The Santana Heir

Grace had reached the high chair and was bending over to wash Zac’s face. Her pose gave him a tantalizing glimpse of leopard-print panties and a shapely rump, with those long, golden legs stretching below. Emilio swore under his breath. Seducing Grace would be delicious. It might even induce her to be content to stay around. But what would happen when the magic faded, as it always did? It would be the same old story—accusations, tears, slamming doors and a hasty drive to the airport.

Emilio knew the routine well. Most of the time he didn’t mind. The end of one affair opened the door for another. But Grace’s departure would only create problems—not the least of them, a miserable child. Even if she stayed after the breakup, the awkwardness would make things unpleasant, especially if he brought in new compañeras.

With a sigh of regret, Emilio faced the truth. If he wanted to keep Grace here, he’d be a fool to lay so much as a lustful finger on the woman. He would need to treat her like a sister.

She’d straightened now, but the view of her body in that silky little robe was enough to tighten his briefs. Emilio muttered an appreciative curse. If this kept up, he’d be spending time under a cold shower.

Looking for a diversion he glanced at his watch. “Grace.” She turned, her sun-streaked hair tumbling over one eye. Emilio cleared the tightness from his throat. “If you can be ready in half an hour, I’ll meet you on the patio for breakfast. Then I’ll show you around. All right?”

“Sure.” She turned her attention back to the baby and the two maids. Feeling as if he’d been dismissed, Emilio returned to the portico and crossed the open patio to the ancient library that served as his home office. It was a magnificent room, the walls lined with shelves of priceless books, the rich leather couches arranged for socializing or reading. The computer on the ancient desk looked out of place with its ugly cords and connections. For now, at least, that couldn’t be helped.

Taking his seat, Emilio turned on the power and brought up his email. After deleting the messages he judged not to be worth reading, he opened one from a longtime friend, the Greek shipping heir Nikolas Stavros.

Sorry to hear about your brother, Emilio. You’ll have plenty to deal with, but hoping you’ll be free for my April party cruise. Won’t drop names here but some old friends will be on board, as well as a certain hot TV actress who says she’s dying to meet you. Your usual cabin’s reserved and waiting.

Nik

With a weary breath, Emilio typed his regrets and pressed Send. Before Arturo’s accident he’d have looked forward to a wild week of sex and partying on his friend’s palatial yacht. But those days were over. By the time he saw his way clear of running the Santana fiefdom, he’d be an old man.

And for what? His parents were long gone. Even while they were alive, they’d had no time for him. What did he owe them?

To hell with it. He could sell off everything but the estate and live in freedom for the rest of his life. Why not just do it?

Emilio ran a restless hand through his unruly curls. Arturo, four years his senior, had been mostly gray by the time he died. Emilio was beginning to understand how that could happen.

Emilio had never expected to take Arturo’s place—never wanted to. The burden had dropped on him with the crushing weight of an avalanche. And up until a week ago, he’d thought that as the last surviving Santana male, he was destined to bear that weight alone.

But now, everything had changed. Now, there was Zac. His brother’s little boy. The heir to everything the family had built over countless generations. And now that he had someone to work for, someone to pass the legacy on to, Emilio started to understand the drive to protect the investments and secure the future so that the next generation would inherit something of value.

He owed it to Zac, who needed him, and to Arturo, who had never given up on him, to do his best for the family. His family.

A family that now included a member who was far too alluring. He found her an intriguing woman—intelligent, challenging and sensual. The fact that he’d declared her off-limits made her all the more tantalizing; but he’d resolved not to think of her in those terms. He was capable of being friends with an attractive woman. He’d proven that with Cassidy. He could do the same with Grace if it was in his family’s best interests.

Meanwhile he needed to go over the accounts for the estate, familiarizing himself with the monthly salaries and expenses, and making sure everything was paid to date. He’d already learned that the old hacienda didn’t support itself, but depended on the income from other ventures. The Santana empire was an interconnected web, so complicated that the thought of it made Emilio’s head ache. But the mess was his responsibility now, and he knew better than to think he could walk away from it.

With a glance at his watch, he set to work.

* * *

The day was already warm when Grace returned to her room to get ready for breakfast. After a quick shower, Grace dressed in khaki shorts, a plain white shirt, leather sandals and, as an afterthought, gold gypsy earrings. She’d expected to be bathing Zac, but the maids, Ana and Eugenia, had commandeered the boy. As nearly as Grace could make out with her limited Spanish, the two girls were sisters with four younger siblings at home. They seemed very competent with Zac, who was smiling and jabbering, basking in their attention. Surrendering to their pleas, Grace had given them Zac’s clean clothes and diapers and gone to get ready herself.

The older woman Grace had met last night caught up with her in the hallway and guided her back to the patio off the dining area. “Aquí está, señorita,” she murmured, indicating a sunny table with two chairs. “Don Emilio llegará en un momento.”

Grace congratulated herself on having understood that Emilio would be here in a moment. She took her seat with a polite “Gracias.”

The woman poured rich black coffee. “El niño es hijo de Don Arturo?” she asked.

Again Grace understood. The woman was asking whether Zac was Arturo’s son. “Sí,” she responded, fumbling for the words. “Es hijo de Arturo y de mi hermana.” Had she said it correctly, that Zac was the son of Arturo and her sister? The woman’s smile told her she’d succeeded.

The woman pointed to her chest. “Me llamo Dolores.”

“Mucho gusto, Dolores. Me llamo Grace.” The old high school Spanish was coming back.

“A su servicio, señorita.” With a nod of her graying head, Dolores hurried away. Settling back in her chair Grace sipped her coffee and took in the view. This patio was larger than the one she’d crossed earlier. Bougainvillea, riotous with pink blooms, cascaded from the eaves. A spacious wrought-iron cage held two scarlet macaws. They fluttered and squabbled, feasting on scraps of fruit.

A cobbled path meandered through a grove of flowering trees. Not far beyond, Grace glimpsed a swimming pool. A shirtless young man with a taut, muscular body was skimming the water with a long-handled net. In the distance, steep mountains, bare of trees, towered against the sky.

“Here you are.” Emilio strode onto the patio. “Sorry if I’m late. Just catching up on some work.”

“No problem. I’ve been enjoying the view. I didn’t expect to have so much time on my hands, but it seems Ana and Eugenia have taken over—” Grace almost said my son, but she caught herself. “They’ve taken over the baby. They even insisted on bathing him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. But you don’t need to worry. They’re good girls and very capable.” Emilio slid into his chair, his eyes taking her measure from her gypsy hoops to her low-heeled leather sandals. “You look...nice.” He paused before the last word as if he’d been about to say something else.

“Thanks. This is about as dressed-up as you’ll see me while I’m here.”

“Oh?” Emilio poured his coffee and took a sip. “That’s too bad because I’m planning a party next weekend to welcome you and my brother’s son to Peru. I was looking forward to seeing you in an evening dress.”

“Oh, but I didn’t bring—”

“Of course you wouldn’t have packed a gown. But there are fine shops in Cusco. My driver can take you after you’re settled in.”

Dolores had come outside with a tray of beautifully cut tropical fruits—pineapple, mango, melon and banana. “It’s almost too pretty to eat!” Grace speared several pieces for her plate.

“Get used to it. When it comes to food, Dolores is a true artist. The two girls you met are her nieces. She’s training them to take her place one day—as her father trained her in this very kitchen.”

The food kept coming—airy scrambled eggs, crisp slabs of bacon, seasoned black beans, fried potatoes and buttered corn muffins. Everything was so delicious that Grace had to push herself away from the table. “Heavens, do you eat like this every day?” she asked.

Emilio had been watching her devour breakfast, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Again, you’ll get accustomed to it. In the city, meals are more like what you’re used to. But here in Urubamba we follow tradition—a hearty breakfast to start the day, a light lunch around two o’clock followed by a siesta—when there’s time for it, at least. Then at night, around nine o’clock, we dress up and gather for dinner. It’s all very civilized.”

He finished his plate and put his napkin on the table. “If you’re finished I’d like to show you the countryside. By chance, do you ride?”

Ride? Grace’s stomach clenched with instinctive fear. She forced her mouth into a smile. “I rode as a teenager. But I haven’t been on a horse in fifteen years. I’m not sure if I even remember how. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, his insistence tightening the knot in her stomach. “We’ll have a lot of ground to cover—too much to travel on foot—and nobody forgets how to ride. I’ll find you the gentlest horse in the stable.” He glanced down at her bare legs. “You’ll want to put on long pants.”

Grace rose. It would be simpler to tell him the truth. But the truth was too private, too personal to share. The only other choice was facing stark, paralyzing panic.

“See you back here in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll find you a hat, and I’ll check on the boy for you.”

His name is Zac, she wanted to remind him. But her fear-constricted throat refused to form the words.

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