Heart of a Thief

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.