off the numbers on the keys he uses most, so it was easy to figure out. And I got lucky. These electronic keypads go into lockdown if you enter four invalid codes. I got it right in three.”
Not sure whether to be impressed or appalled, she peered into the open safe. But all she saw was a stack of ledgers, and her hopes instantly tanked. “That disk has to be here.” She couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice.
Dante glanced at his watch. “I’ll look in the bathroom while you check. Then we need to go. We’re cutting it close as it is.”
Not wasting any time, she took out the stack of ledgers and searched the safe. She found a bag of antique coins, a few pairs of diamond cuff links—but no computer disk. Cursing César Gomez, she held the ledgers by their spines and shook them, in case the disk was wedged inside.
A tiny manila envelope fell to the floor. Bending down, she picked it up and looked inside. It was a key—but to what? Obviously not this safe. Unless there was another one in the room? But surely Dante would have found it by now.
On the off chance that it mattered, she stuffed the key into the bag with the computer disks, replaced the ledgers and closed the safe. Then she headed to the bathroom, her last resort. But as she stepped inside, Dante hustled over and blocked her way, forcing her to stumble back out. “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to go around him.
“Don’t go in there.”
“Why not? I need to—” A horrible stench wafted past, and she gagged. Oh, God. “Is it Gomez? Is he—?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
Shock rippled through her. She grabbed hold of the door frame, unable to catch her breath. “Dead?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “But that’s impossible.” He’d been alive two days ago, when he’d telephoned her brother, demanding cash. “Let me see.”
“You don’t want to go in there. It’s bad.”
“How bad? Was he murdered?”
His eyes grim, Dante shook his head.
“Suicide?”
“Worse.”
“Worse than suicide?” A deep sense of trepidation clawed her throat. What could be worse than that? “Please,” she whispered. “I need to know.”
His eyes turning even grimmer, he took her bag from her trembling hands and stepped away.
Foreboding turning her blood cold, she took a deep breath and went inside.
Chapter 2
Paloma inched her way into the bathroom, fear beating against her breastbone like a vulture’s wings, the narrow beam from the penlight wavering on the marble floor. She held her breath, one hand clamped over her mouth and nose as she tried not to inhale the fetid stench.
An unnatural silence drummed around her. The soft thud of her footsteps echoed in the gloom. Keeping her gaze trained on the wobbling penlight, she crept past an Iranian granite vanity, a shower big enough to dance in, an enormous ivory stone bathtub shaped like a giant egg.
The beam struck a man’s bare foot, and she stopped. Her heart revving fast enough for liftoff, she swept the light over his pajama-clad body, then blinked, struggling to process the sight.
It was Gomez, all right. He lay flat on his back in a pool of blood. More blood had run across the floor tiles, settling in the grout lines like a macabre maze. And his face …
Her stomach roiled. A wild sound escaped her throat. His skin had puffed up, as if trying to separate from his body. He’d bled from every opening—his nose, his mouth, his ears. Even worse, a bizarre rash covered his face like mutant tapioca pudding, large patches of it forming purple shadows across his cheeks and jaw. His open eyes were a shocking, unnerving red.
Bile instantly mushroomed inside her. She spun on her heels, raced around the corner to the toilet and retched, unable to believe what she’d seen. What on earth had killed him? What caused that grotesque rash? A disease? But what? And the color of his eyes …
She vomited again, repeatedly, until the violent spasms gave way to dry heaves. Her legs threatening to collapse, she flushed the toilet, then staggered to the vessel sink nearest the door. She snapped off her gloves, turned on a sleek chrome faucet studded with Swarovski crystals, and cupped her hands to rinse her mouth, so shocked she could hardly think.
Dante appeared beside her. His eyes connected with hers in the shadowed mirror. “Are you all right?”
Her knees trembling madly, she grabbed hold of the vanity and shook her head. “I’ve never … I’ve never seen anything so awful. All that blood …” Her head grew light, and she swayed.
Swearing, he lunged toward her. He grabbed her arm, towed her outside the bathroom and slammed the door, walling off the disgusting smell. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pushed her head against his chest. “Breathe,” he ordered, his voice gruff.
Too badly shaken to protest, she clutched the lapel of his suit coat, taking refuge in his strength and warmth.
Gomez’s death had been worse than suicide, all right. But what was it? What could have caused those demonically red eyes?
Pressing her fist to her solar plexus, she fought down another dry heave. She wasn’t weak. She could handle this. She’d seen terrible injuries during her volunteer work at the royal hospital the past few years. But that rash …
She shuddered, something flitting along the edges of her memory, but she quickly pushed it aside. She’d ponder the details of his death later, after they’d left the suite.
Several seconds ticked past. Her heartbeat gradually began to slow. She finally managed to breathe deeply, filling her lungs with Dante’s warm, safe, living scent.
And suddenly she realized how close they stood—her face nestled into the hollow of his collarbone, his rock-hard thighs pressed against hers. He’d splayed one large hand across the small of her back. His other palm cradled her head.
Her face warming, she leaned back. She didn’t even know this man, and she’d wrapped herself around him like bark on a cork tree, ready to climb right into his skin. Loosening the death grip she had on his suit coat, she stepped away and met his gaze. “Sorry.”
“You’re all right?”
“After seeing that?” Hysteria bubbled inside her. “Not really. I’m going to have nightmares about his eyes for years. But I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you mean.”
His mouth formed a somber slash. “Yeah, it was bad.”
“What do you think happened to him?” A shudder racking her body, she stole a glance at the bathroom door.
“I don’t know.”
She met his gaze, something in his tone making her wonder if he knew more than he’d let on. But that was silly. What would Dante know about a disease?
Especially that one. She frowned, another sensation of familiarity
