His effect on her had been instant, shocking.

Even now, just one glance from those electric eyes brought back that rush of delirious wanting, those shivers of primal desire. But Sofia couldn’t ignore the proof. Even that blinding haze of love, that frantic need to believe Luke, hadn’t been enough to erase the facts. He’d used her to steal those gems.

But as she stood before him now, feeling his resentment, his rage, doubt slithered through her, and a sick, queasy sensation wormed into her gut. Why the outrage? If he’d been guilty, then why was he so angry at her, especially after all these years?

Could she have been wrong?

Dear Reader,

I’ve always wanted to set a book in Spain, a land steeped in contrasts—poetry and passion, flamenco music and bagpipes, Roman bridges and Celtic ruins. And when I discovered Luke Moreno prowling through a medieval palace, I knew I’d found the perfect hero for my book. Luke’s as complex as the land he lives in, an honorable man with a shady past, a man who has spent his life fighting stereotypes and injustice—only to find himself framed for a theft.

Luke’s emotions burn hot, and so do the sparks between him and his ex-lover Sofia Mikhelson, the woman he believes is setting him up. I had a great time following their breakneck trek through Spain as they hunted down the missing necklace and uncovered a tangled web of danger far more sinister than they’d dreamed.

I hope you enjoy Luke’s journey, book one of THE CRUSADERS miniseries.

Happy reading!

Gail Barrett

Heart of a Thief
Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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GAIL BARRETT

always dreamed of becoming a writer. After living everywhere from Spain to the Bahamas, raising two children, and teaching high school Spanish for years, she finally fulfilled that lifelong goal. Her writing has won numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart. Gail currently lives in western Maryland with her two sons, a quirky Chinook dog and her own former Montana rancher/retired Coast Guard officer hero. Write to her at P.O. Box 65, Funkstown, Maryland 21734-0065, or visit her Web site, www.gailbarrett.com.

To my husband, John, for listening.

Contents

Acknowledgment

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

I’d like to thank the following people for their help: my critique partner, Judith Sandbrook, for her wonderful insights; my sister, Mary Jo Archer, for reading and critiquing my work; Marjorie Thelen for brainstorming and commiserating with me, especially during the low times; S.A. Stone for his safecracking tips; and Rosa and Yoshi Takebe for answering my endless questions and driving me around Galicia. Miles de gracias. Thank you!

When the full moon bleeds and the lonely dog cries

And the stars trail dust in the night

A leader will rise from the scattered hordes

And the People will regain their might.

—Indian poem, circa 1000 A.D.

Chapter 1

The blonde sauntered into view on the security monitor, looking like every erotic dream he’d ever had—sultry, seductive, sin-on-heels sensuous. Luke Moreno’s pulse hitched, and a wild laugh rose in his throat. Oh, yeah. This woman was his fantasy, all right. His Delilah. His Mata Hari. His Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Too bad she was just as corrupt.

He watched, riveted, as she approached the glass display case cordoned off with velvet ropes. She played the elegant guest role to perfection, bending close to admire the primeval amber, the meticulously hammered gold. As if she’d never seen the ancient necklace before. As if she hadn’t come here to steal it. As if she weren’t setting him up to take the blame—again.

Damn her conniving soul.

“Who let her in here?” he demanded, still not pulling his eyes from the screen.

“Who?” Luke’s partner in his security business, Antonio Flores, leaned across the crowded console toward the monitor.

“La americana. Sofia Mikhelson.”

His partner raised one stocky arm, reached for the laptop nearby and tapped the keyboard to scroll down the names. “Mikhelson. Sofia. She’s on the list. Part of the antiquities crowd.”

“She wasn’t on the list last night.”

“We added a new batch this morning.” Antonio leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands, palms out. “You know how it’s been. We’ve had experts calling from all over the world. It’s been a nightmare trying to vet them all.”

Luke grunted. He couldn’t argue that. It wasn’t often a thousand-year-old necklace surfaced in a Spanish bank vault—especially this necklace. The Gypsy’s Revenge, coveted for centuries, shrouded in legends, haunted by an ancient curse—a curse that condemned any non-Gypsy who touched it to die. An artifact so elusive, so priceless, so powerful that few experts even believed it existed until now.

But the necklace was real, all right, and sitting in that case—a dazzling gold collar inscribed with ancient symbols, inlaid with multi-hued amber, adorned with miniature bells. And its discovery had ignited a firestorm of controversy—former Nazi war loot, Swiss banking connections—an international scandal ready to explode. Now every antiquities expert on the planet had converged on the palace outside of Madrid demanding a close-up look.

But this woman hadn’t come here to admire the necklace. His gaze hardened on the lush curves sheathed in the black satin gown, the gleam of her naked back, that slow, smoldering smile that still incinerated his nerves like lightning scorching parched earth.

No, she hadn’t come here to view the necklace. Sofia Mikhelson was as deceptive as the forgeries she made. Exquisite, enthralling, alluring—but fake.

Anger whipped through his gut.

“The ceremony’s about to start,” he told Antonio, the raw heat making his voice clipped. “I’m going to check out the crowd. Keep your eye on that necklace.”

A tense buzz rising in his ears at the thought of Sofia, he stalked from the brightly lit office and headed down the carpeted hallway past dark, massive portraits of centuries’ worth of Spanish nobility as cameras winked from silk-lined walls.

It had taken him five years to salvage his reputation. Five years battling suspicions and accusations, fighting the arrogance of power, the tyranny of wealth.

And now he had everything riding on this ceremony—his career as a security expert, his honor, his pride. This was his one chance to finally redeem himself, to prove himself to the world.

The muscles along his jaw bunched while resentment seared in his chest. He’d played the fool once with that woman. It had ended with his illusions shattered and his reputation destroyed. No way would he do it again.

No matter what she had planned.

He strode into the throne room, paused, then skipped his gaze across the crowd shimmering beneath the chandeliers, their tumult of languages muted by the thick Belgian rugs. He arrowed in on Sofia, poised just meters from the ancient necklace, and adrenaline rushed through his gut.

The game’s on, querida. And he was going to win.

Keeping his eyes locked on that golden hair, he wove through the maze of celebrities and politicians, billionaires and pedigreed nobles—all gathered to witness the historic moment when the Spanish government returned the long-lost necklace to the Roma people.

“Señoras y señores,” the Duke of Zamora began at the podium. The crowd hushed, and Luke spared a glance at the royal Roma family now standing behind the necklace, palace guards posted discreetly to the side. “Es con gran honor y placer que les presento…”

Luke ignored the duke’s welcome and swung his gaze back to Sofia. With a few long strides, he closed the distance between them, then positioned himself slightly behind her, close enough to watch her inhale, to catch any movements she made.

Too close. Before he could stop it, his gaze dipped and traced the curve of her back, the feminine swell of her hips. And those unwanted memories came blasting back—the heat of her lips, the salt of her skin, that small, provocative hitch in her breath when her eyes turned to molten green.

The quick pull in his groin caught him off guard. He grimaced, tugged at his tuxedo collar, and forced his gaze back up. So his body still responded to her. That just proved that morals had nothing to do with sex.

Because no way did this woman have a conscience.

He made a rough, low sound of disgust, and she turned her head. Her eyes met his and widened on a flash of surprise. As if she hadn’t expected him here. Or she didn’t think he’d have the nerve to confront her?

“Luke?” she whispered, sounding stunned.

He tipped his head. “Sofia.” His voice came out deep, raw, graveled by five years of rage.

She blinked, then nibbled her lip, and he watched emotions parade through her gray-green eyes—uncertainty, guilt, doubt.

Good. About time she started to feel nervous.

“I…I didn’t think you…I mean, I thought you…” She stopped, inhaled. “I mean, this is nice. I—”

“Nice.” He tried out the word, then bit back a bitter laugh.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet it is.”

Her lips closed. A flush crept up her cheeks, and her eyes flickered with a new emotion. Hurt? What did she have to feel wounded about? She’d come here to destroy him. Again.

It was a nice touch, though, making her look vulnerable. Innocent. Five years ago he would have fallen for it, too.

But then her chin rose, her soft lips firmed into a brittle smile, and once again she was the princess of the antiquities world, the premier expert on ancient amber. Lofty, composed, reserved—except for that small nervous gesture as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

The corner of his mouth kicked up, and his gaze drilled into hers. Ah, querida. Never try to fool your former lover. He knew her too damned well.

She whirled back around, her spine suddenly rigid, and whispered to the short man beside her. Luke shifted his gaze to her escort, and everything inside him went still. Don Fernando Heredia. Sofia’s patron. The man she’d trusted more than him.

Of course he’d be here. He would have planned this heist. Fitting task for a high-bred noble, a model of culture and wealth.

The small man turned to Luke, and their gazes locked. For an eternity neither moved, neither looked away, two old enemies mired in combat. But then don Fernando lifted his brows and tilted his head, the gesture aloof, politely condescending—exactly how a rich, powerful man would greet the Gypsy scum he’d accused of stealing his gems.

Luke’s pulse drummed in slow, dull beats, and the edges of his vision dimmed. He curled his hands, aching to avenge the injustice, the prejudice, the futility of spending a lifetime battling his way out of poverty only to see his efforts destroyed.

But this wasn’t the time. Not yet. Not here. He sucked in his breath, then squeezed it back out. He forced his shoulders down, flexed his fingers and pressed them to his thighs, beating back the humiliation, the fury, the shame. He unclenched his jaw and rocked back on his heels, willing his mind to clear and his pulse to ease. He couldn’t afford to let his anger distract him.

Not with this much at stake.

Just then a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he jerked his gaze to the side. His pulse instantly sprinted again and he searched the crowd, but no one moved, nothing seemed out of place. The duke droned on at the podium. The royal Roma couple—official representatives of the Gypsy people—waited to receive the necklace. Their daughter, the princess, stood behind them. The guests listened and watched, their expectation mounting as the moment to remove the necklace from the case neared.

To see if the deadly curse would come true—that any non-Gypsy who touched it would die.

Luke waited a beat, then exhaled. Sofia and her patron had made him too damned jumpy. But something was about to happen; he could feel it. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose. Anticipation pulsed in the air. He ran his gaze over the guests, wary, alert.

Then suddenly, a man vaulted over the velvet ropes, his flushed face and wild eyes at odds with his formal tuxedo. “¡Que mueran los gitanos!” he shouted and whipped out a gun.

Death to the Gypsies? Luke’s heart stalled as the man pointed the weapon at the royal couple. The stunned silence shattered with two sharp pops.

The couple fell. A woman screamed. Palace guards surged forward, their weapons drawn. More guns barked and the murderer dropped.

Chaos broke loose. Around Luke people panicked, screamed, scattered and shoved their way toward safety, all pretense of civility gone. Guards leaped to surround the stunned princess. Others raced to block the exits and protect the necklace, just as they’d been trained.

His own heart hammering, his pulse rocketing through his veins with a violent buzz, Luke spun back toward Sofia. Her patron still stood there, looking suitably shocked.

But Sofia was gone.

He swept his gaze through the frantic crowd. Where was she? Why hadn’t she tried to steal the necklace? Unless the one on display was a fake…

His stomach dipped. Oh, hell. Where had she gone?

Cursing his stupidity, he raced toward the door with the frenzied guests, shouldering them out of his way. Then he pushed ruthlessly through the bottleneck crowding the exit, paused and scanned the hall. He glanced right, then left, just as a blond woman rounded the corner and disappeared.

His pulse leaped, and he gave chase. She had several yards on him, but he was faster, especially with her tight gown and spiked heels impeding her pace. He bolted down the hall and sprinted around the corner just seconds after she did, catching up in a few long strides. Furious now, he grabbed her arm, jerked her around and shoved her against the wall.

“Where is it?” he demanded. He gripped her arms and leaned against her, blocking her in with his weight. Behind him several guards rushed past, their guns drawn and radios squawking, shouting instructions and commands.

“What? Where’s what?” She struggled uselessly against him, her chest heaving, her eyes pools of panic and fear.

“Luke, let go! That man…the gun—”

“The necklace. Where is it?” He tightened his hands and gave her a shake, and her eyes whipped back to his. “And I don’t mean the fake.”

“But it’s…” A flush stained her cheeks. Her breath rasped in uneven pants. Confusion edged out the fear in her eyes.

“You know where it is. In the safe in the library, right where Antonio put it. Where else would it be?”

Antonio? He blinked, shook his head. What did his partner have to do with this? They’d never discussed the need for a decoy to fool potential thieves. This woman was just trying to distract him. And he didn’t have time for these games. “Prove it.”

Ignoring her protests, intent on finding that necklace before his career was destroyed, he dragged her down the hall, not caring that she had to jog to keep up with him. He towed her through a store room and detoured down another hallway, while questions spun through his brain. Who would want to kill the Roma royals? A terrorist? Or was their shooting just a distraction for the theft?

He stopped at an unmarked door, released her long enough to unlock it with his master key, then grabbed her bicep again. “Let’s go.”

The temperature dropped as they entered the oldest part of the palace, an area off limits to guests—a section the security cameras didn’t reach. The musty air, water-stained ceilings and threadbare carpets reflected years of disuse and neglect.

But Luke knew every stone, every crack in this medieval fortress. He’d spent months memorizing the layout, checking for weak points, scouring the dungeon and ancient bolt-hole, making sure no terrorists could worm in—never suspecting that the real danger would come from inside.

He stopped in front of the huge door leading to the library, its ornate carvings and inlaid panels layered with dust. Cautious now, aware that this could be a setup, he turned the knob, then kicked the massive door open. When nothing moved, he gave Sofia a short, sharp tug and pulled her inside.

He let go of her arm, closed the door, and scanned the room. The vaulted chamber looked empty, except for a few stray pieces of furniture and the cases of books.

“Which safe?” he asked, his skepticism rising. There were two antiquated wall safes in the room, neither secure enough for current use.

“Behind the painting. The one by the fireplace,” she said.

He strode over to a small lamp perched on a table and flicked it on, then turned toward the fireplace. The dim light threw shadows on the frescoed ceiling and illuminated the paintings on the walls.

“You mean the Pacheco?”

“So you know art.”

He scowled. Did she have to sound so surprised? He’d left the slums of El Salobral a lifetime ago. “A thief’s got to be able to identify the loot, right, Sofia?”

Her eyes flashed. “You would know.”

He hissed out his breath in disbelief. “You’re not still trying to pin that on me?”

“But you did steal it. Don Fernando showed me—”

“Yeah, right.” Disgusted, fighting back the futile rage that heated his blood, he crossed the room to the painting. There was no point trying to defend himself. She’d chosen to believe Don Fernando over him long ago.

But her disloyalty still rankled.

Anxious to end this farce, he turned his attention to the safe. He found the hinge in the gilded frame easily enough and swung the painting out from the wall. But when he examined the lock—an old-fashioned disk tumbler—suspicion again crawled through his gut. Why leave a priceless artifact in an unguarded safe—one with a lock a beginner could crack? Nothing about this made sense.

Unless this was a trap. His unease mounting, he swiveled his gaze back to Sofia. She was rubbing her arms, scanning the room. From nerves or guilt?

“What’s the combination?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I don’t!” she protested when he shot her a dangerous look. “I just made the decoy. Ask Antonio. I brought it here early this evening, he swapped it for the original, and that was it.”

“The hell he did.”

“But…he did.” Her mouth sagged. “You don’t think that I…”

Damn right he did. Fed up now, he stalked back to her, moving too close, invading her space. Then he gripped her chin and tugged it up, forcing her eyes to his. “I wouldn’t suggest lying to me, querida.”

“I’m not lying,” she gritted out. Her cheeks were flushed. Her nostrils flared. Outrage sparked in her eyes.

His gaze held hers. She didn’t waver, didn’t blink.

Five years ago he would have believed her. Then again, five years ago he would have crawled through fire for this woman.

He was a lot smarter now.

He admired her acting ability, though. She had that fervent indignation, that innocent sincerity part down pat.

Wondering how far she’d take this game, he stroked his thumb down her throat, tracing the path his mouth once took. Her eyes turned narrow and dark; her pulse quivered beneath his hand. He lowered his gaze to her lips—moist, lush, tempting—and heard that ragged hitch in her breath.

His own heart kicked in response.

He hissed out his breath and stepped back. This woman was trouble. Dangerous. A distraction he couldn’t afford.

Scowling, he strode back to the safe. He dragged in a breath and exhaled, forcing his pulse to calm, his heart to slow, driving the carnal need from his blood.

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

“Crack the safe.” He glanced back. “Unless you want to share that combination after all?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “But I told you, Antonio—”

“Right.” Fed up with her deception, he turned back to the safe. He flexed his hands, loosened his shoulders, waited until his hands were steady, his breathing calm. Then he reached for the dial.

His attention focused completely on the lock, he turned the dial, closing his eyes to feel the movement of the drive cam. He concentrated, slowly moved the dial, working to align the lever to the groove in the wheel. Sensing, feeling, listening.

Acting like the thief he used to be.

The thief too many believed he still was.

The first wheel clicked into place.

“Por aquí. In here,” a man said outside the library door.

Luke’s heart stopped. He opened his eyes and sliced his gaze to Sofia. Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip.

Suspicion rolled through him. Were those her partners? Had she been heading here all along? “Expecting someone?”

“What? Of course not.” Fear edged out the indignation in her eyes. “But…that gunman. You don’t think there are more…?”

He straightened. They couldn’t wait here to find out. And he couldn’t leave Sofia alone in case she tipped them off.

He swung the painting back into place. “Come on,” he whispered and grabbed her arm.

“Where?” she whispered back.

He glanced at the door to the adjoining room. Too far; they’d never make it. And the sofa wouldn’t provide any cover with those tall, clawed feet.

He looked at the high arched windows blackened by the night, their long, velvet drapes tied back with braided cords. It might be an obvious place to hide, but they didn’t have much choice.

“Over here.” He pulled her to the nearest window, then turned and unhitched the tie-back cords. The thick, heavy drapes closed around them, plunging them into darkness, cocooning them in dust and heat.

Unwilling to trust her, he tightened his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against him. He clamped his other hand over her mouth.

“Don’t move,” he warned and felt her nod.

The library door squeaked open and they both stilled. “It’s by the fireplace,” the voice said again, and Luke’s heart went numb. Antonio, his partner. The man he’d thought he could trust.

Betrayed again.

“You’d better hurry,” another man said and this time, Sofia jerked. So it was someone she recognized. No surprises there. He’d figured that she was involved.

“Claro.” Antonio again.

Footsteps tapped across the marble floor. The heat built behind the musty drapes, and sweat trickled down Luke’s jaw. Sofia stirred slightly, adjusting her position, and he inhaled the familiar spice of her hair, felt her hot breath fanning his palm, her satin-clad bottom caressing his groin.

Dumb move, Moreno. He winced, shifted to ease the sudden arousal he knew she could feel, and peered through the slit in the drapes. His partner, Antonio, was opening the safe with latex gloves while a hulking, balding man waited beside him. Luke frowned, trying to place the man, and then it clicked. Paco, don Fernando’s bodyguard. He’d seen him at don Fernando’s estate.

But what was the bodyguard doing here with Antonio? And suddenly, realization slammed through him, a sick, dizzy feeling reeling through his head. No wonder he’d gotten this job. It had nothing to do with his reputation, nothing to do with his skill or his hard work paying off. What a fool he had been. He’d been hired because Antonio had connections to don Fernando, a politically powerful man.

And now he was being set up—by Antonio, this bodyguard, don Fernando, probably even Sofia. They were all in on this plan.

And he was the perfect target—a Gypsy with a criminal background. No one would doubt his guilt.

“Ya,” Antonio said as he opened the safe. He pulled out a black velvet pouch containing ancient necklace, opened it and grinned. Even from a distance, Luke could see the triumph on his face.

But then the bodyguard stepped behind Antonio, drew his gun and pressed it against his head.

Luke’s heart stopped. Sofia turned rigid in his arms.

Across the room, Antonio’s smile froze, faded. His eyes bulged, his mouth slackened, like a fish splayed at the local mercado.

No one moved. The air settled, condensed, suddenly too thick, too hot to breathe. Silence swelled like a primal shriek.

The sharp pop exploded in the stillness. Sofia gasped, and Luke tightened his hand on her mouth—too late. The killer swiveled toward the curtains and raised his gun.

Luke stared down the barrel of the SIG, and the hairs on the nape of his neck rose. Only his heart went berserk, thundering, lunging, careening in his chest, slamming the blood through his skull.

Damn. He’d known this woman was trouble.

And now, because of her, he was going to die.

Chapter 2

Sofia’s nerves quaked. Her blood pounded through her skull with a terrified rush. She stared into the killer’s eyes—black, cold, aware—and her stomach plummeted, freefalling into hysteria.

He’d heard her gasp. He knew they were here, hiding behind the curtains.

And now he was going to kill them.

Run! The command sliced through her frenzied brain, frantic, a shriek of delirious fear. But her limbs were rigid, petrified into place.

Paco stepped toward them, and her panic swelled. Dread churned from her belly to her throat, swamping it with bile. She gasped for air, tugging in fast, ragged pants but Luke’s hand pressed against her mouth, and the drapes squeezed down, strangling the breath from her lungs. Terror reeked from her pores.

“¿Han buscado aquí?” a voice called from the hall, and the killer paused. His eyes narrowed, as if he were weighing, calculating, and then he glanced at the library door.

Sofia’s pulse stuttered, and a crazed hope spun through her head. Let him leave. Oh, God, please let him leave.

But he turned back.

They were going to die. There was no way out. Only Luke’s iron arm pinning her waist and the muscled wall of his chest kept her from collapse.

But then Paco bent and scooped the black velvet pouch from the floor. He stepped around Antonio and strode from view.

Through the thundering of her pulse she heard his footsteps recede, the snick of the door as it closed.

Nothing moved.

She didn’t breathe.

Then Luke loosened his arm and dropped his hand. And she grabbed the drape and sucked in air, gulping, heaving, while a disjointed trembling invaded her limbs. Oh, God. They’d nearly died.

“Let’s go.” Luke’s low voice rasped near her ear. He pushed her toward the curtains, and she stumbled out, hardly able to move.

Her skin felt chilled. Her heart still hammered in her chest. And her head seemed light, off-kilter, as if not quite connected to her neck.

Luke strode over to Antonio and dropped to one knee. His wide shoulders strained beneath his tuxedo. His black hair gleamed in the dim light.

He rolled the man over, loosened his tie, and held his fingers to his throat. He waited a beat, then ripped open Antonio’s shirt and bent his head.

Sofia inched closer as he looked up. His grim, cognac-colored eyes met hers. “He’s dead.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but the stench of blood made her stomach roil. She managed a nod, wrapped her arms around her waist, avoided looking at Antonio’s head. Instead, she glanced lower, to the black crescent-shaped tattoo exposed on his chest.

A weird thing to notice at a time like this. And so insignificant when the man was dead. Dead.

As if that ancient curse had come true.

She pressed her trembling hand to her lips, shuddered hard, willed that crazy thought away. The entire night had been a shock. The horrific murders, the theft. She swayed again, hugging herself harder to quell the hysteria rising inside. That beautiful, magical necklace was gone.

And seeing Luke after all this time. Luke—the man she’d once loved beyond reason. The man who’d enthralled her with his safe-cracking talent, mesmerized her with his brilliant mind.

The man who now scowled at her with rage and bitterness in his whiskey-hued eyes.

She eyed the implacable lines of his face, his unyielding jaw, that feral maleness that even now—even after all that pain—made everything primitive inside her go wild.

He rose to his feet in a powerful movement and stalked across the library to the door. Her stomach balled at the anger pounding his steps. Surely he didn’t blame her for Antonio’s death?

He pressed his ear to the door, waited, then edged it open and peeked out. “It’s clear. Come on.” His words were curt, clipped.

She forced aside the stab of hurt. His opinion of her didn’t matter right now, and neither did their past. They needed to get out of here, get to safety. Warn don Fernando about Paco. Report the murder and theft. Because if that killer came back…

She shivered, then hurried across the library to the door. Even with her high heels on, she had to look up to meet Luke’s eyes. “Which way should we go?”

He eased the door shut again. His mouth was grim, the hard, shadowed planes of his face taut. “They’ll have the exits blocked. We’ll have to leave through the medieval bolt-hole.”

She blinked. “What? We can’t leave the palace. We have to find the police.”

He shot her a look of disbelief. “And let them arrest us?”

“Arrest us?” Shock rippled through her. “But why would they do that? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You think they’ll believe that?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t they?”

His dark brows rose. “Because you made the replica. Because I’m in charge of security. Because my prints are now on that safe—and that’s my partner lying there dead. Of course they’re going to suspect us.”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong. Antonio arranged it all. And I made the decoy to fool potential thieves, not to steal the necklace.”

“Right.” He jerked his head toward the safe. “You think he’ll testify on your behalf?”

She glanced back at Antonio’s body, his head lying in a puddle of blood, and her gut made a sickening roll. He was right. “But other people know. Don Fernando—”

“Don Fernando?” He made a sound of disgust. “You can’t be that naive. Who do you think set this up?”

“That’s ridiculous. Don Fernando would never—”

“Never what?” He leaned toward her, his jaw rigid, anger sparking his eyes. “Never lie? Never fake a theft? Never frame some Gypsy scum for a crime he didn’t commit?”

She lifted her palms, eased out her breath. “Look, I know you don’t like him—”

“Like him?” His laugh was bitter, raw. He moved closer and fury radiated from him in waves. “That man ruined everything I’d ever worked for. My reputation, my career. Hell, if he hadn’t graciously dropped the charges, I’d be in prison right now for something I didn’t do.”

And she’d sided with don Fernando. She heard the anger whipping his voice, the blame. He thought she should have supported him.

Her stomach twisted. She’d wanted to believe him. Dear God, how she’d wanted to believe him. She’d loved him desperately, insanely. He’d been her world, the most amazing man she knew.

His effect on her had been instant, shocking. Even now, just one glance from those electric eyes brought back that rush of delirious wanting, those shivers of primal desire.

But she couldn’t ignore the proof. Even that blinding haze of love, that frantic need to believe him hadn’t been enough to erase the facts. He’d used her to steal those gems.

But as she stood before him now, feeling his resentment, his rage, doubt slithered through her, and a sick, queasy sensation wormed into her gut. Then why the outrage? If he’d been guilty, then why was he so angry at her, especially after all these years?

Could she have been wrong? Dread spiraled through her, and she forced the thought from her mind. She couldn’t bear to think of that now.

“Look,” he said. His deep voice vibrated with disgust.

“I’m leaving. You can hang around here if you want. Wait for the bodyguard to come back and kill you. Or wait for the police, so you can explain about the corpse.”

Her stomach dipped. “They won’t blame us for that?”

“I don’t know what they’ll do.” His eyes stayed hard, accusing. “I don’t even know who’s involved here.”

Meaning he still didn’t fully trust her.

Sofia tamped back a sharp jab of hurt. She understood his suspicions. She felt just as confused. But she had nothing to do with that theft. She’d never endanger that necklace.

And neither would don Fernando. That man was too kind, too generous to hurt anyone, and he cared far too deeply about antiquities to ever arrange a theft.

But Luke was right about one thing. Other than Paco, they didn’t know who was involved in this, which meant that they had to be careful.

She tugged in her breath, then exhaled. “Okay, you’re right. We’d better hide.” At least until the killer was caught.

“Keep quiet,” he cautioned and opened the door. “And stay close.”

As if he needed to warn her. That killer was out there. Her gaze flicked around the deserted hallway, and uneasiness crept through her chest. He could be lurking in a side room, just waiting for them to pass….

Luke took off, and she scurried behind him, cursing the tight gown and flimsy shoes that hindered her movements, the way her high heels clicked on the marble floor, the stark tat-tat-tat echoing down the corridor like a nervous drum.

They passed through unused rooms, detoured down endless halls, and with every step, her anxiety built. Her breathing turned shallow and fast. That awful pounding returned to her head. She hugged Luke’s steps, seeking the safety of those wide shoulders, wanting to disappear into his skin.

Then, without warning, he stopped. He held out his muscled arm, and she bumped against him, barely staying upright.

“What?” she whispered. Her pulse notched up. Her heart shifted into her throat.

“Shh,” he hissed, and she heard a voice in the hallway ahead.

A familiar voice. Her breath rushed out. She sagged and pressed her hand to her chest. “It’s don Fernando.” Thank goodness she’d found him. Now she could tell him what Paco had done.

But Luke grabbed her arm. “This way. Hurry up.”

“Wait.” She pulled her arm free, and he stopped. “I need to talk to him.”

His eyes filled with disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“No, listen.” She stretched out her hand, but a flush climbed up his dark cheeks. And then he moved farther away.

“Luke, please,” she said, but he took another step back. Her stomach plunged. He didn’t understand. He probably thought she was going to betray him. And she didn’t have time to explain.

She glanced up the hall, and a sick flutter formed in her throat. She needed to leave with Luke. She understood that.

But she couldn’t abandon don Fernando. She owed her patron everything, more than Luke could know—her education, her career. He’d given her the opportunity to follow her dream, acceptance into the antiquities world, the only home she’d ever known.

“I just need a second,” she said. “I just have to tell him…”

But Luke only turned and stalked off.

She watched him disappear into a side room, torn by the overwhelming urge to race after him, to shelter herself in his strength. To beg him to listen, to trust her, to let her explain.

But she couldn’t turn her back on the man who’d helped her, the man who’d been like a father to her. She forced her gaze back to the hall where she’d heard her patron. She only needed to warn him, just whisper a word and then go.

She swallowed, slipped off her shoes to lessen the noise, then inched forward and peeked around the corner. A policeman, a guardia civil in a khaki green uniform stood several yards away, talking to another man. Don Fernando? She couldn’t tell from this angle; the guardia blocked her view. But hadn’t she just heard her patron’s voice?

She hesitated, even more uncertain now. After what Luke said, she didn’t dare involve the police. But she still had to warn don Fernando.

But then the guardia wheeled around and pulled out his gun. “Pare. No se mueva,” he commanded.

Don’t move? Her heart faltered, and she froze. What was he doing? Why did he have his weapon trained on her?

Feeling surreal, as if her world had just spun loose, she gaped at the guardia civil. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protested. “No hice nada.”

But then Paco sauntered forward, and her throat closed. Her heart nearly popped from her chest.

The killer. Oh, God. He was here.

And where was don Fernando?

Paco stopped beside the policeman, and his black eyes settled on hers. Her palms turned moist. Fear coursed through her, flooding her cells, blanking her mind.

For an eternity, his eyes stayed on hers—brittle, cold, deadly. Then recognition flared.

He knew.

Her stomach pitched. The walls pushed down. A dull ringing clanged in her skull.

He drew his gun. The gun he’d used to kill Antonio. Her mind flashed to Antonio’s terrified eyes, the blood oozing from his flesh.

The bodyguard raised his gun, squinted one eye. And she knew he was going to shoot.

Her nerves zapped; adrenaline blazed through her blood. She whirled, raced around the corner toward the room where Luke had gone. “Alto!” the guardia shouted, and her panic surged.

A gun went off. Fierce fire scorched through her calf. She gasped, staggered, nearly fell. She’d been shot!

Her leg buckled and burned. She cried out at the vicious pain. But footsteps hammered behind her, and she forced herself to rush on.

Mercifully, the door Luke had gone through hung open, and she dashed inside. She glanced around frantically, but he wasn’t there. A wild sob formed in her throat. “Luke! Luke!” Where on earth had he gone?

Panicking, she raced through the room to the opposite door, then tore down another long hall. Her lungs seared. Her heart went wild. The agony in her leg blurred her sight. And she knew she couldn’t last. They were going to catch her. She was going to die.

Then a man stepped out from a doorway, and she shrieked. Luke. He grabbed her arm, jerked her into the room, then slammed and locked the door.

His face looked dangerous, the angles more rigid than she’d ever seen. He didn’t pause. He yanked her along, crossing to the far wall, muttering a stream of obscenities in Spanish.

At the wall, he released her arm. She heaved in air. Her body shook. Blazing heat flamed through her calf.

He pulled back an ancient tapestry and shoved it toward her. “Hold this out of the way.” It wasn’t a request.

Her heart still ramming against her rib cage, she grabbed the tapestry and pulled it back. He ran his hands over the wooden panels on the wall, searching, glowering.

She heard a sound in the hall and glanced back. The doorknob rattled. Someone banged on the wood. Fear plucked at her nerves, constricted her throat. They had to get out of here—fast.

Luke pulled one of the panels, and her gaze swung back. A small door opened, exposing a dark passage carved through the stone. The ancient bolt-hole. Cold, musty air wafted out.

“Get in,” he said.

Knowing she had no choice, she ducked and stepped inside. The freezing stones were a shock on her bare feet, and she realized she still clutched her shoes. But the shoes would have to wait; there was no room to maneuver inside the passage, barely enough to creep through. The dank, clammy space had obviously been chiseled from the stone for a desperate escape if disaster loomed.

She shuddered. This night had been a disaster, all right. She’d been chased. Nearly arrested. Shot.

Luke crouched and followed her into the passage. His broad shoulders brushed against the walls. He dug a penlight out of his pocket and held it out. “Hold this.”

She took it, and he closed the door.

They were instantly plunged into darkness. She twisted the pen, and the narrow light came on, gleaming off the uneven stones.

Still shivering, she looked at Luke. He loomed close in the too-small space. The heat from his powerful body radiated to hers. In the faint light, the shadows blackened the hollows of his cheeks, turning the grim planes stark.

Her gaze met his, and her breath shriveled up. Her heart made a feeble throb.

She’d never seen him so enraged.

Could this night get any worse?

Chapter 3

Luke wanted to plow his fist through the wall.

Twice now Sofia had blitzed into his life, and each time she’d wreaked total disaster. She’d demolished everything he’d ever worked for—his reputation, his honor, his pride.

He glowered at her, his face hot, the muscles of his neck stiff. Hell. This time she’d done far worse than ruin his reputation. She’d put the police on his tail—and not just for the theft of a legendary antiquity but for murder. And now she’d led them to where he hid.

“Just what were you thinking back there?” he demanded.

Her eyes looked hurt in the faint light, and she tugged on a loose strand of hair. “I thought it was don Fernando. I wanted to warn him about Paco.”

“I told you not to trust him.”

“But he could be in danger. And I owe him so much. What do you expect me to do? Just…abandon him?”

The words crashed through him, kicking the breath from his lungs. “Right.” Of course she couldn’t abandon her patron.

But five years ago, she’d had no trouble abandoning him.

He jerked his gaze away, inhaled. And he struggled to hold on to his anger, to cling to the safety of rage. But that dead, hollowed-out feeling still surged through him, that emptiness that mauled him inside. As if she’d gutted him and bled him dry.

Shut it down. Shut it down. He didn’t care. He refused to care.

He sucked in more air and hitched it back out. And gradually, thankfully, he felt the bitterness creep back. He embraced it, letting it edge out the ache, letting his gaze turn hard and caress her eyes, her sultry mouth, that body he’d once revered. Letting the anger swell until the muscles along his cheeks ticked and his voice deepened like a quarry stripped bare. “You’ll have to forgive me, querida, if I can’t see you as the loyal type.”

She flinched back against the wall as if he’d struck her. Her lips parted, then closed. Her eyes looked wounded, flayed. “I’m telling the truth.” She turned away and crossed her arms, making the penlight bounce crazily over the stones.

And damned if he didn’t feel guilty.

How could she still get to him like this?

“Forget it.” He shoved his hand through his hair, rubbed the knotted cords on the back of his neck. There was no point dredging up the past, reliving the pain. It was history; it didn’t matter. He’d been over her for years.

And they needed to get out of here fast. “Just get moving,” he said.

She chewed her lip, her eyes uncertain in the wobbling light, then glanced behind her at the darkened tunnel. “Through here?”

“There’s only one way to go.” And the way this night was turning out, it probably led straight to hell.

She turned around and hobbled off. He trailed her, still ducking to keep from knocking his head, his shoulders grazing the jagged walls. He sucked the fetid air through his teeth and exhaled, while the misery of the long night piled up in his mind.

What a fiasco, a total debacle—Antonio’s deception, his death. He blinked away that gruesome image. No one, no matter how treacherous, deserved to die that way.

And his own stupidity appalled him. How could he have let his partner fool him? He’d never had a clue that he was being set up.

And then there was Sofia. He clamped his gaze on those satin hips, the seductive sweep of her back. A tumult of emotions swirled through him—bitterness, resentment. Lust.

He hissed out his breath. He’d never met a woman who both infuriated and aroused him.

Especially one he couldn’t trust.

And now he was stuck with her, at least until that killer was caught.

Suddenly aware that she was listing oddly, he narrowed his gaze on her legs. She held the penlight in her right hand, clutched the hem of her gown and her shoes in the left.

“What happened to your shoes?” he asked.

“I took them off.” She sounded winded, but she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t want to make any noise until I knew for sure who was in the hall.”

He grunted. So maybe she hadn’t been trying to betray him back there. At least that was something.

But even walking barefoot on the uneven stones wouldn’t cause that limp. He studied the awkward way she moved, listened to her breath wheeze. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Her tight tone contradicted her words.

His frown deepened. What could have happened to her? Then the light swung down, and a shadow gleamed on her calf. His heart thumped. “Wait a minute.”

She stopped and braced her hand against the wall. “What?”

“Hand me the light.” He grabbed it from her and squatted on his heels. “Turn around and hold up your dress. There’s something on your leg.”

“Luke, it doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” He aimed the penlight at her leg and his pulse plunged. A raw gash marred her calf and oozed with blood.

He hissed. That had to hurt. “What happened?”

“I got shot.”

“Shot?” He yanked his gaze up to hers. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She lifted her shoulder in a defeated motion and looked away. He dropped his gaze to the wound again, then angled the light to the dark splotches staining the stones.

He muttered a curse. She was losing too much blood. He had to get her to a doctor, fast. But where could he find one that wouldn’t report them to the cops?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, we need to bandage this and stop the bleeding.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Bad enough.” As raw as that gash looked, he was surprised she could even walk. “And we’ve got a few minutes. It’ll take the guards that long to find the latch.”

“You think they know where the door is?”

“They’d have to be blind not to see it.” He raised his brows.

“You’re leaving a nice trail of blood for them to follow, querida.”

“Oh, God.” Her voice quivered, and she placed her hand on her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to lead them here.”

He exhaled, rose and handed back the penlight. And for the first time, he noticed the strain etching her face, the taut grooves bracketing her mouth. She had to be in tremendous pain.

“Look.” He gentled his voice. “There’s a spot just ahead where the tunnel widens. We can bandage your leg there if you think you can make it that far.”

She searched his eyes. “You’ve been in here before?”

“A few months ago when I was doing a security check.” Not that it had done any good. The royal Roma couple had still died.

“I’ll make it,” she said, and he had to admire her pluck. She was determined, if nothing else.

She limped off again, slower now, and he mulled over this new twist. Why would they shoot Sofia if she’d been involved in the theft?

Unless they’d intended to eliminate her all along. A chill struck his nerves at the thought, but it made sense. With Antonio gone, she was the only one who could prove Luke hadn’t stolen that necklace. Worse, she’d seen Paco kill Antonio—which doubled their reasons to want her dead.

Which meant it was up to Luke to protect her—whether she was guilty, believed him about her patron, or not.

A minute later, the tunnel widened slightly. Part of one wall had crumbled, scattering stones and exposing the ancient garderobe, the palace’s primitive plumbing chute that dropped to the ground below. The result was an alcove—tiny, but wider than the narrow passage they’d just crept through.

“Stop here,” he said. “Let’s get that leg wrapped.” But they needed to do it fast. They didn’t have more than a few minutes’ lead on the police.

Sofia paused and turned back to face him, shivered and rubbed her bare arms. He pulled his car key from his pocket, then lifted the hem of her dress.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Cutting up your dress. Unless you’ve got something else we can use for a bandage?”

“No.” She sighed. “Go ahead.”

He used the key to punch a hole in the satin, then tore off several long strips, while Sofia held the dress up and helped. Then he removed his tuxedo jacket, kicked aside the loose stones and spread it out. “Here, sit on this.”

He moved in close to help her. She grabbed his shoulder for balance, and her body curved into his. Her soft, very feminine body. Their eyes met. A sudden tension hovered between them. And they both went perfectly still.

The shadowy light cocooned them, making the embrace seductive, intimate, tempting. His pulse began to batter his skull.

She felt good in his arms. Too good. And it had been so long.

But this was wrong. The wrong woman, the wrong time.

He grasped her waist, felt her heat sear his hand through the satin gown, while his pulse rocked loud in his ears. He helped her to the ground, aware of her soft, lush body molded to his, the weight of her breast brushing his arm, the compelling scent of her skin.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice breathy, and he had to force himself to let go.

She tugged the dress above her knee, and he cleared his throat. “Shine the light on your leg.” He lowered himself to one knee and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. “You’ll have to help hold this in place.”

He bent forward just as she did and, despite his intentions, he paused. She was so close, her face just inches from his, and the urge to tilt up her chin, to slant his lips over hers in a deep, hot kiss nearly did him in.

Instead, he pressed the handkerchief to her calf. Her hand covered his, and desire shuddered through him, a hot jolt scalding his veins.

Their gazes collided again, and memories slashed through him—her feverish lips, her slick, velvet skin. That delirious moment when sanity ceased and their bodies exploded in bliss.

He dropped his gaze to her parted lips, hauled it back up. Their gazes held and he saw the desire in her eyes, the same stunning need he knew she’d see reflected in his.

Damn, she’d been hot. So hot that he’d dreamed of her, fantasized about her, every day for five long years, despite the betrayal and lies.

But this woman was treacherous, unreliable. And no way would he relive the pain she’d dragged him through. No matter how much he craved that exquisite body, he couldn’t forget the past.

He ripped his gaze from hers and leaned back. “Hold this in place while I wrap it.”

He started wrapping the strip of cloth around her leg, far too conscious of where his hands touched, of the silky gleam of her thigh. And the faint trembling of her hands, the tug of her breath told him she felt that pull, too.

But he forged on, forcing himself to ignore the insistent pulsing in his groin, to concentrate on the problem at hand. “So who shot you?”

She exhaled and the soft sound rent the still air. “I don’t know. There was a guardia civil there—he tried to arrest me, just like you said—but then Paco drew his gun.”

His hands jerked. “The bodyguard was there?” How could she have put herself in danger like that?

“I didn’t see him at first. I thought it was don Fernando. But then he pulled out his gun, and I ran. That’s when I got shot.”

She shivered, her eyes vulnerable again, and he pulled his gaze away. For a moment, neither spoke. “Do you really think you’re being framed?” she finally asked.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Here, hold this.” While she held the end of the cloth in place, he picked up another piece and wrapped it on top. “Look, you said Antonio hired you to make that replica.”

“So?”

“So if he only wanted to steal the necklace, why go to all this trouble? Why didn’t he just swap the replica for the original? I never would have known.”

Because no matter what he thought about Sofia, he couldn’t deny her talent. She was the foremost restorer of ancient amber, the best in the world. Her passion, her nearly magical ability to understand the living stone had brought her worldwide acclaim.

And she made flawless reproductions, copies nearly as priceless as the originals and coveted by celebrities, museums…Hell, with her skill, even other experts wouldn’t have known that necklace was fake—at least not without running tests.

“I would have known what he’d done,” she pointed out.

“Not necessarily. You would have assumed that after the ceremony he’d switched the original back. And once the necklace went to Romanistan, you never would have seen it again.”

“Maybe.” She frowned. “But why would Paco kill Antonio if they were partners?”

He reached for the last strip of cloth. “To eliminate a witness, probably. They want everyone to think I’m guilty. So they can’t risk letting someone who knows the truth live.”

Even in the dim light, he saw her face pale. “You mean like me?”

“Like both of us, querida. We both know the truth.” Their gazes held. She raised her hand to her throat.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Oh, God was right. They were in a hell of a mess.

He pulled his attention back to the bandage, tied a knot to secure it, then rested back on his heels.

She inhaled, a shaky, feeble sound that told him how rattled she really was. “But…the royal family. Who murdered them?”

Good question. “Hard to say. It might have been unrelated. Terrorists maybe.”

She frowned. “Because they wanted the necklace?”

“Maybe. Or they wanted to get rid of the king.” When the controversial necklace had surfaced in the Spanish bank vault, Spain decided to donate it to Romanistan, the reputed homeland of the Gypsy people. It was a brilliant move, not only lending support to Romanistan’s moderate leader and helping stabilize the volatile region, but gaining Spain access to Romanistan’s vast reserves of oil.

“A lot of people don’t want Romanistan stable,” he added.

“And eliminating the king could lead to war.” Even nuclear war. Which meant there would be a worldwide hunt to get that necklace back.

“I guess it’s possible they’re unrelated,” she said, her voice doubtful. “It would be an awful coincidence, though.”

“Yeah.” He grimaced, then shook his head. “My gut tells me there’s a connection between those murders and the theft. Something more than a simple distraction.”

Plus he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow personal. A vendetta. But why would don Fernando want to ruin him? Luke had never met the man before working at his estate. So what did he have against him?

He rubbed the dull ache between his brows and fought off a wave of fatigue. He couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get them to safety first.

He rose while Sofia pulled on her shoes. He held out his hand, and she grabbed it, and he tugged her to her feet. “How does that feel?”

She put weight on her leg and gasped. “Better.”

“Right.” He knew better than that. He bent to pick up his jacket. But then a soft clank in the distance broke the stillness.

His pulse skipped, and he slowly straightened. That sound had come from down the tunnel. Someone was at the other end.

“Luke,” Sofia whispered.

He motioned with his hand to cut her off. The police had beaten them to the exit. Now what were they going to do?

He searched his memory of the bolt-hole, but there were no side passages branching off, no more secret doors.

They were trapped.

“Through the garderobe—the old plumbing chute,” he decided. There wasn’t another way out. “Give me the flashlight.”

She handed it over, and he knelt and aimed the light down the chute. It was a fifteen foot drop to the ground, barely wide enough to squeeze through. But they didn’t have a choice.

“You go first. Sit over here on the edge.” Despite everything, he wished he could spare her this. “Hold on to the sleeve of my jacket. I’ll lower you down as far as I can. You’ll have to drop the rest of the way, though.” And land on her injured leg.

She perched on the edge of the chute and chewed her lip. “What’s down there?”

“Just dirt.”

“Okay.” Their eyes held and, despite her fears, he knew she’d try.

He handed her the sleeve of his jacket, set the penlight down and adjusted his position, bracing himself to offset her weight. “Get a good grip, then push off.”

Footsteps pounded in the tunnel now. Sofia grabbed the jacket’s sleeve and slid off the edge.

He lowered her down the chute, inching the jacket through his burning palms to control her descent, trying to keep her from bumping the walls. His biceps throbbed. The muscles along his back wrenched. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked away the sting.

Then the jacket played out. “That’s it,” he said softly. “I can’t go any lower. As soon as you hit the ground, move out of the way.”

“All right.” Her voice quavered in the darkness below him. And then suddenly she let go. The pressure on the jacket eased. He rocked back, and she shrieked.

The sharp cry echoed up the shaft, and his gut clenched. Damn, that must have hurt.

The footsteps behind him grew louder now, drumming toward him with increasing speed. Adrenaline hammered his veins. He couldn’t wait any longer. He just hoped she’d rolled out of the way.

He dropped his jacket down the chute and lowered himself over the edge. He balanced on his forearms for a moment, braced his thighs against the sides. Then he grabbed hold of the ledge and began to work his way down. The rough stone grated his palms, shredded his clothes. His shoulders shook with fatigue.

Then footsteps pounded above him and a bright light flashed on his face.

“Policía,” a man yelled. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

Damn. Maybe that necklace really was cursed.

He sucked in his breath and let go.

Chapter 4

The gunshot ricocheted down the garderobe, thundering off the rock walls, echoing through Luke’s skull as he plunged toward earth. He crashed into the ground, then rolled, ignoring the spasm jolting his legs from the brutal impact. Rocks gouged his shoulders, his back, but he forced himself to keep rolling to get out of the line of fire.

Sofia’s body stopped him.

His heart fisted, then dove, and he shoved himself to his knees. Why wasn’t she moving? Was she hurt? “Sofia. Sofia!”

He shook her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. He shook it again, harder, and his pulse raced into his throat. “Sofia. Di algo. Are you okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and he hissed out air. Thank God, she was alive. Because for a moment there…

“I’m fine. I—” She winced, then moaned. “My leg.”

He could imagine. That jackknife landing would have been agony on her gunshot wound. But they couldn’t linger here and assess the damage. The police would arrive at any time.

Swearing softly, he speared his hand through his hair. “We’ve got to keep going. Can you stand?”

“Just give me a second.” She rolled forward and struggled to her knees.

“Here. Hold on to me.” He crouched and put his arm around her waist to lift her. His hand touched bare flesh, and she flinched.

He jerked. “What?”

“I…I just scraped my side, that’s all.”

He didn’t doubt it. The stones had shredded her elegant dress, peeling it into strips. He could imagine the damage to her skin.

More gently now, he adjusted his hold on her waist and tugged her to her feet. She leaned against him, panting, one hand clutching his shirt, her soft breath caressing his ear. Strands of loose hair fell around her face, tumbling from the lopsided twist.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, I’m—” she stepped forward, gasped, and he grabbed her again, afraid that she would pass out “—fine.” She sucked in her breath. “Really. I’m okay.”

She was lying. Pain tightened the corners of her eyes and etched lines around her mouth. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that now. He dropped his hands and stepped back.

“Which way now?” she asked.

Good question. He glanced around. They’d landed where the garderobe drained, outside the palace on a rocky slope. In fact, considering how steep the hill was, they were lucky they hadn’t rolled down.

Then again, it might have been better if they had.

As it was, they stood highlighted against the wall, trapped by the spotlights that ringed the palace, as visible as actors on a brightly lit stage. But if they moved away from the wall to escape the spotlights, they’d be seen by the guards on the roof. Guards he had put in place.

“The easiest way out is toward the front,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But the entrance will be crawling with police.”

“Down the hill then?”

He glanced at the shallow trench leading into the darkness.

“Too obvious. This is the first place they’ll look. We need to do something they won’t expect.”

Like climb down the other side. His mind flashed to the sheer slope that backed the palace. Could Sofia make it? Could he? Did they have a choice?

“Back here. Come on.” His sense of urgency rising, he scooped his tuxedo jacket from the ground and slipped it on. The dark color would help him blend with the night. “Stay close to the wall.”

“But shouldn’t we get out of the light?”

“Not yet. The guards on the roof could pick us off.”

Ignoring her quick intake of breath, he turned and led the way over the slanted ground toward the back of the palace. In the distance, a siren wailed. A second later another joined it, their off-key notes dueling in the summer night.

The hunt was on.

And that’s exactly what this was, a manhunt. Anger knifed through him, like talons clawing his gut. They’d set him up tonight. Chosen him. Baited and trapped him like some weak, defenseless prey.

And now they intended to kill him.

They could think again.

He curled his hands, thinned his lips, felt the muscles bunch in his jaw. They’d played him for a fool, flayed his pride. But he was a survivor. He’d battled his way out of the ghetto, scrapped for every crumb he’d had.

And he would fight this war to win.

His stride lengthening, he closed the distance to the end of the palace, turned the corner and stopped. The light hazed over the rock-strewn ground to the point where the slope dropped off. If they made it past the edge, no one would see them. But then they’d still have to climb down the cliff.

Sofia limped up beside him and stopped. “You want to go down this?” Her voice rose. “Is there even a path?”

His gaze met hers, and he shook his head. “It’s not as steep as it looks. We’ll stay to the side where the bushes are.”

She gnawed her lip. Her eyes stayed frozen on his. Then she jerked her gaze to the cliff.

“They’ll have the other routes blocked. There isn’t another way.”

“I know.”

He knew she was scared. He didn’t blame her. The descent would be tough in the dark.

But then she lifted her eyes to his. “So who goes first?”

And without warning, a sliver of warmth stole into his chest. She’d been shot, chased, injured, scraped—but she was still willing to climb down that cliff.

Oh, hell. He yanked his gaze away. He didn’t want to admire her. He didn’t even want to like her. And he sure didn’t want to feel that connection to her again, that link.

The physical attraction was bad enough. But he could handle that. He could keep those feelings cornered, contained, battened safely in a distant place.

But that fusing of minds, that need…Never again. No way.

Furious at himself, he wrenched his mind back to the cliff. “I’ll go first.” The words came out harsh, and she blinked. “Wait until I’ve started down, then run to get past the light. And try not to make any noise. We don’t want to attract the guards.”

Someone shouted from the rooftop then. The sirens grew closer, then cut off abruptly. His body tensed. They had to do this now. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” His adrenaline surging, he crouched and sprinted to the edge of the cliff. Then he slowed, grabbed a bush for balance, picked out a path, and stepped off. Stones slid beneath his feet, but he kept moving, dropping from one foothold to the next, lowering himself away from the edge. When he’d passed safely beyond the light, he stopped.

His breath sawed the air. His pulse drummed a ragged beat. He’d made it. Now it was Sofia’s turn.

He watched her as she hurried toward him, doubled over and limping badly, anxiety and pain carved on her face. She slowed and gripped the same bush he had, pivoted to start down. But then her injured leg buckled. She stumbled toward him and gasped. His heart thudding, he leaned forward to block her fall.

“Easy,” he murmured as she thumped against him. Pebbles slid loose and bounced around them, and he struggled to keep them from plunging down.

“I’m all right,” she whispered when she’d found her balance. But her back was rigid, and she was pulling out the roots on that bush.

And that sliver of admiration, that traitorous warmth around his heart, increased.

He eased his hands from the cliff, keeping his motions slow to calm her. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going down now. Watch me and step where I do.”

“But I can’t see.”

“Don’t look at the lights. Let your eyes get used to the darkness.” A trick he’d learned as a kid, stealing through the night. “Better?”

“Yes,” she whispered, but her breath hitched.

“Good. Now follow me. Take your time. Don’t rush, even if you hear any noise.”

Hoping she wouldn’t hurry and fall—especially if those guards gave chase—he reached for another branch. He tugged it to make sure it would hold his weight and scooted down the hill a few more steps. He glanced back, relieved to see that she’d followed, then returned his attention to the cliff.

He stuck to the safest route, choosing caution over speed for Sofia’s sake. But while his progress down the hill was slow, questions about the night careened through his mind. Who shot the royal Roma couple? Were the killings related to the theft? And why steal the necklace tonight when the entire world was watching?

The news would create a media frenzy, no doubt—royals murdered, priceless treasure stolen, Romanistan pushed to the brink of war. And as if that weren’t sensational enough, there was the curse.

He grimaced, skirted a boulder and grappled for another handhold. Of course, the curse was nonsense.

But there was one fact he couldn’t deny—he’d been involved in this mess for a reason. What that reason was, he didn’t know. He’d have to unravel that once they were safe.

He inched around another section of rock, then realized he could make out shadows beneath him. They’d nearly reached the bottom. Now they just had to get up the opposite hill and they’d be on the open road.

He turned back, intending to tell Sofia, but a small stone bounced past his face. He glanced up, blinked as dirt rained onto his head. Sofia let out a muffled cry.

She hurtled toward him, and his lungs froze. He reached out to try to block her, but her momentum knocked him back. He grunted, fell—Sofia with him—into the empty space.

He flailed, unable to latch onto anything, then slammed to the rocky earth. His shoulder and back took the impact, but he didn’t slow. Instead, he skidded downward, crashing through bushes, knocking more stones loose, grabbing at anything he could.

He finally smacked against a boulder and stopped. Sofia rammed into him a moment after, knocking the wind from his lungs. He wheezed and bit off a groan.

For several heartbeats, neither moved. Sofia moaned and clutched her head. “Luke, are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Although his back ached, and his shoulder burned. He blinked the dirt from his eyes and rolled to his knees. A wave of dizziness made him suck in his breath.

Still dragging at air, he stumbled to his feet and rotated his bruised shoulder to test it. Then he reached down to help Sofia up.

But then a bright light slashed the sky, and his breath stopped. Searchlights. Oh, hell. Just what they didn’t need.

“Come on,” he urged her. “¡Rápido!” His pain forgotten, he grabbed Sofia’s hand and yanked her to her feet. Then he hauled her up the short, steep hill, dragging her, not giving her time to slow down. “Faster. Faster!” The guards would see them at any time.

Shouts came from the palace behind them. The searchlight skipped past, barely missing them as it swept the ravine.

Knowing every second counted, Luke ran flat-out, pulling Sofia harder. His thighs burned. His lungs heaved. But they were exposed now, out in the open. They had to take cover fast.

They crested the hill, and he glanced around wildly, searching for a safe place to hide. But then a deep thrumming sound filled his ears. Vibrations drummed the ground beneath him, and he jerked his gaze to the sky.

His heart stopped. A police helicopter. Could their luck get any worse?

Still towing Sofia, he sprinted across the road toward some bushes while his desperation surged. The rotors pulsed louder, closer. The air around them throbbed.

“In here,” he shouted to Sofia, but the deafening noise swallowed his voice. He dropped her arm and shoved through the dense, prickly branches. Thorns snagged his sleeves, clawed his face, but he lunged past them, battling them out of the way to help her crawl inside.

Then he dragged her to the ground. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, ignoring the sharp twigs poking his back.

“My hair,” she said, and he saw the problem—her blond hair wouldn’t blend in. But she tugged the hem of her gown from beneath her legs, and he helped drape it over her head.

Then suddenly, a bright light flashed. And the helicopter thundered above them like an airborne train, its roar deafening, its searchlight probing. The earth around him shook, jarring his bones, vibrating his teeth.

He huddled against Sofia, sheltering her as the downdraft spun the dirt loose, dislodging stones and leaves. The branches around them swayed, and he couldn’t breathe, afraid the bushes would part and reveal them. The intense light lingered, skipped past, flared again.

And then, mercifully, it headed away.

“Don’t move yet,” he said into Sofia’s ear.

Still curled against him, her face buried in his chest, she shook her head. She clung to him, trembling wildly, her soft body plastered to his. His own stomach churning, he held her, absorbing her fear, listening as the thump of the rotors receded, replaced by sirens again.

He finally blew out his breath and slumped back. That had been close. Too close. Sofia eased her hold on his jacket and lifted her head.

“Oh, God, Luke. I’m so sorry. That was all my fault. My leg gave way and I slipped and the stones made noise and—”

“Shh.” He put his fingers to her lips. Her eyes were huge in the darkness. Her soft mouth quivered against his hand. Tears streaked her face, forging a trail through the grime to her chin.

She looked exhausted. Dazed. And so beautiful she made his lungs hurt.

He slid his hand up her back to her neck and rested his forehead on hers. Her warm breath hitched and brushed his face. “Luke,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Hold on. Just a little longer. Just until we get somewhere safe.”

He ran his thumb along her jaw and stroked her neck. He pressed his other hand to her back, feeling the heat of her skin, the violent shivers still jerking through her.

A few heartbeats later, she lifted her chin. Her lips were inches from his, whipping his nerves into sudden awareness. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to slide his mouth down that skin, taste the heat of her flesh, lose himself in that hot rush of lust.

But he couldn’t go there. She needed comfort, not sex. She was injured, shocked, rattled by the harrowing night.

He forced his hands to her shoulders and inched back, increasing the distance between them. Her gaze stayed on his, trapping him, reeling him in, while the blood rocked hard in his ears.

“What are we going to do now?” she whispered.

Get away from temptation, first off. He let go of her shoulders, grabbed a branch above him, and rose. “Get out of here before that helicopter comes back. Find a place to rest.” Somewhere they could make plans, get medical help for her leg.

Somewhere the police wouldn’t find them.

A sense of inevitability swept through him. He knew only one place that fit that description—aside from the slums where he’d grown up.

El Aro. The Gypsy enclave in downtown Madrid where his aunt Carmen lived.

Grim now, galled at having to ask his relatives for help but knowing he didn’t have much choice, he shoved his way out of the shrub. “Come on.” He turned back and pulled her out. “We need to find a car.”

“Where’s yours?”

“Back at the palace.” Surrounded by police, no doubt.

Still scanning the area, alert in case the helicopter swung back, he headed toward the parked cars lining the road. Sofia hobbled behind him, not even protesting his intentions, and he wondered if she had grown numb.

He finally spotted an ancient Seat, a car he could quickly hot-wire. He stopped, glanced around to make sure the road was still deserted, and expertly shimmied the lock.

“Get in,” he told her.

While she limped around the battered car, he rummaged under the dashboard. He found the ignition wire, isolated the starter, made a few twists and slid inside. A quick touch of the starter wire fired up the engine. Sofia shut her door, and he eased out the clutch and drove off.

The irony of his actions struck him hard. He’d gone full circle in the past few hours, from being poised on the edge of triumph to reverting to a life of crime.

Breaking the vow he’d kept for fifteen years.

He blew out his breath. Fatigue from the long night rocked through him, and he rubbed the ache at the base of his skull. He hadn’t asked for this trouble. He’d been set up, sucked in—and now he couldn’t escape. He had to find that necklace, clear his name and protect Sofia from Antonio’s killer, whether she was involved in this plot or not.

So while he hadn’t chosen this war, he couldn’t shirk it. He had to fight it with everything he had.

He glanced at Sofia. Her eyes were closed, her breathing rough. Her hair was wrecked, her soft cheeks streaked with grime, her once-elegant gown destroyed. And before he could stop it, something shifted inside him, something long-buried flickered to life.

Maybe it was the weariness, the ordeal of the past hours creeping in, blunting the bitterness he’d harbored for years. Making him remember the good parts—her gentleness, her passion, the sex.

Too dangerous. He yanked his gaze back to the road. This woman had betrayed him. He didn’t dare trust her, no matter how innocent she looked right now. Plus he had police on his tail, a killer stalking his heels. He couldn’t let down his guard.

Because if he wasn’t careful, he’d fall for Sofia again. And that would be the biggest danger of all.

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