The Santana Heir. Elizabeth LaneЧитать онлайн книгу.
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