Gail Barrett - High-Stakes Affair

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.