High-Stakes Affair (14 page)

“Go on,” she said.

“The chute has iron rungs inside, a ladder. That’s so the medieval gong farmers could climb up and clean it out when the smell got bad.”

“Fun job.”

Bitterness stabbed through him. “Typical of the nobles, though, making the peasants clean up their crap.”

“Don’t expect me to argue that point after tonight.”

He acknowledged that with a nod. “Anyhow, no one ever removed the rungs. And as luck would have it, the chute I was repairing came out in the king’s chamber.”

The road abruptly turned. Then the castle came into view on the slope above them, a stark stone fortress ringed by spotlights, its fortified walls towering over the surrounding land.

Dante turned off the dirt track onto a side trail and jostled over the uneven ground. A moment later he stopped. “This is it,” he said, cutting the engine. “We can’t drive any closer.” He put his hand on the door.

But Paloma touched his sleeve, and he paused. “Why did you steal the brooch?” she asked softly. “What made you become El Fantasma?”

He slumped back in his seat and sighed. “Anger, I guess. It pissed me off that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t get ahead. And I thought…I don’t know. There was something about seeing the castle. It made me think of knights and honor and justice—and how reality was nothing like that. And I got fed up. I decided to do something, to fight back and try to help the poor.”

He looked at her, barely able to make out her eyes in the dark. “It seemed noble at the time. Romantic even. But I was pretty young.”

Her mouth wobbled into a smile. “You’ve got a noble heart, Fantasma.”

His chest warmed, her words touching something inside him, something he’d kept buried for a long, long time.

But then she opened her door. “We’d better get moving.”

“Right.” They had a treacherous climb ahead, a sadistic plan to foil. And Paloma needed that antidote fast.

But as he led the way toward the castle, he knew that she was wrong.

She
was the noble one.

A short time later, they reached the moat. Once twenty feet wide and deep, the massive ditch was now overgrown with trees and brush. And except for the small stream meandering along the bottom, it didn’t contain any water, making it easy to access the walls. But even without that barrier, the castle loomed above them, a formidable stone fortress, nearly impossible to breach.

“We’ll cross here,” Dante murmured, keeping his voice low. “The stream’s about three feet deep. We can wade across.”

“I can make it.”

He didn’t doubt it. She had to be the most determined person he knew.

But as he forged a path down the slope, grabbing branches to keep his balance and trying to make sure she didn’t slip, the reality of their situation hit home. This was it. Once they entered that castle, they’d go their separate ways. Their time together would be done.

His throat tight, battling an emotion he couldn’t name, he skidded on a pile of leaves. But he couldn’t deny the truth. He’d get her into that castle. He’d make sure that she received medical help and that her brother was locked behind bars. But then he’d leave. She’d go back to her royal existence, and he’d return to his commoner’s way of life.

A hollow feeling inside him, he pushed the thought aside. First things first. He had to get her into this fortress. Then he’d worry about the rest of his life.

With Paloma close behind him, he plunged through the sprawling brush. The dense vegetation helped conceal them, but every rustling branch, every cracking twig exploded like a gunshot in the silent night. He hoped any patrolling guards would attribute the noise to animals and not investigate the moat.

A minute later they reached the stream.

“Hold my hand,” he whispered. “It might be slippery.”

“I’d better not,” she said. “I don’t want to get too close and risk contaminating you.”

His heart wobbled at her concern. “Forget that.” Ignoring her muffled protests, he grabbed her hand. The unnatural warmth of her skin brought another sharp jolt to his heart. But he was
not
going to let this woman die. He’d lost his mother, his baby sister. He refused to fail Paloma, too.

Even more resolved now, he waded into the stream. The frigid water—glacial melt from the surrounding mountains—lashed his feet, and he sucked in his breath. Knowing the icy water would feel worse to Paloma, he pulled her through the stream quickly, making sure she didn’t slip on the stones. Then he scrambled with her up the slope to the castle wall.

Panting, she leaned against the base of the wall. “What now?”

Now came the hard part.

“Stand back while I remove the bottom stones.”

While she pushed herself away from the wall and stepped aside, Dante reached under the garderobe chute, grabbed a stone and began to tug. He’d wedged the rocks in place after his heist so no one would figure out how he’d committed the crime—or connect it to him.

He worked the first rock loose and set it aside, making sure it didn’t roll down the hill and create any additional noise. Then he quickly removed the rest. He ducked inside the chute, felt around for the rope he’d hung, relieved it was still in place.

He stepped back out. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll go first. The rungs are on the left, a couple feet apart. There’s a rope you can grab if anything goes wrong. About halfway up there’s an alcove where we can rest.”

“Okay.”

Suddenly besieged by doubts, he paused. “Listen, Paloma. I can go up and bring you help. Your arm—”

“I told you. I have to go with you. They’ll arrest you if you go in alone. And I can make it. My arm hurts, but it’s not that bad.”

The hell it wasn’t. Not only had she been shot, but that virus was taking its toll. He was amazed she could still stand upright, let alone make a three-story climb.

But she was right. The guards wouldn’t let him near the king. Frustrated, he blew out his breath. “All right, but be careful. Stop when you need to rest.”

Bending back down, he crawled into the tomblike chute and found the bottom rung. Then he reached up and began to climb. Paloma followed a moment later, her soft breathing breaking the gloom.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. Cobwebs brushed his face, and he swatted them aside. Unable to see his hands, he worked his way up slowly, testing each iron bar for stability before he applied his weight. Several minutes later, he reached the halfway point.

Grabbing the rope for safety, he stepped onto the shallow stone ledge. But his movements dislodged a pile of debris.

Oh, hell.
“Watch out,” he called out as dirt and stones showered down. They struck the ground almost two stories below them with muffled thuds.

“I’m all right,” Paloma answered, sounding breathless. “I just got dirt in my eyes.”

He exhaled at the close call. She was lucky a rock hadn’t hit her head. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t see the debris.”

A second later, the air around him stirred. Reaching down, he gripped her uninjured arm and pulled her onto the ledge. She squeezed in beside him, her breath sawing in his ear.

“We’re about halfway there,” he told her, trying to make out her profile in the pitch-black gloom. “How are you doing?”

“My arm hurts,” she admitted. “But I can make it the rest of the way.”

Marveling over her stamina, he shook his head. His sister never would have made it this far. She never would have tried. Lucía had been too soft, too fragile. Too weak.

He frowned at the unkind thought, but it was true. Lucía hadn’t had half of Paloma’s fortitude. She’d drifted through her brief life, unable—or unwilling—to help herself.

And it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried his best to help her, but she hadn’t wanted to help herself. She’d preferred to be a waif, a victim, content to let others rescue her.

Whereas Paloma charged into the battle and confronted injustice head-on.

And suddenly, the guilt he’d harbored over his sister’s death faded away. He hadn’t been able to save Lucía. No one could. But Paloma was a fighter. And he’d damned well make sure she survived.

“Let’s get going,” he said.

Grabbing hold of an iron rung, he resumed his climb. Paloma instantly followed, her quiet breaths mingling with his. He peered toward the top of the chute, unable to see any light, but he’d expected that. Years ago, someone had installed a plank over the opening to block out drafts. He just hoped they hadn’t bolted it in place.

An iron rung wobbled in his hand, and he paused. “Be careful of this one,” he called down to Paloma. “It’s loose.”

“I will.”

He climbed carefully past the shaky rung. “We’re almost to the top,” he added, taking another step up. “You’ll have to give me a minute to move the board.”

“All ri—” She gasped. A loud scraping sound rent the air, stopping his heart. Then rocks crashed against the sides of the chute, and Paloma let out a strangled cry.

Dante stared into the darkness below him, fierce dread flogging his nerves. “Paloma! Are you all right?”

Silence echoed back. Pure panic ripped through his veins.
She’d fallen.
She’d never survive a fall that far. He scrambled back down the rungs.

But then a soft whimper reached his ears, and he stopped. “Paloma?”

“I…I’m all right. The rung came loose. But I caught hold of the rope....”

He closed his eyes, the thought of her dangling over the deadly void hijacking his breath. “Can you reach the rungs again?”

“I’ll try.” Her voice trembled.

He reached out blindly and gripped the rope. “Hold on. I’m going to swing you back toward the wall.”

Clinging to a rung with one hand, he used the other to take hold of the rope and pull it toward the wall. “Can you reach the rungs now?” he asked.

Several seconds passed. The rope undulated as she groped the wall, and he prayed that she’d hold on.

“I found it,” she finally said.

He closed his eyes, shaken to the core. “Climb back down and wait for me there.”

“But we’re almost to the top.”

“For God’s sake, Paloma—”

“I can make it. I just…”

Another grinding sound filled the air. More rocks ricocheted through the chute, and his heart lodged tight in his throat. Unable to see what was happening, he could only stand by helplessly, despising the powerlessness he felt. But he couldn’t save her from above.

“I made it past the bad part,” she announced, her relief palpable.

“Right.” He managed to draw in a shaky breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

Hurrying now, he scaled the last few rungs, then felt for the plank overhead. Balancing on the ladder, he shoved his shoulder against the plank. It didn’t budge.

Swearing, he tried again, heaving with all his might. The plank gave slightly, then scraped against the stone bench it was resting on. Dante froze, listening for signs that they’d been heard. Several seconds ticked past. No sounds came from the chamber above. Relieved, Dante shoved the plank away and climbed out, then glanced around the darkened alcove which housed the chute. A tapestry separated it from the main room.

He turned back to the chute and peered down. A second later, Paloma’s head came into view. He grabbed her uninjured arm and hauled her out, his pulse still refusing to slow. She stumbled against him, clinging to his shirt to get her balance. Overwhelmed by the need to touch her, he pulled her close.

Ignoring her muffled protests, he tucked her head to his chest and pressed his cheek to her hair. Then he closed his eyes, and for a long time he just held her, feeling her slender body quivering against his. She’d nearly died. His throat thick, emotions crowding inside him, he held her even tighter, unable to let her go.

But then she raised her head and stepped back.

Dirt covered her hair. Her eyes looked huge in the low light. She raised her chin in an obvious attempt to appear unfazed, but her quivering lips betrayed her fear.

Still too overcome to form a coherent thought, he brushed a pebble from her hair. “Paloma,” he whispered.

“We’d better hurry,” she said.

She was right. She needed medical help, and they had a killer to stop. Pulling himself together, he lowered his arms and peered around the tapestry and into the faintly lit room. Certain they were alone, he tugged the tapestry aside, strode halfway into the chamber, and stopped.

“You’d better lead the way,” he told her when she caught up. “We’re on your turf now.”

“Not exactly,” a voice said from the shadows behind them, and he froze.

Foreboding skittering through him, Dante turned—and stared straight down the barrel of Tristan’s gun.

Chapter 13

P
aloma gaped at her brother, her mind reeling, unable to believe he’d anticipated their moves.

“You didn’t think I’d figure it out, did you?” Tristan taunted, his brown eyes glittering as he moved closer, his weapon trained on them. “But then, you’ve always underestimated me.”

“Underestimated?” Her face burned, a hot blast of fury driving out the shock. “
Overestimated,
you mean. I thought you were honest. Human. Not a killer preying on sick, innocent people—the people who depend on you for help.”

His mouth twisted into a smirk, the face she’d always thought so handsome with his square cleft chin and noble nose sickening her now. “Amazing how you always believed that crap. But it made you easy to manipulate. You were always charging to my rescue, anxious to protect me, so willing to take the blame for anything I did. And I’ve played your devoted brother, loyal despite your screwups. I’m so kindhearted. So generous and forgiving. What a prince!” He laughed.

Thoroughly disgusted, she stared at the brother she thought she’d known. He was a sociopath, a monster without feelings, concerned only about himself.

He motioned with his pistol toward the wall. “Now, get over there, both of you. And no sudden moves.”

She slid Dante a glance. He stood with his strong jaw bunched, his big hands balled into fists, anger radiating off him in waves.

And a sudden fear jolted through her. She couldn’t let him do anything foolish. Tristan would kill him if he did.

“Now!” Tristan barked. He glared at Dante but pointed the gun at her. “Or Paloma’s dead.”

Praying Dante would listen, that he’d let her handle this, she shuffled back to the wall. Looking as if the effort cost him, Dante finally did the same.

“That’s better.” Tristan flicked on a table lamp. The bright light flooded the room, making her blink. “Now, empty your pockets,” he said. “Put everything on the floor and kick it over here.”

“So what’s this about?” she asked, trying frantically to form a plan. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and tossed it down.

“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out. You were always supposed to be smart.”

“Wild, you mean.” She threw down a couple of coins. Beside her, Dante set down his cell phone, lock picks and wallet, then shoved them across the floor.

Tristan shrugged. “Those stories were easy to spread. The tabloids were always digging for dirt.”

He’d made her reputation worse? She shook her head, amazed she could feel any disappointment after everything else he’d done. She hadn’t known this man at all. “So explain it to me, Tristan. What’s with the disease?”

“Revenge.” His gaze locked on Dante’s. “Something you know all about, don’t you, Fantasma?”

So he’d discovered Dante’s identity? She snuck Dante a glance, wondering how he’d take that news. A flush darkened his face. The sinews stood out on his neck. His entire body bristled with barely-restrained fury, and she sensed he was at his limit, close to losing control.

Afraid Tristan would goad him into attacking, she spoke up. “What does that have to do with the counterfeit drugs?”

The prince wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. And for the first time, she noticed the sweat beading his face, the tremors racking his hands. So he wasn’t as calm as he seemed.

“I had a good business going,” he said. “The separatists smuggled in the fakes. Gomez laundered the profits for me. I had to give them a cut, but I still made money on the deal. Lots of it.”

“Cheating sick people out of the drugs they needed to get well.” She couldn’t keep the outrage from her voice.

Tristan shrugged.

Repulsed by his callous behavior, she drew back. “So what changed?”

“That bomb blast last month. Those damned separatists tried to assassinate us. I had to punish them for that.”

Paloma tilted her head, caught by something in Tristan’s voice, something beyond his excitement and nerves. Unable to pinpoint the cause, she shook her head. “You could have given them the independence they wanted. Then they’d leave us alone.”

“With the shale oil that region has? Once that comes into full production, I’ll be richer than any sheik.” Tristan mopped his face again with his sleeve. Then he wobbled for a minute, looking confused, and she realized he was sick. Very sick.

With the virus?

Her pulse accelerating, she looked closer at his face and eyes, searching for the signs. “So where does the disease come in?” she asked, trying to keep his attention on her.

“I couldn’t retaliate outright, so Gomez put me in touch with a man he knew.”

Beside her Dante shifted his weight. “The Third Crescent terrorist.”

“Right.” Tristan looked surprised and a little dazed, as if he’d forgotten that Dante was there. “He knew an old Soviet scientist who’d worked in their biological weapons program, Biopreparat. They were brilliant. They engineered the ideal weapon—deadly, contagious, incurable. The perfect killing machine.”

“And then?” she asked.

Tristan was trembling harder, the weapon quivering wildly in his hands. Did he have a fever—or was it nerves?

“Gomez arranged the meeting. The terrorist brought a sample.”

So that was what they’d seen the terrorist hand him in the hall.

“And my sister?” Dante asked, his voice dangerously flat.

“I needed proof that the sample worked. So I gave her a massive dose. That sped the process up.” He looked at Dante again. “I didn’t realize she had her cell phone with her. A minor slipup there.”

His cold-blooded rendering of the murder shocked her. And in that moment she knew without a doubt he’d intentionally killed their brother Felipe and let her take the blame.

And the irony of it all struck her hard. By dedicating her life to helping Tristan, she’d done more than play the fool and waste herself on an unworthy cause. She’d harmed her country, enabling a madman to become the future ruler and hurt the very people she was trying to protect.

And she realized something else. Tristan’s evil nature was not her fault. Despite his clean-cut looks and refined upbringing, he had been born a monster, a freak, some sort of genetic aberration. Nothing she could have done would have changed that fact.

Tristan wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a bloody streak across his cheek, and her heart kicked up a beat. He
had
to have the virus. He had the signs. But did he know it? Could she use it to their advantage somehow?

“And the casino owner?” she asked, still stalling for time. “What happened to him?”

“That idiot.” Tristan’s lip curled. “He panicked. When El Fantasma here started nosing around and asking questions, he was afraid his role in the girl’s death would come out. He wanted me to stop the shipment of the virus. He tried to blackmail me.” His voice ran with outrage.

“So you killed him.”

“No. I was going to after you confiscated the evidence, but he died on his own. One of life’s ironies, I suppose.”

“He caught the disease.”

Tristan shrugged, the man’s death apparently no more important to him than a pesky fly’s.

“And how about you?” she said carefully. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch it, too?”

“I took the antidote.”

She caught Dante’s eye and realized he’d recognized the symptoms, too. “Where did you get that?” she asked Tristan.

“The same guy who gave me the sample.”

Then the terrorist had double-crossed him. The irony made her want to laugh. But Tristan didn’t know he had the disease. And all of a sudden, she knew what she had to do.

But before she could even inhale, Tristan lunged forward and whipped her around. Wedging his arm against her windpipe, he held her fast to his chest, his gun barrel pressed to her head.

“Into the closet,” he told Dante. “Right now. Or I’ll kill her.”

Dante didn’t move. His black eyes burned into Tristan’s, his rage sparking the air. Paloma didn’t breathe, terrified that he wouldn’t listen, that he would try to do something heroic and cause Tristan to shoot. But after several tense seconds, Dante walked to the closet and opened the door.

“Get in,” Tristan ordered.

His jaw clenched, his eyes deadly, Dante stepped inside.

Then Tristan shoved her toward him. She stumbled, staggered upright and spun around.

And suddenly she’d had enough. Maybe he was going to shoot her. Or maybe she would die of the disease. But she intended to make him suffer before she did. “You do know the symptoms of the disease, don’t you, Tristan? Headache, fever, chills. Sound familiar?”

His eyes narrowed, but she forged on. “The flushed skin. The bloodshot eyes. That bloody nose. I’ll bet your lower back aches, too.”

He bobbled the gun, his eyes flashing with fury and fear. “I don’t have it. I took the antidote.”

“Your friend gave you a fake.” She laughed. “He screwed you, Tristan. You’re going to die like Dante’s sister. Did you see how she looked when you killed her, the way her skin puffed up? The way she bled? How does it feel to know you’re going to die like that? How much do you think it’ll hurt?”

Tristan’s face turned a mottled red. The veins bulged in his neck. His eyes blazing with murderous intent, he strode toward her and cocked the gun. But Dante reached out, jerked her into the closet behind him and slammed the door. Then he shoved her down to the floor.

Shots broke out. Tristan fired again and again at the door, the deafening sound thundering through her skull. She covered her ears, terrified that the bullets would hit them, unable to breathe with Dante’s heavy body smashing her into the floor.

Then, mercifully, the shooting stopped. Silence rang in her ears. Tristan locked the closet door with an ominous click.

And then his footsteps faded away.

“What the hell were you trying to do?” Dante demanded, still lying atop her. “Do you have a death wish? Why did you bait him like that?”

“I thought… I was hoping I could distract him so we could disarm him.”

“Distract him?” He shuddered, unable to get the image of Tristan pointing the gun at her out of his head. “He nearly killed you!”

“I know.”

The quivering in her voice penetrated his anger, and he struggled to get himself back under control. But the sight of Tristan bearing down on her, that insane rage in his eyes, had taken years off his life. “We were lucky his aim was off,” he said, shifting off her. “If he’d shot a few inches lower, we’d both be dead.”

He rose to his knees, then helped her to her feet, shoving aside the clothes crowding the space. Bullet holes peppered the door, bringing pinpricks of light into the closet, illustrating just how close to death they’d come.

Inhaling to calm his chaotic pulse, he met her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Define
all right.
”

“Yeah.”

It had been one hell of a night so far. And it wasn’t over yet.

“Let’s get out of here.” He twisted the doorknob and pushed. Locked.

“Stand back,” he said, then kicked it several times, but the thick door wouldn’t budge. He dropped to one knee and examined the lock—a typical pin tumbler, easy enough to pick with the right tools.

Wishing he still had his lock picks, he glanced around. The closet was six feet wide and a few feet deep. A rod ran the length of it, crowded with hangers bearing clothes. He grabbed a couple of wire hangers and removed the shirts, then started straightening the ends.

“What are you going to do?” Paloma asked.

“Pick the lock.”

“Can I help?”

“Yeah. Get that pole down.”

While he continued straightening the hangers, Paloma lifted the rod from out of its brackets and turned to him. “What now?”

“Here, hold this.” He handed her one of the straightened hangers. Then he took the rod, stood it on its end and wrapped the other hanger he’d straightened around it to form a loop. He curved the ends of the wire into a triangle, putting some tension into it to create a spring. Slipping it off the pole, he worked in a few more bends.

Satisfied, he took the other hanger and created a rudimentary tension wrench. “Give me a little space,” he said, and she backed up again.

Kneeling, he inserted both tools into the lock and began manipulating the pins. The tumblers broke in quick succession. That done, he rotated the cylinder and opened the door.

“Impressive,” Paloma said as they stumbled out. “If we survive this, I’m going to insist my father make you a knight for that.”

“We’re going to survive, all right.” There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d let Tristan win—or Paloma die. “You’d better take the lead,” he added. “Since you know the way.”

“Right.” Her eyes somber, she hurried across the chamber to the door. Then they slipped into the hallway, running as fast as they could on the polished stone floor. At the end of the hallway, they reached a wide stone staircase and raced down several flights. “This way,” she said, sounding breathless.

Keeping one eye out for trouble, he followed her down another hall. How she could run in her condition, he didn’t know. She was injured, exhausted, infected with a deadly virus that had to make her feel like hell. But through sheer determination she sprinted along.