The Santana Heir

“You look tired, Grace.” Emilio’s gaze took in her drooping hair and tired face. Even after the long day, he looked maddeningly fresh and unrumpled in khakis and a simple polo shirt that matched the black armband he wore as a sign of mourning. Even the faint stubble on his jaw looked as if it was meant to be there.

“In my house you’ll have all the help you need,” he said. “You’ll be able to see the countryside, pursue your art, anything you like—an advantage I suspect you didn’t enjoy at home.”

Grace hummed noncommittally. Admittedly, the thought of having some help sounded nice. So far, Zac had been a full-time job. But was there more behind Emilio’s offer? If Emilio were to marry—as he almost certainly would—his wife would most likely push her aside, forcing her to leave the boy. Was Emilio preparing for that possibility by increasing Zac’s dependence on the household servants instead of her?

Emilio glanced out the window. “We’re coming into Lima, Grace. Come over here. You’ll see more from this side of the plane.”

He rose, giving her room to slip into the space next to the window. She felt the hot tingle of awareness as her body brushed his. He was warm and solid through his clothes, his skin smelling lightly of sage-scented soap.

Pulling past him she took her seat. Did he know that her pulse had surged as they touched? But why even speculate? Emilio Santana was well aware of his effect on women—even on this woman who had every reason to dislike him. For such a man, seduction would come as naturally as breathing.

But Grace had no intention of falling under his spell. Simple wariness of his wealth and influence had been enough to get her to uproot her life and halt proceedings on the adoption she wanted more than anything. If she actually gave in to his charm, who knew what he could convince her to do?

“Down there.” His hands framed her shoulders, turning her toward the view. The mountains had fallen away to a pale ribbon of coastline, surprisingly bleak.

“The mountains keep the rain from reaching the coast.” Emilio’s hands remained on her shoulders, the contact triggering subtle whorls of heat. “In Lima, the precious little water we get comes mostly from fog and wells. Look, you can see the city lights from here.”

The twilight mist was rolling in from the sea, softening the vast river of light that was the capital city of Peru. As the plane glided in on approach, the city unfolded below—a panorama of ancient churches, towering skyscrapers, open plazas and streams of evening traffic. On the outskirts of the city ramshackle slums clung to the barren hillsides.

“Will we be staying in Lima tonight?” Grace asked.

“We’ll just be touching down to refuel, check you and the boy through immigration, and load some supplies. Then we’ll be flying on to Cusco. My driver will be waiting there with the car. It’s a spectacular flight. You won’t be seeing much tonight, but there’ll be plenty of other chances.

“So we’ll have to deplane for immigration?” Grace glanced over at the sleeping Zac, a sigh escaping her lips as she imagined standing in a long line with a cranky baby in her arms.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just show your papers to the right people. They know me. If there’s any question, they can board the plane and meet you in person.”

So easy. No doubt some cash would be changing hands. Grace had heard it was the accepted way of getting things done in this part of the world. She had never approved of what she viewed as bribery. But tonight she was too tired to stand on principle.

Minutes later the landing gear dropped and the wheels touched down. The tanker truck was waiting on the tarmac. By the time the refueling was finished, Emilio had taken care of the paperwork and returned to the plane. “All done.” He handed Grace her stamped passport. “I told you there would be no problem.”

“I must say I’m impressed,” she countered. “But whatever you did to speed things along, I don’t want to know about it.”

“You Norteamericanos! So proper!” He chuckled, his grin a white flash in the darkness of the cabin. “Look at it this way, Grace. You are happy because you didn’t have to wake the baby and wait in line for your papers. My friend in Migración is happy because he can now pay his rent. Our pilot is happy because he’ll be home in time for dinner. And I am happy because everyone else is happy. What do you see here that is not good?”

Grace’s only answer was a weary sigh as she buckled her seat belt for the takeoff. “How long will we be in the car once we land?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Not long. It’s an hour’s drive from Cusco to Urubamba. You can sleep on the way if you get tired. There’ll be blankets and pillows in the backseat, and some fresh baby formula in case the boy wakes up hungry.”

“His name is Zac.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. “But of course,” Emilio said.

As the plane rose skyward again, Grace studied his profile against the window. For a powerful, confident man, he seemed ill at ease with his newly discovered nephew. She suspected he’d never spent time with children before. If the jet-setting, thrill-seeking lifestyle she’d seen highlighted in the tabloids was accurate then she doubted he’d ever taken responsibility for another person in his life.

If that was true, she already had her work cut out for her. It wouldn’t be easy, helping a man change the habits from a lifetime of no consequences and disposable relationships, but this was one relationship Grace intended to see Emilio take seriously. If he was going to claim custody of Cassidy’s precious son, she would make sure the Peruvian Playboy learned to be a father to Zac. Not just a father, but a dad.

* * *

The silver-gray Audi purred along the mountain road, gearing down on the hairpin curves. The narrow highway from Cusco to Urubamba could be dangerous after dark, and Emilio had warned his driver to take extra care. Tonight there was precious cargo on board.

On the far side of the backseat, Grace had fallen asleep, her tousled blonde head pillowed in the corner between the seat and the window. Feeling an unaccustomed tenderness, Emilio had tucked a blanket around her as she slept. She’d had her whole life uprooted, but she’d kept her complaints to herself. All she’d asked of him was to let her be with the child she loved—a child who wasn’t even hers. He couldn’t help but admire that kind of devotion. For all her stubborn independence, Grace Chandler was a genuinely good woman. Arturo’s son was lucky to have her.

The baby slumbered between them, securely buckled into his car seat. In the semidarkness, Emilio studied the chubby features—the pert nose and dimpled chin, the straight brows and feathery black eyelashes. He saw more of Cassidy than his brother in the child. But that would change. Like all Santana males, young Zac would grow to be a tall, handsome man. By the time he came of age, he would already be learning to run the estate and the Santana business empire.

Such big responsibilities for a little boy. Little Zac should have his father here to teach him. Tio Emilio would have to fill the void. Heart skipping, Emilio brushed a fingertip across the soft ridge of knuckles. Zac stirred and whimpered, causing Emilio to pull away. Had he done something wrong? Por diós, he didn’t know the first thing about babies.

With Arturo gone, duty demanded that he be a father to this niño precioso. But how could he even begin?

Emilio remembered his own father as a busy, distant man who’d suffered a fatal heart attack at fifty, leaving a mistress in Callao and a twenty-year-old son as the head of the family. Arturo had been yanked out of Harvard and forced to grow up fast. Emilio, barely seventeen, had been left to drift.

Their mother, a pampered society beauty, had been little help. She’d taken to her bed for the first few months, then flung herself into a series of sad affairs that ended one night in a fatal mix of pills and alcohol.

In short, Emilio had barely ever known what it was like even to have a parent—he’d certainly never learned to be a parent. To him, this small lump of humanity was more intimidating than a boardroom full of corporate rivals bent on eating him alive.

“A penny for your thoughts.” Grace’s husky voice startled him. She’d awakened and was studying him with her extraordinary hazel eyes. Tangled hair framed her sleepy face. She looked surprisingly sexy, he thought. He was struck by the intimate feel of the moment—the dark, close atmosphere of the car’s backseat; her presence beside him, warm, drowsy and more relaxed than he’d ever seen her, speaking to him in a soft, languorous voice.

“I asked you what you were thinking.” She spoke as if explaining her previous question. Knowing she might not be pleased by the truth, Emilio scrambled for a diversion.

“Tell me about Cassidy,” he said.

“Didn’t you know her when she was here?”

“We had a few conversations. But she didn’t mention her family or her illness.”

“There wasn’t much family to tell you about. We were teenagers when her father married my mother. At first we had nothing in common. She was the beautiful, wild one. I was the older, serious one. We alternated between fighting and ignoring each other. But after our parents died in a plane crash we became close. I took care of her until she was old enough to leave home and get modeling work. Wherever she went, we kept in touch.”

“What about the brain tumor?” he asked. “Cassidy had headaches in Peru, but she never mentioned...” He shook his head. “I keep wondering if she knew, even then.”

“Cassidy had surgery and radiation for the tumor six years ago, when she was twenty-two. The doctors said it might come back. When she started having headaches again, yes, she knew what it was.”

“And the baby?”

“Soon after she got home, she discovered she was pregnant. The doctors advised an abortion. Cassidy wouldn’t hear of it. She even made us promise that if we had to, we’d keep her body on life support long enough to safely deliver the baby. But that turned out not to be necessary. She lived to hold her son and name him...and to give him to me.” Grace gulped back a surge of tears. “She sacrificed so much to bring him into the world.”

Emilio pondered what she’d told him. “She’s not the only one. It’s a big sacrifice you’ve made, too, uprooting your life to bring him here, to a strange country—”

Her eyes flashed in the darkness. “Zac is my life. There’s nothing I’ve left behind that matters as much to me as him.”

“But your house, your work—”

“My house will be there. And once my art supplies are unpacked, I can work almost anywhere. All I need is a little space.”

“If you wish to work, of course, there’ll be room for you to set up a studio.” Emilio said. “Not that you’ll need the income. If you decide to stay, you’ll receive pay and lodging for being in charge of my brother’s son.”

Her body went rigid, jerking her bolt upright in the seat. Emilio knew at once he’d said the wrong thing. But he didn’t know how make it right.

He spoke against the icy wall of her silence. “You’ll also have a car and driver at your disposal. A pretty woman driving alone in this country is asking for trouble.”

Of course he would see to it that she had everything she required while she was here and taking care of the boy. It was only fair. No matter what she said, he knew she’d given up a great deal. Room and board, plus an income for whatever else she needed, were little enough for him to provide.

Her full lower lip quivered. “Is that all you think I am to Zac? Just his hired caretaker?”

So that was what he’d said wrong. Emilio exhaled, easing the frustration that had surged like heat in a volcano. “Of course not. I’m just trying to do the right thing—for you, for Zac and for my family’s future.”

She was silent for a moment, studying him with those arresting eyes. They still danced with anger, but she seemed to be holding it in. “Tell me about your family,” she said, surprising him.

“As you said about your own family, there’s not much to tell. I lost my parents fifteen years ago. My firstborn brother died when he was four. Then there was Arturo...and me. That’s all.”

“What about Arturo’s wife? He told me he was getting married.”

“The wedding never happened. Arturo kept finding excuses to put it off. He said he was busy with work. But I think the truth was he never got over Cassidy.”

Her gaze deepened in the shadows. “So you’re the last of the Santanas.”

Emilio glanced at the sleeping baby. “Not anymore.”

* * *

By the time the car reached the outskirts of Urubamba, Zac was awake and fussing. Grace found the formula stored in the portable cooler. Soon he was chugging it down, clasping the bottle like a pro. Before long he’d be old enough to wean to a sippy cup, and after that there’d be walking, talking, potty training—so many ways a little boy would need a mother’s help. How could she ever think of going back to Arizona and leaving him to the care of hired nursemaids?

Emilio sniffed and frowned. “I think somebody might need changing.”

Grace nodded, recognizing the familiar stink. “That’s no surprise. But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to change him in the car.”

“I was hoping the same thing. If it can wait a few more minutes, we’ll be home.”

Home to a place she’d never been before. The line from the old John Denver song flickered through Grace’s mind. But even without seeing much of it, she knew this strange country would never be home to her. It could be Zac’s home, though. And if this was what was best for Zac, then she’d find a way to deal with it. For now, she’d have to try to look on the bright side of things.

And that would include finding humor where she could...such as in the way Emilio was edging away from Zac, toward his side of the car. “Have you ever changed a baby?” she asked, amused at his discomfort.

“No, and I don’t plan to.”

“Why? I’ve known some very manly men who don’t mind changing a diaper.”

“In your country, maybe. Not in mine. I would not even know where to begin.”

“Well, in that case, maybe I should give you a demonstration.” Opening the diaper bag, she made a show of fumbling for the things she’d need.

His hand flashed out and caught her wrist. “Please not now, and not in this car!”

As she met his concerned gaze, Grace couldn’t help it. She had to giggle. A dimple deepened in her cheek.

Muttering a curse in Spanish, he released her and sank back against the seat. “So you’re teasing me! You’re a vixen, Grace Chandler!”

“I’ve been called worse.” Grace closed the diaper bag. “I’ll give you a break this time. But take warning, Emilio, if you’re going to raise a baby, you’ll have to get used to everything that comes with being a father!”

A startled expression flickered across his face. Was it because she’d had the effrontery to stand up to him, or had he just realized that he’d be responsible for acting as a father for his brother’s son? Taking on a child as heir was one thing, but becoming a parent was another matter entirely. Was he up to the challenge?

The question fled her mind as the car swung off the highway and onto a graveled road that crunched beneath the wheels. Leafy branches overhung the long, narrow drive, forming a filigreed canopy that let in shafts of silver moonlight.

The lights of a small gatehouse shone through the darkness. A uniformed guard stepped out to open the wrought-iron gate. Grace shivered as she glimpsed the holstered pistol at his hip.

“We’re home, Grace,” Emilio said.

Home—a place she’d never been before.

Three

Grace opened her eyes. Blinding sunlight streamed through the open shutters of a grilled window. Dazed, she rolled away from the glare. What time was it?

The hands on the bedside clock pointed to 9:15. She groaned, remembering that most of South America was east of the United States. Peru would be on New York time. But her jet-lagged brain was still waking up in Arizona.

Zac must be on Arizona time, too. She had yet to hear a peep from the old-fashioned crib in the corner of the spacious bedroom.

Sinking back into the pillow she closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of a slow wake-up. They’d arrived last night in darkness, the house a sprawling hacienda behind high stone walls. After Emilio vanished, a stocky woman in local dress had shown Grace to this bedroom, with its adjoining marble bath. After a few moments of fussing over Zac, the woman had left her alone to put the baby to bed and brush her teeth. Too tired to unpack her pajamas, she’d stripped down to her underwear and crawled between lavender-scented sheets. The next thing Grace remembered it was morning.

Opening her eyes again, she scanned her surroundings. The massive four-poster bed looked as if it had been hand-hewn centuries ago from one giant tree. The canopy was draped in white netting, as was Zac’s crib in the far corner of the room. The downy coverlet was finished in a wine-colored brocade that contrasted richly with the open-timbered ceiling and whitewashed walls.

Like the bed frame, the dresser was lavishly carved, with a full-length mirror and matching velvet-topped bench. There were no closets, but a row of elegant wooden wardrobes stood along one wall. Clearly, this was no ordinary guest room. It had been built and furnished for someone with clothes to fill the wardrobes and adornments to justify the tall, gilt-framed mirror above the dresser. Grace tried to imagine generations of Santana men and women. How many of them had lived, loved and died in this room—and in this bed?

Grace hadn’t even known her own grandparents. How would it feel to have a family history going back for generations?

Roused to wakefulness, she swung her feet to the tiles and pattered over to the crib to check on Zac, who had yet to make a sound.

Grace parted the layered netting. Staring down into the crib, she gasped.

Zac was gone.

Tearing into her suitcase, she found her black nylon travel robe, flung it on and yanked the ties into a knot. Her motherly instincts were screaming. Her baby was missing in a strange place. What if he’d climbed or fallen out of bed and crawled away in the night? She had to find him.

Still barefoot, she burst out of the door and into a shadowed hallway. Grace froze, ears straining in the silence. She’d had nightmares like this—racing through dark passageways, searching for Zac. But this nightmare was real.

A faint light, barely visible, suggested a corner at the hall’s far end. She raced toward it, only to find herself looking down another long passageway. The house seemed as confusing as a giant labyrinth. But she would find Zac if she had to search every square foot of it.

Rounding the next corner at full tilt, she slammed into something big and solid. She staggered backward. Powerful hands caught her, steadying her shoulders.

“Grace?” Emilio’s dark eyes gazed down at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Zac’s gone. He’s not in his crib!”

For the space of a breath he seemed to be studying her, taking stock of her tousled hair, her tired eyes and the short, black travel robe. Glancing down as well, she noticed that the robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing her bra strap and the curve of her breast. Self-conscious, she tugged it back into place.

His troubled expression eased. His mouth twitched, as if biting back a chuckle. “Zac is fine, Grace. He woke up early, so the maids took him to the kitchen. He’s having a grand time in there.”

Grace felt herself crumbling. Relief washed through her at the knowledge that Zac was safe, but the feeling was quickly replaced with a rush of shame. She’d slept through Zac waking up? That had never happened before. Yes, she’d been exhausted after the flight, but that was no excuse. What must Emilio think of her, to be failing at her responsibilities to care for Zac on their very first day in Peru?

“What’s this? Tears?” Emilio thumbed her chin, tilting her face upward. He was freshly shaved and showered, his black hair glistening with moisture. Dressed in jeans, boots and a gray T-shirt that displayed his broad chest and muscular shoulders, he looked so annoyingly handsome that she could have punched the look off his face that seemed so mockingly sympathetic.

“Don’t make fun of me, Emilio,” she muttered. “Look at me. I’m still shaking. I was scared to death.”

His fingertips skimmed along her jaw, brushing her earlobe as he released her. Grace willed herself to ignore the heat that flashed through her like desert lightning.

“Poor Grace.” His voice was a velvet caress. “I understand your being frightened. What mother wouldn’t be?”

His words doused her arousal immediately, leaving her cold and aching. No doubt, they were innocently meant. Emilio could have no way of knowing that she could never truly be a mother. Zac had been her one best chance—a chance that might never come again.

“Can I take you to the kitchen?” Emilio offered. “You can see for yourself that Zac is fine.”

Torn between urgency and embarrassment, Grace glanced down at her bare feet and the thin robe that barely covered her thighs. “I can’t go like this.”

“Certainly you can!” Emilio captured her hand. “This is my home and you’re my guest. The staff’s used to people parading around here in all sorts of dress—or lack of dress, if you will.”

“I can just imagine,” Grace muttered as he led her along the corridor. If Zac was to grow up here, some aspects of Emilio’s playboy lifestyle would have to change.

The passage opened up to a covered portico with feathery palms in exquisite ceramic pots. Beyond the pillars Grace glimpsed a patio with a fountain that looked as if it could have been tinkling away for centuries. As Arturo’s heir, this magnificent estate would be part of Zac’s legacy. The boy would have the best of everything, including the finest education money could buy. And what could she offer him as a single mother? A modest house. A public school education...

Wafting aromas of bacon and coffee told her they were nearing the kitchen. Now she could hear voices—women’s voices, laughing and chattering.

“This way.” Emilio guided her around an elbow bend in the passageway, designed to conceal the kitchen entry. A few more steps, and Grace found herself in a sunny, spacious kitchen, furnished with modern appliances and decorated in colorful tiles. Gleaming copper pans hung above the massive stove. Strings of dried peppers, onions, garlic and vanilla pods trailed along the wall above an ancient stone fireplace.

In the far corner, next to a window, Zac perched in a well-scrubbed wooden high chair. Two young maids in native dress were hand-feeding him slices of ripe banana, giggling as he mashed the food in his fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. Zac was hooting with delight, enjoying the attention.

Turning, he caught sight of Grace. For an instant he looked surprised. Then his dark puppy eyes lit. He grinned, waved his sticky hands and spoke his very first word.

“Mama!”

Grace’s heart dropped and shattered.

* * *

Emilio watched Grace rush across the kitchen. He’d caught the glint of tears as she broke away. Many women had used tears to manipulate him, and he thought he’d become hardened to the sight. But Grace’s tears, welling in those magnificent hazel eyes that were overflowing with deep, maternal love, had moved him in an unexpected way.

His own mother had left him to be raised by servants while she pursued her life of socializing, shopping and beauty treatments. She’d given him little attention, let alone affection. Now, seeing a woman shed tears of love for a child who wasn’t even biologically hers came as a shock.

For the first time, Emilio questioned the benevolence of taking Arturo’s son. How could he tear a child from the arms of the only mother he’d ever known—a mother who clearly loved him?

Only one solution would ease his guilt—persuading Grace to stay and raise the boy here. She’d agreed to come to Peru—that was a big step. But he knew the battle wasn’t over when it came to convincing her to stay. She was a foreigner who would be giving up a good life in the United States. Some aspects of his culture would be unfamiliar, even disturbing. But if she decided to leave, one thing was certain—Zac would not be going with her. The boy belonged here.