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
