High-Stakes Affair (15 page)

His admiration for her rising, he rushed with her past several bedrooms, then passed through a cavernous room decorated with medieval pendants and swords. After running down another hallway, they stopped at an arched wooden door. Dante swept a nervous gaze behind him, hoping they hadn’t triggered any alarms.

“We need to go across the wall walk,” Paloma told him, breathing hard. “It’s a shortcut to the tower. That will lead us right down to the dining room where the dinner is.”

She opened the door and slipped out. His tension building, he followed her into the crisp night air. Then they sprinted across the battlement, their feet thudding on the stones.

The crenellated wall blurred past. The tower loomed ahead. The silver glow from the ground-level spotlights illuminated the stones.

Suddenly a shout broke out from behind. “You! Stop!”

His pulse accelerating, Dante ducked his head and sped up. Praying the guards wouldn’t shoot and injure Paloma, he pounded behind her toward the tower door.

Paloma flung open the door and dove inside. Dante followed on her heels just as shots rang out.

Perfect.
Now they’d have the entire royal guard in pursuit.

Paloma flew down another hallway, this one lined with portraits in gilded frames. They made it to another wide staircase, and the dull roar of voices arose from the banquet room below. He trailed her down the stairs to the dining room door and stopped.

His breath rasping, Dante peered over her head into an enormous room, where hundreds of people sat at the longest tables he’d ever seen. Huge chandeliers hung from the frescoed ceilings. Murals covered the walls. His gaze went to the raised dais just to the right of the door. The king sat in the center, Tristan on his right. Other dignitaries he didn’t recognize sat on either side. Armed guards stood at intervals along the wall.

“What’s your plan?” he whispered.

Her worried eyes met his. “I need to reach my father. But Tristan’s sitting next to him, and we know that he’s got a gun.”

“Would he try to shoot you, with all these people around?”

“I don’t know. He’s desperate, and he’ll try to stop me somehow. Unless I can get to the microphone… Then everyone can hear me speak.”

Dante shifted his gaze to the podium at the front of the room, and his blood ran cold. “Forget it. You’ll be too exposed. He’ll have a clear shot from there.”

“I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way to get my father’s attention.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll create distraction while you get to the king.”

Sudden fear filed her eyes. “No. They’ll shoot you if you try.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do! Listen, Dante. You need to find a reporter and give him that disk.” She coughed again, a raw, wrenching cough that scared him more than those gunshots had. The virus was progressing.

She was almost out of time.

“Paloma…” His voice broke.

Her bloodshot eyes turned fierce. “Listen to me, Dante. People have to see the truth. Promise me you’ll do it if anything happens to me.”

His heart raced. A week ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. This was everything he’d wanted. He could finally destroy the royal family and achieve his goal, getting justice for his sister’s death.

But he didn’t care about that now. Desperation surged inside him, the overpowering need to make sure this woman survived.

Footsteps pounded behind them, and his sense of urgency rose. The guards were nearly here.

Without warning, Paloma bolted into the room, heading toward the podium, and his heart careened to a halt. A loud murmur broke out as people began to notice her rushing down the aisle.

“Arrest the prince!” she shouted suddenly. “He’s unleashed a deadly virus. He’s trying to kill us all!”

Tristan rose from his seat and whipped out his gun.

A woman screamed. Pandemonium erupted as shocked people lunged beneath their tables and fled toward doors. Dante battled his way into the room, shoving through the frenzied people toward the dais, where the guards had surrounded the king.

Shots barked out. More people shouted and screamed. Praying Paloma hadn’t been hit, Dante leaped over a table and charged through the panicked crowd, trying to get at the prince.

Suddenly Tristan came into view. Dante didn’t hesitate. He sprinted straight toward him. His eyes wild, Tristan raised his gun and fired. But he was out of ammunition.

Confusion entered his eyes, then fear. He tossed aside the gun but whipped out an aerosol can. “Stop right there!” he shouted. “This contains the virus.”

Years of pent-up fury inside him, Dante didn’t break his stride. He slammed his fist under the prince’s jaw, an undercut that took him off his feet. Tristan hit the wall, then collapsed.

Guards instantly surrounded Dante and grabbed his arms, roughing him up as they handcuffed him. But Paloma had reached the podium, and her voice rose above the din.

“Stop, everyone! Guards, secure the room. We have a national emergency on our hands. We’ve uncovered a terrorist plot led by the prince. You need to restrain him right now. But don’t get too close. He has Ebola, a deadly, contagious virus that he has unleashed in País Vell.”

Shock rippled through the room. More murmurs and cries broke out.

“We need to put an immediate quarantine in place,” she continued. “The lives of thousands, even millions of people could be at stake.”

The king stood. He wavered on his feet, looking shocked. His gaze went from Tristan, who was lying on the floor, to the gun he’d tossed aside. Then he raised his eyes to Paloma on the podium.

Her face was flushed; her long hair in wild disarray. And then she hiccupped.

And in that moment Dante knew it was too late. She’d missed the opportunity to take the antidote. She’d chosen to sacrifice herself to save her people.

If he had any lingering doubts about her altruism, they’d disappeared. She believed in honor and justice, the qualities her brother had mocked her for. She epitomized everything a leader should be.

And he realized something else. He loved her. Desperately. Frantically. Permanently.

And now she was going to die.

Chapter 14

D
esperate for news about Paloma, Dante walked through the gates of the royal hospital a week later and worked his way through the crowds of reporters swarming the grounds. They’d set up their command posts outside the hospital, camping in trailers and tents as they waited for updates about the disease. As the biggest news event in decades, the Ebola-chimera virus had attracted worldwide attention, and journalists had streamed into País Vell from across the globe.

But with the country now in lockdown, they were stuck. All roads in and out of País Vell were closed. No planes were allowed to take off or land. The only aircraft allowed in the restricted airspace were the helicopters bringing in supplies—and even those couldn’t touch down.

Dante stepped around a newscaster lugging a video-camera just as a chopper came into view, its rotor blades drumming the air. It hovered over the quarantine area—the building directly behind the main hospital—then started lowering supplies via a longline to the workers waiting below.

He paused, his gaze stalling on the building where the most severe cases, including Paloma, were housed. Three layers of barbed wire walled it off. Armed soldiers patrolled the perimeter, keeping unauthorized personnel away. They’d even installed guard towers at regular intervals, making the compound look more like a maximum security prison than a hospital ward.

Dante sucked in a breath, the thought of Paloma wasting away in that hellish compound driving him wild. He wanted to storm the doors, blast past any barriers and do something, anything, to keep her safe.

The cameraman jostled his shoulder. Dante shook himself out of his daze, then continued walking to the hospital’s main entrance and climbed the steps. Paloma had been quarantined since the night of the state dinner. When she’d leave—or whether she’d be alive when she did—no one knew.

Two soldiers wearing protective face masks and brandishing semiautomatic rifles guarded the hospital doors. “We need to see your clearance card,” one demanded.

Dante pulled out the card that proved he’d received the antidote and that he was authorized to leave his house. Military vehicles patrolled the country’s deserted streets, enforcing the lockdown in effect until the virus’s three-week incubation period had passed.

“This way, please.” The guard led him inside the building, to the receptionist’s desk, and handed her the card.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Sanz,” Dante told her.

She nodded, only her tired eyes visible behind her mask. She checked her computer, then slid him back his card. “You’re clear. Room 105, down the hall to the left.”

The guard returned to his post outside. Dante headed down the hall into a scene straight out of a war zone. Doctors shouting orders dashed past. People huddled in the corridors, crying and looking distressed. He glanced into rooms overcrowded with cots. The harsh odor of disinfectant permeated the air.

And if this was bad, he could only imagine the hell in the quarantine ward.

He reached Dr. Sanz’s office and knocked. No one answered, but a nurse scurried by.

“I saw him heading this way,” she told him, her voice muffled in her mask. “He’ll be right here. You can wait inside.”

“Thanks.” Dante opened the door and went in. He strode to the window facing the back of the hospital, then stared out at the barbed-wire fence, the injustice of it all hitting him hard. Why Paloma had caught the disease and he hadn’t, no one could say. It appeared to be a random quirk of fate.

Just as her survival would be. The odds were definitely against it. Last he’d heard, a hundred people had already died.

Including the prince.

Dante hissed, glad there’d been some glimmer of justice in this affair. But as for Paloma… He turned and scanned the room—the doctor’s framed diplomas hanging on the walls, the medical textbooks crammed on the shelves. All the education and money in the world couldn’t defeat a deadly virus and save the woman he loved.

Dr. Sanz entered his office just then. Dark circles underscored his eyes. His face looked sallow, and his lab coat rumpled, making Dante doubt he’d slept in days. “Dante, it’s good to see you.”

“Dr. Sanz.” He reached out and shook his hand.

“Have a seat.” The doctor circled his desk and slumped into his chair. Then he tossed his glasses onto the desk and rubbed his eyes.

“How is she?” Dante asked, sitting down, his eyes glued on the doctor’s face.

Dr. Sanz let out a heavy sigh. “Not well. I wish I had better news, but I don’t.”

Dante’s hopes tanked.

The doctor scrubbed his face with his hands, then exhaled. “Coffee? Water?”

“No, thanks.”

Dr. Sanz rose, grabbed a plastic bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner and unscrewed the cap. After guzzling half the contents, he sat back down. “Unfortunately, she didn’t get the antidote in time to stop the disease.”

“I know.” Thanks to her stubborn insistence on saving her countrymen first.

“We’ve tried all the experimental drugs, but they haven’t worked,” the doctor continued. “We’re doing everything else we can—keeping her hydrated, maintaining her oxygen and blood levels, replacing the electrolytes and coagulation factors she’s lost. We’ve stitched her arm and treated the secondary infection from the gunshot wound. But frankly, there’s nothing else we can do except let the disease run its course.”

Dante clenched his jaw, outrage building inside him. “You’re saying we just sit here and wait?”

The doctor exhaled again. “We’re trying to save her, believe me. But we’ve lost a hundred and three people so far. We’ve got close to another hundred actively infected in the quarantine ward. I’m sure there’ll be more cases that haven’t manifested yet. And the fact is, she’s hung on longer than most.”

His jaw rigid, Dante rose and paced to the door. He wanted to slam his fist into the wall. Charge into the quarantine area and do something to make her well. The idea of sitting around twiddling his thumbs while Paloma battled for her life went against everything he’d stood for his entire life.

“We need to fight this,” he argued. “We can’t just do nothing and let it win.”

Dr. Sanz sighed. “I know how you feel. Losing any patient is hard, but the princess…” He shook his head. “But there’s only so much we can do. We need a miracle now.”

A miracle? Dante scoffed, knowing the likelihood of that. A miracle hadn’t saved his mother. A miracle hadn’t saved his sister. And he’d be damned if he’d rely on divine intervention to save Paloma, too.

“Look,” the doctor said, steepling his hands. “This might sound far-fetched, but there’s a lot about medicine we don’t know. And sometimes, for whatever reason, attitude helps.”

Dante stopped and scowled. “What are you saying? That she’s given up?”

“This disease has taken its toll on her. She’s lost her spirit. She needs hope, something to live for, something that will make her want to fight. If you could give her that…”

“How? Are you going to let me in to see her?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. We can’t make any exceptions. The risks are just too high.”

“Then how the hell—”

“I don’t know.” The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “I was just thinking out loud, I guess.” He capped his bottle of water and rose, looking even more weary now. “I’ll keep you posted on any news.”

Dante’s stomach plunged, the resignation in the doctor’s voice chilling him even more. “When will we know if she’s going to make it?”

“In the next few days. We’re in the second week now, when she’ll either defervesce, meaning her fever will lessen…”

“Or?”

“Or she’ll undergo multi-organ failure and die.”

Dante shoved open the hospital door a few minutes later and strode outside, Dr. Sanz’s words echoing in his mind. Hope. Paloma needed hope. But how was he supposed to rally her spirits when a hundred people had already died? When he couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t see her? When he couldn’t tell her how much he loved her? When he couldn’t explain that even if he couldn’t have her, even if they went their separate ways and never saw each other again, he needed to know that she was alive and well in the world?

And that without her, he’d be devastated. Empty.

Lost.

Dodging the clusters of reporters, he crossed the lawn, his fury over life’s injustices growing with every stride. Unlike her despicable brother, Paloma deserved to survive. She was the most selfless, most courageous person he knew. She’d sacrificed everything for her country, expecting nothing in return.
It wasn’t fair.

“Mr. Quevedo!” A reporter ran up to him and shoved a microphone in his face. A man lugging a huge video camera jogged at her side.

Damn.
They’d recognized him.

Trying to ignore them, he sped up. Talking to the media was the last thing he wanted to do right now. They’d hounded him since that night at the castle. They’d camped outside his stonemasonry business, trying every trick they knew to find out where he’d gone. Thankfully, he’d bought the Palacio de los Arcos under a sham corporation’s name, so no one could connect it to him, guaranteeing him some peace.

He snorted at that.
Peace. Right.
As if he’d been able to rest while Paloma lay in the hospital, battling for her life.

Several more reporters rushed up. A crowd started to gather, impeding his progress and hurling questions his way.

“Could you tell us about the reception?”

“What’s your relationship to the princess?”

“Are you really El Fantasma?”

“Did the princess contribute to her brother’s death?”

That did it.
Furious, he whipped around. Then he planted his hands on his hips and glared at the burgeoning crowd. They were a damned bunch of vultures, every last one of them—not just these reporters, but the entire population of País Vell—criticizing the most noble person he knew while she lay there dying, all because she’d wanted to save
them.

And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

More reporters swarmed around him. Word had spread faster than that virus, bringing throngs of journalists racing his way.

“Mr. Quevedo,” someone shouted. “Could I talk to you? We’d like to hear your version of events.”

He’d talk, all right. It was time he set the record straight.

The crowd swelled even more. Cameras clicked and flashed. People held up their cell phones, probably streaming his image live on to the internet. Dante waited until the mob began to hush, wanting maximum exposure for this.

“All right. I’ll tell you what happened,” he said.

And he did. He told them of Paloma’s plan to protect her brother, her loyalty to her family, how she blamed herself for Felipe’s death. How she sprang him out of prison, where Tristan had locked him up to hide Lucía’s death. He spoke of the blackmail evidence, the prince’s ties to Vell Pharmaceuticals, and his counterfeit medicine plot. How he was using the separatists, laundering money in the casino and killing innocent civilians with his fake drugs.

Dante talked about Paloma—about her dedication, her courage. How she’d gone after the truth, even knowing it might harm the monarchy. How she had caught the disease but had knowingly soldiered on, wounded, dying, chased by her brother’s guards, relentlessly determined to expose her brother’s crimes.

How she’d risked everything, nearly falling in the garderobe chute, only to be held hostage by the murderous prince. About her loyalty and love for the country. How she’d forgone the opportunity to get the antidote that would have saved her so she could prevent innocent people from suffering her fate.

He talked about the exaggerated reports. The way the prince had fed stories to the tabloids, causing the people to despise the one person in the royal family who deserved to lead. And that despite it all, she’d still tried to protect them, even knowing their unfair opinion of her.

Then he admitted that he was El Fantasma. That he’d dedicated his life to destroying the monarchy, and that like everyone else, he’d despised her at first. That he’d believed the frivolous image the tabloids portrayed.

But that she was nothing like he’d first believed. She was courageous. Caring. The best their country had to offer.

And she was the woman he loved.

He stopped. Absolute silence fell over the crowd. The wind whispered in the nearby pines.

He loved her. He’d just shouted it to the universe. But the woman who needed to hear it the most, the one he’d give his life to save, would never know.

His heart shattered, he turned and walked away.

Paloma squinted at the people encircling her bed. At least she assumed they were people and not extraterrestrial beings, although the way she kept fading in and out of consciousness, she wasn’t sure. They wore puffy plastic suits, rubber gloves and boots and strange giant head coverings that looked like mutant jungle gear. Inside their helmets they wore goggles and gas masks. Hoses ran from their suits, connecting them to oxygen tanks.

She blinked to clear her vision, then decided she wasn’t hallucinating when they didn’t disappear. But it was hard to stay focused with the excruciating headache torturing her skull. She’d lost all sense of the day or time.