High-Stakes Affair (4 page)

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.

Chapter 4

P
aloma tugged back her hand, the startling warmth of Dante’s skin, the rough, callused feel of his palm igniting a sudden flurry of excitement inside her and scattering her pulse.

Heat scalded her cheeks. She crossed her arms, trying to cover up her response. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? All he’d done was shake her hand, and her senses had run amok.

She had no business responding to him like that. So what if he was hot—gorgeous in a rough-hewn, masculine way? He was a thief, possibly even the infamous Fantasma, the worst possible person for her.

And he didn’t even like her. She snuck a glance at his craggy profile as he lifted the laptop off the floor. She hadn’t missed the disdain in his icy eyes, or how his mouth curled down when he looked her way. He clearly wasn’t her fan.

Which was fine. Dante’s bad opinion of her didn’t matter, even if he did make her senses hum. She had far more important things on her mind—that blackmail evidence. Gomez’s death. That dreadful rash.

Her mind swerving back to Dante’s bombshell, she hugged her arms even tighter as she struggled to process the news. “If Gomez did have a disease, we need to let the authorities know. Someone else could be at risk.”

Dante straightened and met her gaze, his eyes more guarded now. “Let’s look at his computer first and find out if we have the evidence you need. Then we can worry about how he died.”

That made sense. The blackmail evidence took priority as the more immediate threat to the stability of País Vell. Besides, until they knew exactly what had killed Gomez, they couldn’t risk starting rumors. They needed more information first.

Dante led the way into the kitchen. He flicked on an overhead light switch, then headed to a farmhouse table at the edge of the spacious room. Paloma paused in the doorway, her gaze traveling over the polished tile floor, the high, vaulted ceiling with chestnut beams, a fireplace big enough to stand in along one wall. Once again, Dante had preserved the original structure while accommodating modern tastes. He’d knocked down some walls, creating a modern, airy kitchen in what had once been a servants’ galley with little charm or light.

And that was the problem, she decided as she joined him at the table and sat. This man fascinated her on so many levels—from his unconventional, criminal lifestyle to his incredible attention to detail in his restoration work, to the pain in his eyes when he’d spoken of his sister’s death.

He hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it closer to hers, and sat. Then he turned on the laptop, angling it so they both could see.

She skimmed the sexy quirk of his lips, the impressive definition in his arms. He had heavy, corded forearms, biceps that looked sculpted from steel. But of course, he’d have muscles. He spent his days chiseling and hauling stones.

“You still have that key?” he asked.

Realizing she was ogling him again, she emptied the bag of disks on the table, picked up the tiny envelope and handed it to him. He shook out the key and held it up to the light, his dark eyes intent.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“There’s nothing on it, but that’s not unusual. Banks normally don’t mark their keys. It’s too easy for them to get lost.” He nodded toward the laptop. “Mind if I look at his files?”

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“Bank records, hopefully. They should show a monthly charge for a safe-deposit box.”

That made sense. “Go ahead.”

He set down the key and pulled the laptop closer, the light from the screen carving hollows beneath his cheeks. She dragged her gaze to the computer, determined not to let her attention stray as he flipped through the various files.

“No luck?” she asked a minute later.

“Nothing obvious. I’ll check his directory for hidden files.” His fingers flew over the keyboard, and then he paused. “Here’s something.
Finances.
This could be it.”

Paloma leaned closer, anticipation rippling through her as he double clicked on the file. “What if he uses more than one bank?” she asked.

“He might. But I doubt he has more than one safe-deposit box.”

The screen flickered and changed. A message box appeared, containing a log-in space.

Her heart sank. “We need his password.” The way her luck was running, she shouldn’t have been surprised. “I suppose there’s no way around it.”

“Not really.” Dante minimized the page, then continued clicking on files. After a minute he sat back. “It’s not here. I thought he might have a vault for his passwords, but he’s not that high-tech. He probably keeps them on a piece of paper in his desk.”

She glanced at him in alarm. “You’re not thinking of going back there?” They couldn’t risk getting caught.

“You have a better idea?”

She leaned back in her chair and tried to think. There was no point in phoning the banks and asking if Gomez had an account. No reputable financial institution would give that information out. Besides, Gomez might not have banked in País Vell. There were hundreds of banks in the surrounding European countries—far too many to search.

“We need to find someone who can get around that password,” she decided. But who? She didn’t dare involve her father’s security team in this. If he caught wind of the blackmail scheme, he’d be furious.

“I have a friend who can probably help,” Dante said. “A computer hacker I know. He’s the one who cut the power to the casino so we could get in.”

“I thought you did that.”

“I only disabled the backup generators. Miguel did the rest.”

She rolled that over in her mind. “You’re sure we can trust him?”

“He came through for us at the casino. Rafe can vouch for him, too.”

She creased her brow, hating to rely on someone she didn’t know. But Rafael Navarro was the fiancé of her old school friend, Gabrielle Ferrer. And Paloma knew their judgment was sound. Besides, Dante had as much at stake as she did, maybe more. He’d hardly recommend a man they couldn’t trust.

“All right. Go ahead and ask him to help.”

“I’ll call him right now.” Dante tugged his cell phone from his back pocket. He punched in a number, then rose and headed toward the sink. “Coffee?” he called back.

“Sure.” Her gaze went to the laptop again. “I’ll check the rest of these disks, then start looking for information about that rash.”

Dante turned on the faucet to fill the coffee machine, and the running water muffled his voice. Shifting her mind to Gomez, Paloma made short work of the disks and flash drives, which contained only his correspondence from the past few years.

Hoping she’d have better luck identifying what killed him, she opened a search engine on the computer and typed in the keyword
rash.
Several pages later she’d seen images of everything from shingles and smallpox to rosacea, but nothing that even remotely resembled Gomez’s horrific face.

She added the word
diseases.
Still nothing. She sat back and frowned at the screen.

“Miguel’s going to meet us at the Roman bridge in an hour,” Dante said from the kitchen island. “He wants to take the laptop back to his place. You have a problem with that?”

Paloma rose and walked to the island. She hated to give up control of the laptop. It was the only possible link to that blackmail evidence she had. But she couldn’t do this alone. And the longer it took to find that surveillance footage, the greater the chance that something else would go wrong.

“As long as you’re sure we can trust this guy.”

Dante set two cups of coffee on the counter, and his gaze connected with hers. “I told you we can.”

“It’s just…I’ve been burned before.” She added sugar to her coffee and stirred it in. “When you’re a public figure like I am, you never know when someone’s going to leak something to the tabloids to make a buck. It doesn’t even matter if it’s true.”

He cocked his head. “You’re saying the stories they’ve published about you aren’t true?”

Wishing she could claim just that, she sighed. “No. Most of them are true. Exaggerated, maybe, but I’ve made my share of mistakes. I haven’t exactly been a saint.”

His dark eyes warmed. The corners of his mouth kicked up in a wickedly carnal smile that brought a rush of heat to her loins. Then he lowered his gaze, forging a slow, hot path to her breasts and back, and her heart did somersaults in her chest.

“I never did care for saints,” he said, his voice even huskier now.

Her pulse skittered and lurched. She lifted her cup and gulped down some coffee, counting on the quick jolt of caffeine to bring her back to earth. But her knees felt weak, every nerve ending sizzling with sensual awareness. Dante was hard enough to resist when he acted surly. But when he turned on the charm, leveling that bad-boy smile her way…

“Any luck finding that rash?” he asked, suddenly all business again.

She took another sip of the espresso coffee, needing time to compose herself. “Not so far. None of the images even come close.”

Forcing her mind back to Gomez, she carried her cup to the table and sat. After fortifying herself with another sip of the strong coffee, she continued her search, entering more keywords.

So Dante had flirted a bit. So he’d exhibited some typical male interest and checked her out. It didn’t mean anything. He was hardly going to hit on her after the hostility he’d shown all night.

“Try searching for bleeding,” he suggested, lowering himself into his chair.

“All right.” Conscious of his rock-hard thigh just inches from hers, she typed in
bleeding disease.
“Hemophilia, von Willebrand disease. That’s not right.”

Next she tried
bleeding red eyes.
“Trauma, broken blood vessels,” she read, skimming down the links. “Nosebleeds. That’s ridiculous.” Gomez hadn’t died of anything as simple as a nosebleed. He’d bled everywhere, profusely, spreading copious pools of blood over the tiled floor.

Shuddering at the memory, she entered
profuse bleeding,
but still nothing pertinent came up. Growing frustrated, she added
death.

The page flickered again. A dozen links came up, and she skimmed the words. “Dengue fever. An epidemic in Yemen, possibly caused by sarin gas. Pregnant women in India dying from contaminated IVs. Hemorrhagic fever…”

Her heart skipped a beat. She slid her gaze down the list. Marburg. Lassa.

Ebola Zaire.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, appalled. She gave Dante a horrified look. “That can’t be it.”

“What?”

“Ebola. Hemorrhagic fever.” Stunned, she clicked on a link. A map of Africa appeared on the screen. “It occurs mostly in Africa. Zaire, Sudan. Not Europe.” Certainly not País Vell. Unless Gomez had traveled recently…

But no, it had to be something else. At least she prayed it was. Even the thought of Ebola terrified her. Hardly anyone who contracted it survived.

“Are there any pictures?” Dante asked.

“I’ll see.” She clicked on another link and slowly scrolled down the page. “It incubates for two to twenty-one days,” she read. “The symptoms are fever, sore throat, weakness, diarrhea, cough. Did your sister have any of those?”

“No. Not at all. And she sure as hell didn’t travel to the Sudan.”

Paloma eased out a shaky breath. “Then it has to be something else.”
Thank God.
She scrolled down the page even farther. “It leads to a rash, red eyes and hiccups, of all the odd things. Death occurs in the second week.”

She glanced at him. His face had paled, and his mouth had turned suddenly grim.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did your sister—”

“Just keep looking.”

“But—”

“She was fine when she went to work that night.”

Her nerves wound tight. “So it couldn’t be that. She would have had symptoms, right? The disease would have to incubate for a while. She wouldn’t just suddenly get sick and die.”

But what if it
was
Ebola? What if Gomez had caught it from Dante’s sister? And what about that patient at the hospital? Could his symptoms have been the same?

“There was a case at the hospital where I volunteer, a man who died recently with a strange rash. It was just about a week ago, in fact.”

Dante’s gaze sharpened on hers. “He looked like Gomez?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him. I just overheard one of the doctors discussing the case.” She pressed her hand to her belly, apprehension making her ill. “They called the coroner in. He was going to send the tissue samples to a lab in Spain. They probably have the results by now.”

“If it’s Ebola, what would they do?”

“Notify the health authorities. Issue an alert. Maybe quarantine people. It’s highly contagious. Ninety percent of the people who get it die.”

And she’d stood beside Gomez in the bathroom, breathing the air. She’d taken her gloves off, then touched the counter, the faucet, the door....

Her lungs closed up. A wild feeling of panic drained her of any warmth. She had to be wrong. How would Ebola have arrived in País Vell?