The Santana Heir. Elizabeth Lane

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ