High-Stakes Affair. Gail Barrett

his head, her obvious resentment taking him aback. And for the first time he wondered if he’d misjudged her, and if there was more to her than he knew. Because if the tabloids had exaggerated her behavior, painting her in an unfair light …

      Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he cut them off. He didn’t care what she was like. She was a tool, a means to avenge his sister’s death, nothing more.

      “So Gomez tried to blackmail your brother?” he prodded, steering his thoughts back to the prince.

      “Yes. He told Tristan to pay up, or he’d expose the surveillance footage.”

      “And when was this?”

      “The gambling trip? A couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night.”

      Dante’s heart missed several beats. It took every ounce of effort he had to keep his expression blank. His sister had died that night. And there wasn’t a chance in hell it was a coincidence, not with the prince involved. Whatever had happened in the casino had to be connected to her death.

      His excitement rising, he paced across the tiles. Lucía had worked the late shift at the casino that night. Just after her shift had ended, she’d phoned him in a panic, her voice so slurred and incoherent, and hiccupping so badly, he could hardly make sense of her words. She’d claimed that the prince was trying to kill her, that she’d witnessed something dreadful—something involving shootings or shots.

      Of course, that last part didn’t make sense. She hadn’t suffered a gunshot wound—only a needle mark on her arm. The coroner had ruled her death a massive heroin overdose, which Dante refused to believe.

      But assuming the prince had killed her, the question was why? She might have seen him gambling with the terrorist—but what difference would that have made? She wouldn’t have recognized anyone from the Middle East.

      Unless the “shots” referred to a murder. If the prince had killed someone—maybe the terrorist—and Lucía had witnessed the crime, he’d have a motive to shut her up.

      But then what about Gomez? How did his death figure into this? What was that weird-looking rash about?

      Dante stopped by the entrance to the kitchen and turned around, his gaze traveling to Paloma again. She still stood by the window, her full lips pursed, her wary eyes on his. He didn’t know who or what had killed Gomez, but he did know one thing. Whatever had happened to his sister that night, that blackmail evidence had to hold the key.

      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.