way, forcing her to stumble back out. “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to go around him.

“Don’t go in there.”

“Why not? I need to—” A horrible stench wafted past, and she gagged. Oh, God. “Is it Gomez? Is he—?”

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

Shock rippled through her. She grabbed hold of the door frame, unable to catch her breath. “Dead?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “But that’s impossible.” He’d been alive two days ago, when he’d telephoned her brother, demanding cash. “Let me see.”

“You don’t want to go in there. It’s bad.”

“How bad? Was he murdered?”

His eyes grim, Dante shook his head.

“Suicide?”

“Worse.”

“Worse than suicide?” A deep sense of trepidation clawed her throat. What could be worse than that? “Please,” she whispered. “I need to know.”

His eyes turning even grimmer, he took her bag from her trembling hands and stepped away.

Foreboding turning her blood cold, she took a deep breath and went inside.

Chapter 2

Paloma inched her way into the bathroom, fear beating against her breastbone like a vulture’s wings, the narrow beam from the penlight wavering on the marble floor. She held her breath, one hand clamped over her mouth and nose as she tried not to inhale the fetid stench.

An unnatural silence drummed around her. The soft thud of her footsteps echoed in the gloom. Keeping her gaze trained on the wobbling penlight, she crept past an Iranian granite vanity, a shower big enough to dance in, an enormous ivory stone bathtub shaped like a giant egg.

The beam struck a man’s bare foot, and she stopped. Her heart revving fast enough for liftoff, she swept the light over his pajama-clad body, then blinked, struggling to process the sight.

It was Gomez, all right. He lay flat on his back in a pool of blood. More blood had run across the floor tiles, settling in the grout lines like a macabre maze. And his face …

Her stomach roiled. A wild sound escaped her throat. His skin had puffed up, as if trying to separate from his body. He’d bled from every opening—his nose, his mouth, his ears. Even worse, a bizarre rash covered his face like mutant tapioca pudding, large patches of it forming purple shadows across his cheeks and jaw. His open eyes were a shocking, unnerving red.

Bile instantly mushroomed inside her. She spun on her heels, raced around the corner to the toilet and retched, unable to believe what she’d seen. What on earth had killed him? What caused that grotesque rash? A disease? But what? And the color of his eyes …

She vomited again, repeatedly, until the violent spasms gave way to dry heaves. Her legs threatening to collapse, she flushed the toilet, then staggered to the vessel sink nearest the door. She snapped off her gloves, turned on a sleek chrome faucet studded with Swarovski crystals, and cupped her hands to rinse her mouth, so shocked she could hardly think.

Dante appeared beside her. His eyes connected with hers in the shadowed mirror. “Are you all right?”

Her knees trembling madly, she grabbed hold of the vanity and shook her head. “I’ve never … I’ve never seen anything so awful. All that blood …” Her head grew light, and she swayed.

Swearing, he lunged toward her. He grabbed her arm, towed her outside the bathroom and slammed the door, walling off the disgusting smell. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pushed her head against his chest. “Breathe,” he ordered, his voice gruff.

Too badly shaken to protest, she clutched the lapel of his suit coat, taking refuge in his strength and warmth.

Gomez’s death had been worse than suicide, all right. But what was it? What could have caused those demonically red eyes?

Pressing her fist to her solar plexus, she fought down another dry heave. She wasn’t weak. She could handle this. She’d seen terrible injuries during her volunteer work at the royal hospital the past few years. But that rash …

She shuddered, something flitting along the edges of her memory, but she quickly pushed it aside. She’d ponder the details of his death later, after they’d left the suite.

Several seconds ticked past. Her heartbeat gradually began to slow. She finally managed to breathe deeply, filling her lungs with Dante’s warm, safe, living scent.

And suddenly she realized how close they stood—her face nestled into the hollow of his collarbone, his rock-hard thighs pressed against hers. He’d splayed one large hand across the small of her back. His other palm cradled her head.

Her face warming, she leaned back. She didn’t even know this man, and she’d wrapped herself around him like bark on a cork tree, ready to climb right into his skin. Loosening the death grip she had on his suit coat, she stepped away and met his gaze. “Sorry.”

“You’re all right?”

“After seeing that?” Hysteria bubbled inside her. “Not really. I’m going to have nightmares about his eyes for years. But I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you mean.”

His mouth formed a somber slash. “Yeah, it was bad.”

“What do you think happened to him?” A shudder racking her body, she stole a glance at the bathroom door.

“I don’t know.”

She met his gaze, something in his tone making her wonder if he knew more than he’d let on. But that was silly. What would Dante know about a disease?

Especially that one. She frowned, another sensation of familiarity nagging her at the thought of that awful rash. And then she remembered. She’d recently overheard the doctors at the royal hospital discussing a case….

“We have to go,” Dante said, handing over her bag of disks. “We’re out of time.”

“But I might not have the right disk.”

“There was nothing in the bathroom. I looked.” Not waiting for an answer, he headed toward the door.

But Paloma didn’t move. As anxious as she was to distance herself from Gomez’s body, she still needed to find that blackmail evidence. But if it wasn’t in the bathroom …

Dante stopped at the door to the suite and frowned back. “What are you doing? We need to go.”

“I told you. I can’t leave, not until I’m sure I have that disk.”

“What difference does it make? Gomez is dead. He can’t blackmail you now.”

“But the evidence still exists. What if someone else finds it? I have to make sure it’s gone for good.”

“We don’t have time. The power’s about to come back on. If we don’t go now, the cameras are going to catch us inside.”

“But—”

“Listen, Princess. Maybe you won’t get arrested if they find us here, but I will. And I’ll be damned if I’ll rot in prison just to cover your royal ass.”

The bitterness in his low voice shocked her. Not that she expected him to like her. Few people in País Vell did.

But his anger seemed deeper, almost personal, as if she’d directly caused him harm.

Stung, she crossed her arms. “I’m not doing this for myself.”

His gaze sharpened. “No? Then who are you doing it for?”

Aware that she’d blundered badly, she rushed to cover the slip. “What I mean is … It’s a bad time for this to come out.”

That much was true. Three weeks ago, a group of La Brigada separatists had tried to assassinate her family in a bomb blast. Luckily for her, they’d failed. But her father had retaliated hard, imposing a curfew on the separatist region and prohibiting gatherings of any sort. Instead of quelling the rebellion, he’d only angered the separatists further, inciting even more violent protests—which had resulted in several deaths.

She didn’t agree with her father’s reaction. She’d tried for years to convince him to modernize the monarchy and enact some badly needed reforms—including granting autonomy to Reino Antiguo, which País Vell controlled. But her old-fashioned father refused to change. She had higher hopes for her brother, but Tristan wouldn’t assume the throne for years.

In the meantime, it was up to her to protect the citizens of País Vell, even if they thought the worst of her.

“People are already upset with my family,” she explained. “If anything bad comes out, they’re going to protest again. And someone else could get killed.”

He still didn’t believe her. Cynicism blazed in his coal-black eyes. But she didn’t owe him the truth. They were temporary partners in crime, nothing more.

“Either way, there’s nothing else here,” he finally said. “It’s pointless to hang around.”

“I’m not so sure.” Still smarting from his derision, she fished the key from the bag and held it out. “I found this in the safe. There must be another one in the suite somewhere.”

Dante strode back toward her. He took the key, examined it with the penlight and gave it back. “It doesn’t go to a safe. It’s the key for a safe-deposit box.”

“You mean in a bank? Are you sure?”

He lifted a sardonic brow.

“Right.” Of course a thief would recognize keys. But how could she find Gomez’s bank box? Where would she even look?

Her panic escalating, she glanced toward the office again. She couldn’t leave here without that footage. She’d never have another opportunity to get in. Once the police realized Gomez had died, they would cordon off the area and confiscate his belongings—eliminating any further chance to find clues.

“At least give me a minute to grab his laptop. Maybe he left some information on that.”

“Five seconds,” Dante warned, his voice hard. “And then you’re on your own.”

Paloma whirled on her heels and dashed across the penthouse, refusing to dwell on Dante’s anger. It didn’t matter what he thought. She had far more to worry about than this thief’s poor opinion of her. Working quickly, she unplugged the lightweight laptop, tucked it under her arm and raced back across the room.

Dante opened the door to the hall and went out. Her pulse erratic, she trailed him into the vestibule and back to the stairwell door. Then she followed him down the spiral staircase, her mind whirling, her soft boots slapping the stones.

What a disaster. Gomez was dead. She probably hadn’t found the blackmail evidence, so her brother was still at risk. All she had was a bank key, a laptop computer and a handful of random disks which might not yield any clues.

And if anyone discovered she’d been in the penthouse …

She shuddered, picturing the media circus that would cause. It would bring back the worst of her scandals, resurrecting the stories of her older brother Felipe’s death—which people still blamed on her.

At the bottom of the tower, Dante paused. “We’ll head to the service entrance. It’s the fastest way out.”

“Great.” She needed to get past those surveillance cameras before the power came on. Once news of Gomez’s death came out, the police would study the footage for signs of foul play—and she couldn’t afford to be implicated in any way.

Dante exited the tower. Staying close on his heels, she ran after him down the hallway, trying to decide on a plan. Once she was safely outside the casino, she could circle around to the main entrance and go back in. She would pretend she’d lost sight of her bodyguard when the power went off and feign ignorance about his attack.

But what about the disks and laptop? How was she going to account for them? There was no logical reason for her to have them, no explanation that made sense.

Unless she stowed them in the bushes and returned for them later. But what if someone found them first? She didn’t dare risk losing the only possible clue to that blackmail evidence she had.

Tightening her grip on the laptop, she pushed her pace, trying to keep up with Dante’s strides. She could ditch her bodyguard completely, pretend she’d hooked up with Dante when the power went out, and have him drive her home. With her wild reputation, no one would question that.

But leaving the casino without her bodyguard would infuriate her father, especially after that assassination attempt. It would reinforce his belief that she was reckless, irresponsible, undoing the efforts she’d made to convince him that she’d reformed.

But what other choice did she have?

Still trying to find a solution, she turned the corner behind Dante and raced down another hall. But suddenly, voices came from the darkness ahead.

“Who’s there?” a man called out.

Dante abruptly stopped. Paloma staggered to a halt beside him, a wild spurt of panic robbing her of breath. Now what were they going to do?

“Back here.” Dante took hold of her arm and spun her around. But he didn’t need to urge her along. She was in an off-limits area of the casino, carrying items stolen from a dead man—in the company of a thief. No way did she want to get caught!

She fled with Dante back down the hallway, running as fast as she could in the dark. But footsteps pounded behind them. “Stop!” the man shouted.

Her pulse frantic, Paloma forced herself to run faster, ignoring the searing burn scorching her lungs. “This way,” Dante said, and she veered hard to the left. They entered another hallway, then sprinted full out toward the emergency-exit sign glinting in the darkness a dozen yards ahead.

Almost there. Fatigue weakened her legs. Her breath rasped like a frenzied saw. Calling on all her strength, she sped down the musty hallway, desperate to get outside and disappear into the night, away from prying eyes.

Dante surged ahead. She trained her gaze on the exit sign, still several yards away.

But then a brilliant flash of light filled the air. Blinded by the sudden brightness, Paloma stumbled and nearly fell. Managing to keep hold of the laptop, she pulled herself upright and squinted in the garish light—straight into a surveillance camera mounted beside the door.

Her heart plummeted. They’d just been captured on camera together.

Dante shouldered open the door. Unable to believe that she’d screwed up yet again, she barreled after him into the night. Then she staggered to a row of delivery trucks parked beside the loading bay, and stopped.

Her lungs heaved. Her heart beat triple time as she gulped in the crisp night air. She’d messed up, all right. Not only had she failed to find that hidden computer disk, but she’d been recorded on camera with Dante, giving the guards a reason to investigate them.

“Wait here,” he said. Before she could ask what he intended, he strode around the truck and disappeared.

Still struggling to breathe normally, she glanced around. Fire trucks rumbled in the parking lot below them. Smoke from the bomb blast lingered in the air, the acrid smell permeating the night. She walked to the end of the alley and scanned the well-heeled people milling around the casino entrance, commenting on the power outage and fire.

Suddenly two guards burst through the emergency exit behind her. Her heart galloping, she moved deeper into the shadows, afraid they would mount a search. But the men just stood on the loading dock for a moment, peering at the commotion outside the casino, then gave up and went inside.

Paloma exhaled. She’d dodged one bullet, at least. But then the shadows beside her swirled, and she whipped around. “It’s me,” Dante said, emerging from the darkness.

She pressed her hand to her chest. “You scared me. I thought you were a guard.”

“Sorry.” He stepped closer, moving into a circle of light, and she caught the tension lines bracketing his mouth.

Her belly tightened again. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s get out of here first. My car’s at the edge of the lot.”

Not seeing an alternative, she fell in beside him, but her anxiety ratcheted up a notch as they went across the lot. Something had put that worry in his eyes, but what?

Still mulling that over, she wove behind him through the rows of parked cars. People streamed around them, chattering about the night’s events. Paloma ducked her head, hoping no one recognized her—a complication she didn’t need.

Dante stopped beside a dinged-up hatchback. “Get in. It’s not locked.”

Surprised at his choice of cars, she climbed inside. While she buckled her seat belt, Dante grabbed a knapsack from beneath a nearby shrub and tossed it into the back. Then he slid into the driver’s seat and fiddled with some loose wires under the dash.

She blinked. “You stole this car?”

“I was trying to stay anonymous.” He shot her a pointed look. “A lot of good that did.”

She dragged her gaze to the windshield as the old car stuttered to life. She’d definitely fouled up. Getting caught on camera with Dante would create exactly the kind of publicity she’d hoped to avoid—and put innocent people at risk.

Including him.

Although innocent hardly described Dante Quevedo. She cast a glance at his profile as he drove through the gravel lot. She skimmed his dark, stubbled jaw, his big hands grasping the wheel, the heavy bones of his wrists. And that restless feeling quivered through her, that primitive, carnal awareness he’d evoked in her from the start.

Determined to ignore it, she turned her gaze to the blackened forest as they left the grounds of the casino and whizzed down the mountain road. Dante disturbed her, all right. And she never should have enlisted his help. Now he was mired with her in this muddled mess—and it was up to her to get them out.

He shifted to a lower gear. The car slowed abruptly, jerking her against the seat belt, the engine protesting with a high-pitched shriek. He hit the brakes, slowing them even further, and steered the car off the road. The beams from the headlights bounced across the trees as they bumped over the rocky ground.

“What are you doing?” She braced her hand against the dashboard as the car lurched through a rocky ditch. “Why did you leave the road?”

“They’ve set up a roadblock closer to town.”

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard some people talking in the parking lot.”

She frowned. “You think they know that Gomez is dead?”

“No. They’re looking for you. Your bodyguard got a good look at me before the lights went out. When he woke up and couldn’t find you, he probably figured I’d kidnapped you.”

Oh, God. Dante was right. That was exactly what Carlos would think. She sank back against the seat, fastening her gaze on the passing timber as the implications sank in. Her father would act at once. He’d scour the countryside, mobilizing the military and mounting an all-out search.

Her forehead suddenly throbbing, she pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to think. “I’ll straighten this out as soon as I get home. I’ll call my father and let him know that I’m all right.”

“He’s not going to believe you.”

“Why not?”

Dante swerved again. “They saw us together in the hall, and we were running away from the guards. How are you going to explain that?”

“I’ll say I was lost, that you were helping me find my way out. And we ran because … because we didn’t know who they were. We thought the guards were someone else, maybe La Brigada raiding the casino. And you were trying to keep me safe.”

“It still won’t work.”

“Of course it will. Once I explain—”

“I’m a thief, Paloma. I’ve got a criminal record. It won’t matter what you say. They’ll assume that I coerced you and throw me back in jail.”

“Not without proof, they won’t.”

“Proof?” He shot her an incredulous look. “What planet do you live on? Since when do they need proof to arrest someone?”

“That’s awfully cynical. Our laws—”

He barked out a bitter laugh. “Laws. Right. That’s why they tossed me in jail before—with no lawyer, no contact with the outside world, no chance to fight the charges, whatever the hell they were.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then you’re either stupid or naive.”

She frowned at his angry profile, his bitterness bothering her. True, she hadn’t found his arrest papers. And she knew the system wasn’t perfect, that some of the older guards were corrupt. But Dante made the country sound medieval. And while her father might be high-handed, he’d never tolerate abuses like that.

“I don’t know what happened with your arrest,” she admitted. “So I can’t argue with you about that. But you don’t have to worry about tonight. I’ll make sure my father knows that you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll talk to him in person and prove that I’m all right.”

Dante slanted her a glance. “There’s still one problem.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you.”

The car hit a rut, and she clutched the seat. He didn’t believe she’d stand up for him? “Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I said I would. And my word is good.”

“Your word?” he scoffed. “You’ve been lying to me from the start. There isn’t a chance in hell Gomez was blackmailing you with the reputation you have.”

She flushed and crossed her arms, unable to deny the truth. “The reason I need that disk doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. I’m in this mess as much as you are, so you damned well owe me the truth. And until I get it, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Princess. You’re stuck with me until I decide we’re through.”

Outraged, she clamped her jaw. Then she turned her gaze to the side window, where the wind whistled through a crack. Wonderful. She’d thought the night couldn’t get much worse. But she’d been wrong.

Because now she had to worry about him.

Chapter 3

Dante had to hand it to the princess. She’d lived up to her bad reputation and totally screwed up his night.

Furious over the debacle she’d landed him in, he stopped on a cobblestone street in the heart of the ancient city and parked. Darkness enveloped the car. A dog barked from a nearby house, its sharp, high-pitched yaps adding to his foul mood.

Paloma had embroiled him in a disaster, all right. The police were hot on his trail. They would assume he’d abducted the princess and would probably shoot him on sight. They’d definitely connect him to that bomb blast—and possibly the casino owner’s bizarre death.

And until he could extricate himself from this unholy mess, he wasn’t letting her escape. She was the only hope he had to clear his name and keep himself out of jail.

“Where are we?” she asked.

He turned his head, barely able to make out her features in the predawn light. She hadn’t spoken for the last half hour as they’d worked their way down the forest trail. She’d sat with her arms folded tight, her sultry lips compressed, upset that he didn’t trust her, no doubt. Well, too damned bad. He needed answers. And he intended to get them, even if her feelings got hurt.

“A property I’m restoring,” he hedged. “No one will find us there. We can talk, make plans.” Figure out what had gone wrong.

Still seething over his predicament, he climbed out, grabbed his knapsack from the backseat and did a visual check of the car, making sure he hadn’t left incriminating evidence behind. Then he led the way up the cobbled lane into the oldest part of the city, a once-lavish section that bordered the fortified wall.

The barking abruptly stopped. The cold wind gusted in the sudden silence, sending a plastic bag skittering over the stones. Dante glanced at Paloma walking beside him, the light from a wrought-iron lantern casting a silver sheen over her hair.

She hadn’t set out to harm him; he’d give her that much. His friend Rafael Navarro never would have agreed to help her if she had. And given her reaction to Gomez’s corpse, she also hadn’t expected to find the casino owner dead.

But her blackmail story still stank. Why would anyone threaten to expose her with the wild reputation she had? Unless she really was protecting someone else …

Dante slid her a speculative look. She stared straight ahead, her profile blurred by shadows, her long hair fluttering in the breeze. Who else could she be shielding? Her father? Her brother? Anticipation roared through him at the thought. If she was protecting her brother, that blackmail evidence could be the proof he needed to finally destroy that bloody murderer—hell, the entire royal family—including the spoiled princess at his side.

His conscience twinged, but he beat back any qualms. No mercy. The nobles sure hadn’t shown any to the hapless people of País Vell. For centuries, a few powerful families had controlled the country’s wealth while the impoverished masses struggled to survive—scrabbling for medical care and food, working to put a decent roof over their heads.

And anyone who dared protest was mowed down in a hail of bullets—like his desperate mother, shot point-blank while her two terrified children looked on.

Dante steeled his jaw, beating back the fury, knowing he had to keep his agenda under wraps. Because no matter how innocuous Paloma seemed, she was a royal, his sworn enemy. And he couldn’t risk tipping her off.

He reached the medieval stone cross that had once marked a pilgrim trail and turned down the cobbled lane. Halfway down the block, he reached a thick wooden door in the high stone wall and stopped.

Paloma came to a halt beside him, then peered up at the escutcheon above the door. “This is the Palacio de los Arcos.” Named after the impressive arches that lined the courtyard inside.

“Yeah, so?”

She turned her gaze to his. “This used to be in my family. I came here a few times when my great-aunt Pilar was still alive. I tried to convince my father to buy it after she died, but he said it needed too much work.”

“It was a mess, all right.” So bad, in fact, that he’d bought the condemned estate for next to nothing, barely more than the price of the lot. But what he’d saved on price he’d paid for in labor. It had taken him a year just to stabilize the building and keep it from collapsing.

“And you’re doing the restoration?” she asked.

He’d bought the property under a sham corporation so the police couldn’t connect it to him—but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “That’s right.”

He swung up the iron knocker, tapped a code on the hidden keypad, then pulled open the heavy door.

“That’s clever the way you hid that,” she said.

“I didn’t want to ruin the look of the door.” He stood back to let her through.

She stepped inside, her subtle floral scent twining around him like a lover’s embrace. Disgusted that he’d noticed, he followed her into the courtyard, but the swing of her slender hips, the thick mass of chestnut hair tumbling down her back accelerated his pulse.

He clenched his jaw. No way. He wasn’t going down that futile track. She wasn’t his date. She was a means to an end, nothing more.

She stopped beside the fountain, then slowly turned around, gazing up at the three-tiered gallery of arches towering on every side. In its heyday, the once magnificent palace had hosted a variety of foreign dignitaries, including the monarchs of France and Spain.

Which perfectly illustrated the chasm between their lives.

“Oh, wow,” she breathed. “You’ve done all this work?”

“Yeah.” Bit by bit, in between his charity heists and legitimate stonemasonry jobs. And he still had a long way to go. He scanned the boards piled against one wall, the scaffolding stretched across the courtyard, the mountain of paint cans and saws.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I love the way you’ve preserved the original features. It’s modern, but still antique.”

He met her gaze, impressed that she understood. “That was the point.”

“Well, it worked. It’s really lovely, just amazing. You do fabulous work.”

Despite his resolve to keep his distance, her frank admiration burrowed beneath his defenses and evoked a glimmer of pride. He’d spent years working on the sixteenth-century palace, staining the chestnut beams, piecing together the damaged frescoes, painstakingly repairing the terra-cotta tiles. Shoring up the dilapidated, graffiti-marred structure to create a home for his baby sister and fill the void in her troubled life.

But Paloma wouldn’t understand that. She’d been raised in an opulent castle, surrounded by every luxury, worlds apart from his hardscrabble upbringing, where he’d had to steal to survive.

“This way,” he said, hardening his voice. He strode into one of the few rooms he’d finished and snapped on a high-powered lamp. The harsh light flooded the room, banishing the feeling of intimacy she’d sparked. Still clutching the laptop and bag of disks, Paloma sank onto the leather sofa and glanced around the room. He settled in the opposite chair.

For a minute, he simply watched her, studying her full, pouty lips, the sooty lashes rimming her hypnotic eyes, the shimmering fall of her chestnut hair. Her undeniable beauty washed through him, the feminine lines of her face, the creamy glow of her skin jump-starting his heart. Had she been anyone else …

But she wasn’t anyone else. She was Paloma Vergara, the princess. A member of the family he planned to destroy.

He braced his forearms on his knees. “All right. Let’s take this from the top. What were you after back there? And I want the truth this time.”

She hesitated, her apparent unwillingness to confide in him irritating him even more. “Look, Princess. Thanks to you, I’ve got the royal guards gunning for me. If I’m going to get arrested, I deserve to know what for.”

She pushed her hands through her hair, the honeyed highlights shimmering like gold in the light. Her weary sigh filled the air. “You’re right. It’s my fault you’re in this mess. But I really did tell you the truth—most of it, at least. I’m looking for blackmail evidence.”

He cocked a brow. “And?”

Setting aside the bag and laptop, she rose. She paced to the still-dark windows, then turned and faced him again. “What I’m about to tell you … You can’t tell anyone. You have to promise. Because if the media finds out …”

“Forget it. I’m not promising anything. Not until I know what this is about.”

“But—”

“I said to forget it.” He stood and stalked toward her, stopping so close beside her she had to tilt back her head to meet his eyes. “I agreed to get you into that penthouse, and I did my part. Now it’s time that you came clean.”

Her lush mouth flattened, her eyes flashing with annoyance at his hard line. But after several tense seconds, she released her breath. “All right. The truth is… It wasn’t me Gomez was blackmailing. It was my brother, Tristan.”

Dante’s gut stilled. Excitement leaped inside him, sending adrenaline surging into his veins. He’d guessed right. And this was exactly what he needed—information that could incriminate the prince.

“He gambles,” she continued with a little shrug.

“Nothing major. He’s not addicted or anything. He just goes to the casino a couple times a month. It’s not a secret.”

“I’ve heard that.” According to his sister, who’d worked as a waitress at the casino, the prince gambled regularly in the high-roller rooms. “So what happened?”

“The last time he was there, he gambled with a man he’d never met before. Someone from the Middle East. He didn’t think much of it at the time. But he found out later that the man was a terrorist, a member of the Third Crescent, an al Qaeda offshoot. And apparently the surveillance camera caught them together.”

“So? What’s wrong with that? If he didn’t know who the man was …”

“You’re right. Normally no one would care. But my father just signed an international agreement, promising cooperation in the war on terror. Tristan’s heading the committee in charge of that, so pictures of him partying with a terrorist …” She grimaced. “The timing couldn’t be worse. It would make us look corrupt, especially with the reputation for smuggling that País Vell has.

“And you know what the mood in the country is like. People are angry at my family right now. Any hint of scandal will only add to the unrest. And if people start protesting again, someone else could get hurt.”

Dante rubbed his jaw, his morning beard stubble scraping his palm. “Even so, just gambling with a terrorist doesn’t seem that bad. It’s hardly worthy of blackmail.”

“It will be by the time the tabloids get finished with it. They’ll distort and exaggerate the story until Tristan looks like a terrorist, too. Just the appearance of doing something wrong is enough. Believe me, I’ve learned that the hard way over the years.”

He angled his head, her obvious resentment taking him aback. And for the first time he wondered if he’d misjudged her, and if there was more to her than he knew. Because if the tabloids had exaggerated her behavior, painting her in an unfair light …

Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he cut them off. He didn’t care what she was like. She was a tool, a means to avenge his sister’s death, nothing more.

“So Gomez tried to blackmail your brother?” he prodded, steering his thoughts back to the prince.

“Yes. He told Tristan to pay up, or he’d expose the surveillance footage.”

“And when was this?”

“The gambling trip? A couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night.”

Dante’s heart missed several beats. It took every ounce of effort he had to keep his expression blank. His sister had died that night. And there wasn’t a chance in hell it was a coincidence, not with the prince involved. Whatever had happened in the casino had to be connected to her death.

His excitement rising, he paced across the tiles. Lucía had worked the late shift at the casino that night. Just after her shift had ended, she’d phoned him in a panic, her voice so slurred and incoherent, and hiccupping so badly, he could hardly make sense of her words. She’d claimed that the prince was trying to kill her, that she’d witnessed something dreadful—something involving shootings or shots.

Of course, that last part didn’t make sense. She hadn’t suffered a gunshot wound—only a needle mark on her arm. The coroner had ruled her death a massive heroin overdose, which Dante refused to believe.

But assuming the prince had killed her, the question was why? She might have seen him gambling with the terrorist—but what difference would that have made? She wouldn’t have recognized anyone from the Middle East.

Unless the “shots” referred to a murder. If the prince had killed someone—maybe the terrorist—and Lucía had witnessed the crime, he’d have a motive to shut her up.

But then what about Gomez? How did his death figure into this? What was that weird-looking rash about?

Dante stopped by the entrance to the kitchen and turned around, his gaze traveling to Paloma again. She still stood by the window, her full lips pursed, her wary eyes on his. He didn’t know who or what had killed Gomez, but he did know one thing. Whatever had happened to his sister that night, that blackmail evidence had to hold the key.

Knowing he had to be careful, that one wrong move could make Paloma suspicious of him and destroy his plans, he walked back to where she stood. “So how did you get involved in this?”

She scooped her hair over one shoulder and twisted the ends. “Tristan came to me for advice. He needed to confide in someone he could trust.”

“But why have you look for the evidence?” he asked, pressing. “You’re not a thief. And what if you got caught? Wouldn’t that cause a scandal, too?”

She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, but not as much. It would still make the people angry, but my reputation’s already bad—as you pointed out. No one expects better from me. But Tristan’s going to be king some day. He can’t afford a scandal that big.”

Dante crossed his arms, her willingness to sacrifice herself for her brother ticking him off. Loyalty he understood. But that scumbag prince didn’t deserve a break. “You weren’t the one partying with a terrorist. You shouldn’t have to pay the price.”

She flushed. “You don’t understand. Tristan’s young. He’s made mistakes, but he’ll make a good leader some day. And he’s always depended on me. He’s six years younger than I am. And I guess … I feel more like a mother than a sister to him sometimes.”

He mulled that over, adding it to what he knew of her family’s past. He knew that the queen had died in childbirth. That Paloma’s older brother—the original heir to the throne—had died in a hiking accident when they were kids, an accident rumored to be Paloma’s fault. That the king was an alcoholic who spent his evenings drowning his bitterness in a bottle—when he wasn’t repressing the unlucky citizens of País Vell.

Dante had never sympathized with the royals. He’d been too busy struggling through his own life to care about theirs—too busy burying his murdered mother. Too busy raising his fragile sister and trying to keep her off drugs. Too busy helping the impoverished people of País Vell survive their precarious lives.

“Haven’t you ever felt that way?” Paloma asked. “Isn’t there someone you want to protect?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “My sister, Lucía.”

“She’s younger than you are?”

His jaw turned stiff. “She was younger. Now she’s dead.”

Paloma’s startled eyes shot to his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t … I know how hard that is.”

Did she? Skeptical, he held her gaze, wondering if the compassion in her eyes was real. Maybe she did understand. Maybe she felt responsible for her older brother’s death. But he didn’t want her sympathy. He didn’t want to feel any connection to her.

And he never should have mentioned Lucía. The wound was still too fresh, his guilt over his failure to protect her still gnawing at him, day and night.

“But you can see, then, why I needed to help?” she asked softly.

“Yeah. I understand.” And that was exactly why he was here. He’d failed Lucía once. He refused to do it again. He had to avenge her killing, no matter what it took.

But one thing was clear. He had to be careful. Paloma had just admitted that she’d do anything to protect her brother, even sacrifice her reputation on his behalf. If she suspected that Dante intended to harm him, she’d make sure he ended up behind bars.

Trying to figure out the best way to play this, he crossed the room to his chair. A second later, Paloma returned to the sofa and sat.

He cleared his throat. “Look, I know you don’t want me involved in this—”

“There’s really no need. You’ve already done your part.”

“I don’t have much choice now that I’ve been caught on camera with you.”

A flush climbed up her cheeks. “That’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken the time to get that laptop …” She shook her head, making her hair spill over her arms. “I promise I’ll talk to my father. I’ll straighten everything out. And I swear I’ll make sure that you aren’t blamed. You really can trust me on that.”

He frowned. He couldn’t force her to stay with him. He needed her cooperation if he hoped to get information from her.

“I have a better idea. Maybe we can work together to find that surveillance footage you need.”

She stilled, suddenly alert. “Why? What would you get out of this?”

He picked his words, not wanting to arouse her suspicions and tip her off. “I told you my sister died. But I didn’t tell you where. She died at the casino a couple of weeks ago.”

“What? How?”

“A heroin overdose. At least that’s what the coroner said.”

“You don’t agree?”

He shook his head. “She’d been clean for months. And her drug of choice was oxycodone. She got addicted years ago when she hurt her back.”

Paloma hesitated. “I know you don’t want to think it, but is there a chance you might be wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time an addict lied.”

“I know.” Lucía had fallen off the wagon often enough for him to know. “But it’s not just that. You remember Gomez’s rash?”

She shuddered. “I’m hardly likely to forget it.”

“I found my sister’s body in the parking lot. She looked … She had a similar rash.”

Paloma’s head came up. “You’re saying she had the same thing as Gomez?”

“I don’t know.” His sister had claimed the prince was trying to kill her, which would rule out any disease. “But I need to find out. If you help me find out what really killed her, I’ll help you look for what you need.”

“But if they both had a disease …” Horror filled her eyes. “Oh, God. What if it’s contagious? What if we got exposed?”

“All the more reason to work together. We both have a stake in this now.” He leaned forward and extended his hand. “So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

“I don’t know.” She scrubbed her face with her hands, then sighed. “Yes. All right. It’s a deal.”

“Good.” His hand closed over hers. The soft feel of her skin jolted through him, electrifying his pulse. And a sudden sliver of warning crept through his mind.

He had to be careful. Paloma was dangerous. There was something different about this woman, something about her that threatened to creep beneath his defenses….

No mercy, he reminded himself firmly.

But he’d better keep his wits about him if he hoped to survive.

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