High-Stakes Affair (16 page)

Hoping desperately to see Dante, she struggled to make out the faces behind the protective helmets. Pairs of worried eyes stared back, the only sound the weird rushing noise as they breathed into their masks.

“I’m not going to make it, am I?” she cracked out.

“Of course you are,” a man said, his voice hollow. Still tethered to the oxygen tank, he stepped forward, and she thought she recognized Dr. Sanz. She tried to smile at the stock answer, but it took too much effort to keep her lips curved up. She wondered if she was losing control of her facial muscles in the final stages of the disease.

“We brought you something.”

Paloma rolled her eyes toward the new voice. A smaller person stepped forward, a woman carrying a stack of newspapers in her gloved hands. She set them on the tray beside Paloma’s bed. Paloma glanced at the top paper, which had a photo of the front of the hospital. Flowers covered the grounds, acres of them, as if someone had created a memorial.

Her heart sank even more. “Did my father die?”

“No, no. He’s fine.”

“They’re for Tristan, then?” She was too exhausted to feel angry at him anymore. She’d gone from rage and resentment to resignation and acceptance. What had happened wasn’t her fault. She’d done what she could to help him, but he had an evilness inside him she couldn’t prevent. And she wasn’t going to waste one more second of her rapidly ebbing life thinking about him.

“No,” the nurse said again. “Those flowers are for you. Look at the articles. See?”

Surprised, Paloma turned her attention to the papers again. The nurse picked up the stack, an awkward undertaking with her gloved hands, then flipped through the pile so she could see. Paloma glanced at the headlines, her blurry vision making them hard to read.

“Princess saves her country,” the nurse read aloud. “Daring princess risks her life. Truth about the royals revealed.”

Paloma blinked.
What on earth?

“You’ve become a hero,” the nurse said, a smile in her muffled voice. “People are holding candlelight vigils and praying for your recovery. Thousands of people are outside the gates right now. They’ve even defied the curfew because they want you to know they care.”

Thunderstruck, Paloma looked at the doctors ringing the bed. They all nodded. Too overcome to process it all, she raised her hand to her throbbing head.

“We’ve got something else to show you,” Dr. Sanz said. “Something we’re sure you’ll want to see.”

The nurse returned the newspapers to the tray beside the bed. Then she walked over and turned the television on. She popped a DVD into the player, turned up the volume, fumbling a bit with her gloves.

Everyone shifted out of the way, leaving a clear line of vision to the screen. Someone closed the drapes and dimmed the overhead lights. The DVD started up, and suddenly Dante came on the screen. Paloma’s heart stumbled to a halt.

He looked thinner, haggard, exhausted. Lines of fatigue creased his face. He hadn’t shaven in days, and a dark coat of whiskers covered his iron jaw.

And he was so incredibly handsome, so much like everything she’d ever wanted, that a huge yearning swelled inside her, the desperate need to talk to him, hold him, touch him.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes. Was this the last glimpse she’d have of the man she loved?

She loved Dante. She’d finally come to realize that during her time in the hospital. She loved his courage, his skills, his drive. The protective way he’d tried to shield her from harm. She loved his honor, his integrity. How he’d dedicated his life to helping the downtrodden people, determined to right the wrongs her family had done.

And her one regret was that she hadn’t told him. It wouldn’t have changed their future. She knew he didn’t feel the same about her—and how could he, given her family’s past? But she still should have told him the truth.

Reporters pushed and swarmed around him. The camera bobbed and wove, and she rubbed her eyes, hoping the dizziness would pass. Then the picture stabilized, and the camera homed in on his face.

“All right,” he announced, and his deep voice rumbled through her heart. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

The crowd fell still. She stayed riveted to the screen, her emotions a maelstrom inside her, as his dark eyes connected to hers. And then he began to talk. About her. About Tristan. About her family and the blackmail. About the terrible ordeal they’d gone through. And he rallied to her defense.

Her throat turned thick. A huge swell of love cramped her chest. But he still forged on, giving a litany of her good qualities and minimizing his own role in the affair. She blinked back her tears, determined to rectify that if she survived.

But he didn’t stop there. He spoke of his upbringing and beliefs, his prejudice against País Vell’s nobility. He admitted that he was El Fantasma, that he’d embarked on a crusade to destroy the monarchy—every last one of them, including her.

“But I was wrong,” he said, still looking straight into the camera. “And I love her.” The words arrowed straight to her heart.

The DVD ended. Her throat was so thick, she could hardly breathe. She looked around and realized everyone had left the room, sensing she needed privacy, no doubt.

Her hands trembling, she picked up the pile of papers, squinting at the photos of the flowers and gifts. She thumbed through the articles—about her, the people, Dante.

And then she caught sight of another newspaper the nurse had tucked under the pile. El Fantasma Loves Princess the headline screamed.

She closed her eyes. An unbearable longing wrenched her heart. Dante loved her. She no longer had any doubts.

He’d given her a gift more precious than anything she believed possible. He’d risked everything—his pride, his freedom, his heart—to tell the truth. And he’d given her back her people’s respect.

For the first time she had something worth fighting for. Worth living for. Worth surviving for.

She was going to claim the man she loved.

Chapter 15

“S
he left the hospital this morning,” Miguel said.

Dante grunted in response. Then he flipped over the wooden door he was sanding and centered it on the sawhorses he’d set up in his courtyard to keep the sawdust out of the house.

“I saw it on television,” Miguel continued. He leaned back against a pillar and crossed his arms. “You should have seen it. People were throwing flowers and waving flags. The car could hardly get through the crowds.”

He’d seen it. He’d been glued to the television like a helpless fool, so crazy in love with her that even a glimpse of the sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom IV, the king’s state vehicle, had nearly destroyed his resolve. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint he possessed to keep from barging into the castle and begging her to spend her life with him.

Grabbing hold of his electric sander, he removed the worn piece of sandpaper from the machine and inserted another. He still couldn’t believe she’d recovered. She’d joined the rare 10 percent of cases who’d actually survived Ebola, although the doctors had no idea why. Maybe it was sheer luck. Maybe there’d been enough left of her ravaged immune system to finally fight it off. Or maybe the people had given her hope, rallying her to survive. But a month ago, her fever had finally broken, and she’d started to mend. They’d kept her in the hospital until now to make sure a secondary infection didn’t set in, posting daily, sometimes hourly updates on the news.

He’d devoured every one.

He’d been as bad as any addict, clinging to every newscast, reading everything about her he could. He’d hunted for news online, checking articles in every language he understood. And every reminder of her—the photos, the stories, hell, even his own damned house—had been driving him out of his mind.

“There were more crowds waiting at the castle,” Miguel said. “You’d have thought it was a coronation. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

Dante set down the sander, then raised his safety goggles with a sigh. “And you’re telling me this
why?
”

“So you can go see her.”

“See her?” Dante scoffed. “Why would I do that?”

Miguel frowned. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“What’s the point? She doesn’t need me now.” She had the king, her adoring subjects. She’d redeemed herself in the eyes of the people and proven her worth. She finally had the royal life she deserved.

“She must want to see you,” Miguel argued.

“Well, I sure as hell don’t want to see her.” It would only prolong the torture. Better to leave it like this, giving them both a clean break.

“Suit yourself,” Miguel finally said, but he didn’t look convinced. “But just for the record, I was wrong about her. She has guts. And she’s definitely worth fighting for.”

“She’s the princess. Way out of my league. We worked together to stop that virus, that’s all. And now it’s done.”

Thank God.
Before it was over, the virus had claimed over three hundred innocent lives. But there hadn’t been any new cases for weeks, so the king had finally lifted the quarantine and allowed travel to resume. Life in the tiny Pyrenees mountain country was returning to normal at last.

He wished he could say the same for his heart.

“I still say you should let her decide that,” Miguel said.

Not bothering to answer, Dante snapped his safety goggles back into place.

Miguel straightened and raised his hands. “All right. You win. I’m off to see Rafe. He wants to talk to me about a job. You want to come?”

Dante wasn’t fooled. Rafe’s fiancée, Gabrielle Ferrer, was Paloma’s childhood friend. They’d want to grill him about his feelings for her.

“Too busy.” He started up the sander, the loud buzz discouraging further remarks.

Miguel shook his head, mouthed something that looked a lot like
idiota
and strode away.

And for a minute Dante just stood there, the temptation to take Miguel’s advice and run to Paloma nearly overpowering his common sense. He trembled with the need to touch her. She’d driven herself so deeply inside him that he longed to plead for her to love him, to let him share her life.

But she had a royal role to play. And he refused to hold her back.

Turning his attention to the door, he put some muscle behind the sander, sending sawdust spraying into the air.
Idiota
or not, his time with Paloma was done.

Now he just had to convince his heart.

Paloma pulled up to Dante’s house, parked her borrowed Fiat next to a wrought-iron lamppost and climbed out of the car. It had taken some fancy footwork to escape the paparazzi swarming the castle. She’d worn a wig, snuck out through the workers’ entrance and even changed vehicles twice.

Because nothing was going to stop her from seeing the man she loved.

Her nerves thrumming, she hiked up the cobblestone street to Dante’s door. The sun had broken through the clouds, enveloping the traumatized country in a soft, healing glow, mimicking their hope that life would march on. She stopped before the wooden door, inhaled to quell the sudden burst of anxiety rising inside her, and lifted her hand to knock.

But the door swung open, and Miguel stepped out. Startled, she took a quick step back. He paused, his own surprise reflected in his gray eyes.

Would he let her in? She knew he didn’t care for her. But his mouth curved up, amusement gleaming in his eyes as he held open the door.

“Thank you,” she said.

He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I was glad to hear you recovered.”

Taking that as an olive branch that she knew he intended, she smiled. “I appreciate that.”

He nodded and started to walk away.

“Miguel?” He turned back. “I’d like to talk to you when you have a chance. About business.” She wanted to convince him to use his skills for the crown—and the greater good.

He slashed a smile at her. “We’ll see about that.”

Yes, they would. She stepped into Dante’s courtyard, her own smile fading as she closed the door. This was it. It was time to confront the man she loved—and determine the rest of her life.

She followed the loud buzz of machinery to the center of the courtyard. Her gaze arrowed straight to Dante, and she stopped. He stood beside a long plank balanced on sawhorses, his head bent as he worked. He had his sleeves shoved up. Sawdust floated in the air, speckling his strong arms. Leather work gloves covered his hands.

He bore down on the machine, leaning farther over the plank, concentration etched on his dark face. She took in the wide ledge of his shoulders, the muscles flexing in his back and arms, the tool belt strapped over his faded jeans. And it was all she could do not to leap into his arms and beg him to make wild, passionate love to her right where he stood.

He wore safety goggles over his eyes, ear protectors to block out the noise. His hair was shaggier and longer than the last time she’d seen him, a month ago. She curled her hands, trying to resist the urge to plunge her fingers through that inky hair. Instead, she stood rooted in place, trying to get her emotions for him under control so she didn’t blow the only chance she’d have.

All of a sudden he glanced up. He went completely still, the sander still running in his hand, and she couldn’t seem to breathe. What was he thinking? Was he happy to see her? Wishing desperately that she could see his eyes behind those goggles, she waited for him to speak.

He turned off the sander and set it down, abrupt silence filling the air. Then he pulled off the goggles and earphones and tossed them onto the door, followed by his leather gloves. His gaze still on her, he crossed his arms, not a hint of his feelings on his face.

Her throat desert dry, she walked toward him across the stones. She stopped as close as she dared beside him, devouring him with her gaze. He’d lost weight. Shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes. She took in his stubble-covered cheeks, his endearingly crooked nose, and the pressure in her chest increased.

“I figured you wouldn’t come to see me,” she said.

His eyes flickered. “You figured right.”

She wavered, doubts suddenly creeping through her mind. Was that because he didn’t want to see her? But no, he loved her. She’d seen the headlines in the paper. She’d heard him confess it to the world.

“So I decided to come here,” she continued. “I had things I wanted to say. I…well, first off, I want to thank you. What you did…that speech…” Her mouth wobbled badly, and she cleared her throat. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“I just told the truth.”

“You did more than that. You changed my life.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “You did that yourself.”

“I don’t think so. If it hadn’t been for you…” She hugged her arms and sighed. “And just so you know, my father admitted he knew about Tristan’s drug smuggling.” Which had further disillusioned her about her family. “Or at least he suspected as much. But he didn’t want to expose his son, the future king. He thought the monarchy should continue at any cost.”

“Typical.”

“I know. But after that virus…he’s agreed to change the primogeniture laws. From now on, women can inherit the crown—assuming the people still want a monarchy. It’s going up for a referendum next year.”

Dante’s eyes began to warm. Leaning closer, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gentle gesture escalating her pulse. “They’ll vote you in. You’ll make a great queen.”

“Maybe. But even if they do, I won’t have as much power. It’s time País Vell enters the twenty-first century and makes some reforms. The monarchy will be a lot more symbolic than it is now, assuming it survives.”

She had so many reforms she wanted to enact, from bettering their educational system to granting autonomy to Reino Antiguo. But those changes would take time.

And they depended on the peoples’ will.

“Listen, Dante.” Her voice shook, and she cleared her throat. “I didn’t come here only to talk about País Vell.”

His eyes suddenly wary, he rocked back on his heels.

“I had a lot of time to think when I was in that hospital. I’ve wasted so much time—protecting my brother, rebelling against my father’s expectations, trying to conform to something I’m not. And I decided that if I survived, I was going to go after what I want.” She swallowed, her pulse embarking on a breakneck race. “And what I want is you.”

He didn’t speak. A completely blank expression fell over his face. And something inside her died.

“I won’t blame you if you say no. What my family did to yours…I know you won’t ever forget. But I love you, Dante. I know we haven’t known each other long, but I do. And when I was lying in that hospital, the only thing I regretted in this whole sordid affair was not telling you that. I vowed I was going to survive so I could let you know.”

“Paloma…” Regrets pulled at his voice.

Feeling frantic, she rushed on. “You saved me, Dante. You gave me a reason to survive that awful disease. You said you loved me. Maybe that’s changed, but—”

“It hasn’t changed.” He strode forward and cradled her jaw with his hands, and her heart quivered hard in her chest. “For God’s sake, Paloma, how could it? You’re everything to me. But I’m a thief. I’m not an aristocrat. I’m exactly the wrong man for you.”

“You’re the
perfect
man for me. The people respect you. They trust you. They need you. You’ve been their hero for years. You could help smooth the transition so violence doesn’t break out.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “And more importantly,
I
need you. I mean it, Dante. If the only thing holding you back is my status as a noble, then I’ll abdicate the throne. I don’t have to be a royal.” Her voice turned fierce. “But I
do
need you. And I’m not letting anything stand in our way.”

He went stone still. For an eternity he didn’t speak. His amazing black eyes held her riveted, the love she felt for him bursting inside.

And then he pulled her tighter against him, exactly where she longed to be. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice suddenly gruff, his eyes searching hers. “Because once you say yes, I’m not going to let you go. I want marriage, kids, all of it. Forever.”

“Forever,” she breathed. “There’s nothing I want more.”

His mouth claimed hers, and for the first time in her life a feeling of absolute rightness settled over her world. A happiness she knew would last.

* * * * *