said, ‘She stole it.’ He cut off Marco’s next observation with a crystalline glance. ‘If she hasn’t sold it, it’s because she doesn’t dare to. I plan to convince her it will be worth her while to return it to me.’
Oh, Gabe could do that, Marco thought, a note in the cold voice making him even more uneasy. His brother’s potent charisma was based more on his formidable personal authority than the interesting mixture of princely and aristocratic bloodlines that had bequeathed him that autocratic face and the lean, powerful body standing well over six feet.
If anyone could seduce the heirloom’s whereabouts from Sara, Gabe could.
Nevertheless, Marco felt obliged to point out, ‘She was going to marry you, Gabe. She could have had the Queen’s Blood permanently.’
‘She’d already changed her mind about that,’ Gabe told him, his lips twisting in self-derision.
Only Marco and Gabe’s head of security—and one photographer—knew what his brother referred to: a damning shot snapped with a telephoto lens from outside the château where Sara had been staying the night the necklace disappeared.
It showed Gabe’s fiancée locked in the arms of the château’s owner, Hawke Kennedy. Both were naked, and the shot had been taken through the window of Sara’s bedroom.
The day after the Queen’s Blood had been stolen, the picture had arrived in Gabe’s e-mail with a threat to sell the negative to the highest bidder if a ransom wasn’t paid.
Marco said, ‘Has your security expert made any progress in finding out who the photographer was?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gather he won’t be publishing the photograph, no matter what happens?’
Gabe’s smile was as narrow and lethal as the blade of a knife. ‘No.’
‘So why didn’t you tell him to publish and be damned? I’d have said you’d be the last man on earth to let yourself be blackmailed into paying a ransom.’
‘Pride,’ Gabe said shortly. ‘Once it was confirmed to be genuine, I felt a complete fool for letting myself be conned into an engagement by a beautiful, clever thief. I resent being turned into an idiot by my own hormones.’
Marco said nothing, and after a moment his brother continued in the same dispassionate voice. ‘Apart from that, just before the theft Alex had suggested that I come back to Illyria and be confirmed as Grand Duke of the Northern Marches.’
Marco lifted his brows. ‘So?’
‘Once I broke off the engagement the newspapers had a field day.’
Marco grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me—the scandal of the century! But what did Alex’s proposition have to do with that—or the photograph?’
‘It complicated the situation.’ Gabe shrugged. ‘The Illyrians—especially here, in the mountains—still believe that they need to be led by strong men. As you well know, they’ve got fairly rigid ideas on the respective roles of men and women. The broken engagement was bad enough. If it became known that I’d fallen for a woman who slept with another man while she was plotting to steal the Queen’s Blood, the peasants would totally lose respect for me.’ He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Fair enough, but if I’m to do anything for them I need respect.’
‘So even then you were seriously thinking of taking up Alex’s suggestion?’
Alex, their several-times-removed cousin, had been crowned hereditary Prince of Illyria a few years previously by the determined and overwhelming will of the people. He now used his money and prestige to set his small realm, blighted by years of repression, onto the road to prosperity.
‘Yes,’ Gabe said. ‘It will be announced in a couple of weeks.’
Marco whistled. ‘So Sara missed out on being a Grand Duchess,’ he observed thoughtfully.
A singularly unpleasant smile curved Gabe’s mouth. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Why did you decide to take it on?’ Marco asked curiously. ‘You don’t need the power, and I know the title doesn’t mean much to you beyond a certain sentimental attachment to our ancestors. And you certainly don’t need any more money—not that it looks as though the estate’s going to produce anything for years. It’s just going to be a drain on your purse.’
Gabe had a big purse; like Marco, he’d carved out an empire in the piratical world of modern business with the zest and forceful flair their ancestors had devoted to keeping their turbulent lands in order. But the valley Marco had flown over that morning looked like something from a medieval print, with people huddled in tiny villages and no signs of modernisation beyond the military road the dictator had built through the pass.
Gabe shrugged and looked out over the valley, its serene beauty hiding the grinding poverty. ‘Every peasant in this valley was punished over and over again by the dictator because they were loyal to our grandparents. I owe them.’
Marco nodded. Responsibility was Gabe’s big thing. ‘You could help them without reverting to feudalism and becoming a ruling Grand Duke.’
His brother said ironically, ‘You know Alex’s powers of persuasion—after all, he talked you into taking on his software business so he could devote himself to Illyria.’
‘Yeah, he did.’ Marco grinned. ‘And I jumped at it. I’m having a ball. What’s your excuse?’
‘I’ve been coming here for the past year, trying to find out how I can best help these people, and they’ve made it plain that they want a Grand Duke, just as they wanted Alex back. It seems a psychological boost for the generation who remember the good old days, but even the younger people are eager.’
While Marco was digesting this, Gabe added caustically, ‘Which is why I felt that a photograph of my nude fiancée with her latest lover would taint both the title and Alex’s hard work.’
‘I see your point.’ Marco looked ironically at his older brother. ‘You should have charged the tabloids for providing material. First they went berserk when you and Sara announced your engagement, then a fortnight later you dumped her. Talk about starting a feeding frenzy!’
Marco still found it hard to believe that Sara Milton had stolen the necklace. Or taken Hawke Kennedy for a lover. OK, Sara was beautiful in a way that got to any man with decent eyesight and the smallest drop of testosterone in his body, but he’d also liked her very much.
Still, a likeable personality would be a very useful asset for a con woman.
Without any hope of persuading his brother, he felt obliged to point out, ‘If you go ahead with this crazy scheme, you’ll be leaving yourself open to more blackmail. Kidnapping is an offence in Illyria, Gabe. Even Alex might not be able to save you if Sara decides to press charges.’
He watched his brother’s boldly chiselled features harden. That same inflexible expression blazed from the portraits of their ancestors. Ruthless men—and women—known for their formidable, uncompromising loyalty to their prince and their superb skills in the art of war, they’d held the border with a mixture of intimidating authority and brutal intelligence.
Oh, Gabe would make
