by Gail Barrett
“I guess.” Touched that he cared, she picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled around the edge.
“Have you found anything in the lab report?” he asked, making himself a sandwich.
Still feeling queasy, she turned her attention back to the papers, but the little she’d understood in them had left her even more at sea. “The report’s pretty technical. I don’t understand it all. But you were right. From what I can tell, Lucía didn’t die of a drug overdose. She died from influenza.”
“The flu? That’s crazy.”
“Not necessarily. Influenza can be deadly. The Spanish flu in the 1900s killed over fifty million people worldwide. Some think the death toll was double that.”
“Did they bleed and have a rash like that?”
“Probably not.” She set down her cheese, feeling ill. Those symptoms still seemed closer to hemorrhagic fever. But the report didn’t mention Ebola, as far as she could tell. “I really don’t know enough about medical things to say.”
Dante swallowed a bite of sandwich and frowned. “I thought you worked at the hospital.”
“I volunteer there. But I don’t have a medical background. I just visit with patients and read to the children, things like that.” Making her as superfluous there as she was to the rest of País Vell. “We need to have a doctor explain the results.”
Still frowning, Dante picked up the pages and scanned them as he ate. A few minutes later he tossed them aside. “At least we’ve established one thing. The coroner lied about how she died.”
He was right. “But why?” She sipped her glass of water, trying to figure that out. But like everything else in this mess so far, it didn’t make sense. “Maybe he was just incompetent. I can’t imagine that he’d want to hide a contagious disease. Look what happened to him.”
“But even I can’t confuse those lab results with a drug overdose. So there isn’t any doubt that he lied.”
She exhaled, unable to disagree. But what could have been the point?
Dante polished off his sandwich. Then he pushed aside his plate, planted his forearms on the table, and met her eyes. “Okay, let’s break this down logically. Three people have died so far. My sister, the casino owner and the coroner, Morel.”
“And possibly the hospital patient who died last week, Jaime Trevino.”
“Right. So maybe four. And it looks as if my sister got sick first.”
“So if this is a contagious disease, you think Gomez caught it from her?”
“It appears that way. Gomez owned the casino, and that’s where my sister worked. So the casino seems to be at the center of this thing.”
And with all the people who frequented the casino… A chill shuddered up Paloma’s spine. “The coroner could have caught the virus when he conducted your sister’s autopsy. Or Jaime Trevino’s, assuming he died of the same thing.”
“Right.” Dante sat back and blew out his breath. “We need to find out how this Trevino guy caught it, whether he went to the casino or not.”
“That’s assuming he had the virus. Right now we’re guessing. I could be wrong about that.” She lumbered to her feet with a sigh. Feeling slightly dizzy, she carried the plates to the sink. “We need to notify the health officials. Whatever this thing is, it’s serious. They need to quarantine the casino and hospital and contact anyone who might have been exposed.”
Dante joined her at the counter and set their glasses down. “There’s just one problem. If word gets out that Gomez is dead, we’ll never get into his safe-deposit box. They’ll freeze his accounts.”
And if that surveillance footage was in there, the authorities would confiscate that, too, exposing her brother’s misdeed.
Her head throbbing, she leaned back against the sink and tried to think. She had to find that blackmail evidence. She couldn’t risk having it revealed. But if she didn’t report this horrific disease, more innocent people could die.
She exhaled, not happy with either choice. Her conscience mandated that she report this disease. She had to protect the people no matter what. But if that blackmail evidence came to light, people could also die.
“How about this?” she suggested. “As soon as his shift starts, I’ll call that doctor I know, Dr. Sanz. I’m sure we can trust him to be discreet. I’ll tell him about the coroner’s death. I won’t mention Gomez, just Trevino and your sister. We can fax him a copy of Lucía’s lab report and let him decide what to do. In the meantime, we can talk to Jaime Trevino’s family and figure out how he died.”
And keep looking for that safe-deposit box. But they didn’t have much time. Gomez’s employees could stumble across his body at any time.
Dante tilted his head. “You can use my fax. I need to call Miguel and see what he found out. But I need to buy a new phone first, in case my line got compromised.”
Struggling to ignore the ache clog dancing in her skull, she pushed away from the sink. “All right. Let’s go. But let’s take Jaime Trevino’s address with us. We can stop to see his family after we get the phone.”
Dante stepped in front of her and blocked her way. “Not so fast. I’m going alone this time.”
“Alone? But—”
“I’ll get that phone and come back. You stay here and rest.”
Wishing she could do just that, she let out a wistful sigh. “Thanks, but there’s no time. Not if there’s a deadly disease going around. We can’t let anyone else get exposed.”
“A couple more hours won’t hurt.” Shifting even closer, Dante reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart stuttered hard, his nearness setting off a flurry of nerves. His dark eyes stayed on hers. “You’re dead on your feet, Paloma. You didn’t sleep all night and you’ve got circles under your eyes.”
“I’m not—”
“There’s a guest room just down the hall. Some of my sister’s things are there. You can shower and put on clean clothes. She was a little bigger than you are, but they should fit. Then take a nap. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
Lord, but she was tempted. She was so tired, she could hardly stay upright. But standing this close, gazing into his deep black eyes, she was finding it hard to think.
“Besides, it’s safer if I go alone,” he added. “The guards will be searching for us together.”
Her breath hitched, fear stabbing through her at the thought of the royal guards shooting at him. And she realized with a start that she’d begun to care about this man, more than was probably wise.
“I promise I’ll come right back,” he said.
“You’ll be careful?”
His eyes warmed. The corner of his mouth quirked up, firing a streak of heat through her blood. “I’m a thief, Princess. I’ve been evading the police for years.”
“Still…” she whispered, her voice uneven.
His body stilled. His eyes stayed riveted on hers. She inhaled his warmth and heat, the sheer maleness of him barreling through her, holding her in place.
And suddenly his eyes darkened even more, gleaming with a frank sensual awareness she couldn’t mistake.
Excitement zapped through her nerves.
He raised his hand again and grazed her jaw. The soft scrape of his knuckle quickened her pulse.
She knew she should move away. The timing was wrong. She had that blackmail evidence to find, those terrible deaths to solve. And no matter how insanely sexy he was, Dante was the last man she should desire. He was a thief, a rebel, the kind of off-limits man she’d been attracted to in her irresponsible days. Another virile bad boy who’d only lead her astray.
But right now she needed to kiss him, more than she needed to breathe.
His dark eyes dropped to her mouth. A lick of arousal shortened her breath. He widened his stance and leaned c
loser, his big body brushing hers, and anticipation drummed through her nerves.
He stroked his callused thumb down her throat. Stark shivers danced over her skin. Then he slid his hand to the nape of her neck, urging her closer. Breathless, she parted her lips.
Her eyes fluttered closed as his mouth slanted over hers, the too-soft touch like an electrical jolt torching a frenzy of need in her veins. Even more desperate to touch him, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him close.
He made a low, rough sound of approval in the back of his throat. His big hands cradled her head, changing the angle of the kiss, drawing her closer against his rock-hard frame. And then he parted her lips with his tongue, the bold, sensual invasion heightening the desire swirling inside her, and a fierce rush of pleasure skipped through her blood.
Her head spun. She wriggled even closer, primal needs pulsing inside her, the need to feel him deleting her thoughts. Their tongues dueled and danced. She stroked her palm up his sandpaper jaw, the erotic texture making her moan.
But he lifted his head and stepped back.
His eyes burned into hers. Her pulse still rioting, she gasped for breath. Why had he stopped? He’d wanted her. She hadn’t mistaken the signs. But surprise now flickered through his eyes, edging out the desire.
“I’ll be back,” he said, his voice rough. “Get some rest.” Moving stiffly, he walked away.
She closed her eyes, grabbing the counter for support, feeling completely out of control.
Because suddenly, rest was the last thing on her mind.
Surprisingly, she slept. And as she rode behind Dante on his motorcycle later that afternoon, she had to admit that she felt marginally more human—more rested, cleaner and warmer in her borrowed sweater and jeans. Now, if the aspirin would just kick in and stop that blasted headache battering her skull…
But no amount of painkillers could erase the memory of that kiss. She kept reliving the delirious sensations—the tantalizing feel of his mouth, the erotic scrape of his jaw, the pure excitement she’d felt in his arms. Her entire body ached with a deep, pulsing craving, winding her up like a firecracker ready to go off.
It didn’t help that she clung to his strong back, his wide shoulders filling her vision, her inner thighs cradling his hips. She had to battle the urge to lean forward, to wrap her arms tighter around him, and slide her hands down his steely chest....
Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts she definitely didn’t need right now. They’d snuck out of the city, barely managing to elude the guards, then crossed into the separatist region of Reino Antiguo on their way to interview Jaime Trevino’s family about his death. She had to focus on discovering what killed him—not fantasize about the virile thief who’d kissed her, no matter how intoxicating he was.
Dante banked the bike into a curve. She gazed at the steep forested slopes of the mountains, the verdant valley stretching below them, the ancient low fences dividing the green fields. At least she didn’t have to worry about the royal guards catching them here. They stayed clear of the separatist region unless ordered in to repress unrest.
Suddenly feeling uneasy, she glanced at the slate-gray sky. A bone-crushing vulture—Reino Antiguo’s ancient symbol—soared beneath the storm clouds, bringing a sudden chill to her heart. She was now in Dante’s homeland, enemy territory for her.
It hadn’t always been that way. Until the seventeenth century, Reino Antiguo had been an independent kingdom bordering País Vell. But then a dispute over an earlier treaty turned into war. País Vell prevailed, conquering its smaller neighbor, demolishing Reino Antiguo’s monarchy and giving rise to the fierce resentment that had lasted through modern times. Not only did the separatists refuse to recognize her family’s legitimacy, but they’d formed the outlawed terrorist group La Brigada, a group dedicated to using violence to win their cause. Reino Antiguo’s ancient motto, Morior invictus—Death Before Defeat—was their battle cry.
The road bottomed out, and they zipped along the valley, passing a flock of sheep, a line of cows lumbering toward a barn, a woman rushing to gather her laundry before the ash-colored clouds dumped their rain. The woman stopped and stared as they rode by, her hostile expression reminding Paloma that strangers weren’t welcome here.
Even worse, she was a royal, these people’s enemy. Someone the La Brigada terrorists were trying to kill. She just prayed they wouldn’t recognize her.
But whether they liked her or not, they were still her people. Reino Antiguo had belonged to País Vell for hundreds of years. And she had a duty to protect them, no matter what they thought of her.
The village came into view, and Dante dropped down another gear. Paloma turned her attention to the trash-littered streets, the crumbling stone buildings with sagging roofs. They puttered past a bar bearing antigovernment slogans and an outlawed Reino Antiguo flag. Two old men wearing traditional black berets sat on a bench outside, suspicion clear in their eyes.
A dozen houses later, Dante brought the bike to a stop. Paloma dismounted and removed her helmet, hoping they could cut this visit short. Even with Dante’s protection, she could feel danger pulsing around her, giving her the strongest urge to leave.
Dante tugged off his helmet, and his gaze collided with hers. Heat ghosted through his eyes, sending another zap of awareness skittering through her veins. Her cheeks warming, she looked away.
Definitely the wrong time, she reminded herself firmly. They had more important things on their minds.
He cleared his throat. “You’d better let me talk. They’ll respond to me better.”
“You think they’ll recognize me?” She couldn’t keep the anxiety from her voice.
“Yeah. Your face is pretty famous. But this shouldn’t take long. Hopefully we can leave before anyone finds out we’re here.”
Tension thrumming inside her, she accompanied him down the street. A small dog yapped in a narrow alley. A dirty plastic cup tumbled past, then snagged on a patch of weeds. Paloma caught a glimpse of a young boy staring sullenly from a window, and her heart rolled in sympathy. Had Dante once looked like that?
“Here it is,” he said, stopping before an apartment building with graffiti spray painted on the door. According to his records, Jaime Trevino had lived on the bottom floor. Dante rang the bell.
“I’m coming,” a woman called in the local dialect, and Paloma held her breath, praying her presence wouldn’t scare the woman off.
The woman cracked open the door and peered out. Paloma couldn’t begin to guess her age. Forty? Sixty? Her dull eyes, weathered face and scraggly gray hair aged her beyond her years. She wore a shapeless flowered housedress, thick woolen stockings and flat country espadrilles on her wide feet. A toddler wearing a stained T-shirt and a diaper clung to her swollen legs.
“Señora Trevino? I’m Dante Quevedo. I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
Her gaze darted to Paloma, and she froze. “What about?”
“Your husband’s death.”
Sudden fear flashed in her sunken eyes.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Dante said quickly. “We just need some information.”
The woman shook her head and stepped back. “No. I’m sorry. Go away.” The child beside her began to cry.
“Please,” Paloma said as the widow started to close the door. “We need your help.” They had to find out how her husband had contracted that disease.
She’d already done everything else she could. She’d contacted Dr. Sanz at the hospital. She’d faxed him Lucía’s report. And she’d convinced him to examine the coroner’s body, send samples to a lab in Hamburg and alert the World Health Organization, in case this was worse than they thought. He would also pressure her father to step up distribution of the annual flu vaccine, on the off chance that it might help.
Now she just had to convince this widow to talk.
“I promise nothing bad will happen,” Dante said. “We only need to ask a few questions, and then we’ll leave.”
The woman hesitated. She studied Dante for a moment, then gave him a nod. “Entren.” Picking up her daughter, she let them in.
Relieved, Paloma followed her into a small front parlor furnished with a threadbare couch and armchair, a decades-old television set and dozens of religious figurines. But despite the shabbiness of the apartment the worn wooden floor had been polished until it gleamed.
Paloma took a seat next to Dante on the sagging sofa. Jaime Trevino’s widow sat across from them in the armchair, her mouth set in a rigid line. The toddler crawled up and hid her face in her mother’s lap. An uneasy silence filled the room.
“Thank you, señora,” Dante said, still using the separatist’s dialect. “We’d like to know what happened to your husband and how he died. He was sick, right?”
She managed a grudging nod.
“What kind of symptoms did he have?” Dante asked.
“He had a headache and fever. He ached all over, especially his back. Then he started vomiting.”
Paloma leaned forward. “Did he go to the doctor?”
The woman shrank back, and Dante shot Paloma a warning glance. She had to let him handle this.
The widow fixed her gaze on Dante again. “Yes. The doctor thought he had malaria. He gave him some pills, but it didn’t do any good. He just got worse.”
“In what way?” Dante asked.
The widow made the sign of the cross. “Something was wrong with him, very wrong. His skin turned yellow with bright red specks. His eyes became red, as if un diablo, a demon, was inside. And…he changed.”
“Changed how?”
“He got sullen, lethargic. He just sat in his chair, staring out the window, his face like a wooden mask. And he wasn’t the same inside.” She tapped her head.
“You mean he was delirious?” Paloma couldn’t help but ask.
The woman shot her a furtive glance, then directed her words to Dante again. “No. If I asked him a question, he answered. But he didn’t know anything—where he was, who we were.... His memory was gone.”
