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