“What just happened was a mistake, Emilio.”

He refrained from reminding Grace that she had been the one to start the kiss. “I had the impression you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

Her look darkened. “I came here to decide what was best for Zac and for me. The last thing I need is to have my judgment clouded by a Latin Romeo who’d hit on any female old enough to drive. As far as you and I are concerned, nothing happened here. Understood?”

“Understood.” The barb had stung more than he cared to admit. But long experience had taught Emilio when to advance and when to retreat. This was retreat time.

But the conquest was far from over.

The Santana Heir

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website: www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Recent titles by the same author:

THE NANNY’S SECRET

THE BALLAD OF EMMA O’TOOLE

IN HIS BROTHER’S PLACE

THE HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

One

Urubamba, Peru, January 21

Emilio Santana stared at the folder on the massive mahogany desk—the desk that had served the head of the Santana family for seven generations. Until two weeks ago that desk had belonged to his brother. Now it was his.

He was still reeling from Arturo’s death in a highway accident. But the vast Santana business holdings couldn’t wait for grief. Catapulted into place as the new jefe, Emilio had a world of things to learn—and barely enough time to learn them. He’d never wanted this responsibility. But now it was his—for life.

Arturo had always been the one who took care of things. While Emilio jetted around the world, partying with rock stars and dating glamorous women, Arturo had managed the family estate in Urubamba, the corporate offices in Lima and the portfolio of global investments and properties that comprised the Santana fortune. Steady and competent, Arturo had always been there to bail his wild younger brother out of trouble. Now he was gone, the reality of his loss still sinking in.

Since the funeral and the novena, Emilio had spent much of his time going through the files in Arturo’s home office. Invoices, contracts, business correspondence. It was all a lot to take in, but he’d found nothing out of the ordinary.

Until now.

The manila folder, marked “Personal,” had been tucked into the back of the file drawer. Inside, Emilio found a certified envelope, addressed to Arturo and mailed from Tucson, Arizona, ten months earlier. Inside was a folded letter, printed on plain white paper and signed in a strong but feminine hand.

March 10

Dear Mr. Santana:

It saddens me to inform you that my stepsister, Cassidy Miller, passed away March 1 of this year, due to a brain tumor...

Cassidy dead? But how could that be? Emilio stared at the page in disbelief. Cassidy had been so beautiful, so full of life and mischief. A model with a reputation as a party girl, Cassidy Miller had been doing a fashion shoot in Cusco when Emilio had met her. After the shoot he’d invited her and several model friends to spend a few days at the Urubamba estate. One look at Arturo, and she’d cancelled an upcoming assignment to stay with him. During the five weeks they’d spent together, Emilio’s brother had never looked happier. Then Cassidy had vanished from his life. Emilio had wondered why, but if Arturo had known, he’d never said a word.

Biting back emotion Emilio read on.

I know this news will come as a shock. Cassidy begged me not to tell you about her illness. But now that she’s gone I feel duty-bound to write to you for another reason. In the last days of her life, Cassidy gave birth to a baby boy. Since he was born February 26, nine months from the time she was with you in Peru, I have every reason to believe he’s your son.

Rest assured that I’m not writing to make any claim on your wealth or your estate. In fact, if you agree, I would like to raise the boy myself. Little Zac, as Cassidy named him, will be well cared for here with me. I’ve brought him home and would love to raise him as my own. My lawyer has advised me to inform you of his birth and ask your permission before taking steps to adopt him.

My business card is enclosed. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you have no interest in the boy and proceed with the adoption.

Sincerely,

Grace Chandler

Emilio reread the letter. His numbness ebbed as the news sank home. Cassidy was gone forever. But Arturo had left a son—a son he’d kept secret. Why?

Looking for answers, Emilio unfolded a second sheet of paper—this one a photocopy of Arturo’s reply.

March 31

Dear Miss Chandler:

My condolences on your loss. You may adopt the boy on condition that he have no future contact with the Santana family, nor any legal claim to the Santana estate. I plan to be married soon and start a family of my own. The appearance of an illegitimate son would cause pain and embarrassment, which I wish to avoid at all cost.

If I can trust you to understand my position and honor my wishes, I will leave this matter entirely in your hands.

Yours truly,

Arturo Rafael Santana y Morales

Emilio studied the letter. The language sounded brusque, even cold. But Arturo himself had often sounded cold and closed-off after Cassidy left. And even before she came into his life, he had always put family interests ahead of personal feelings. At the time when he’d written the letter, he’d become engaged to Mercedes Villanueva, the daughter of a wealthy neighbor. The wedding had never taken place, but Emilio could understand Arturo’s not wanting an illegitimate offspring to interfere.

Illegitimate. Such an ugly word for an innocent child. Turning, he gazed out the window, which commanded a view of the Santana estate. Situated in the lush Sacred Valley of the Incas, the land had been in his family since the 1600s when Spanish conquistador Miguel Santana had acquired it as a royal grant. Santana had married an Inca princess and settled into the life of a country gentleman. The land reforms of the 1960s had trimmed away most of the original grant, but the heart of the estate remained, as did the well-managed Santana fortune.

The Santanas themselves hadn’t fared so well. Emilio’s firstborn brother had died of a childhood illness. Now that Arturo was gone, Emilio was the only remaining Santana male. Unless he married and sired an heir—a prospect that loomed like a prison sentence—the family holdings could be fated for seizure by the government or split among his distant kin.

Emilio reread both letters. Arturo had never wanted to father a child out of wedlock. The impulsive Cassidy must have caught him off guard, without protection. But what mattered now was that Arturo had left a son—a boy who, by now, would be almost a year old.

Legitimate or not, there was no way Emilio would turn his back on his own flesh and blood. Especially when that child could be the key to carrying on the Santana legacy. Maybe this Grace Chandler person would be amenable to some kind of arrangement. If not, he had the means to exercise his family’s legal rights.

Writing or calling would only complicate matters. He would leave for Arizona tomorrow.

Tucson, Arizona

“How about some lunch, big boy?” Grace lifted Zac out of the jogging stroller and carried him into the house. At eleven months, he was getting heavy. Soon he’d be walking. Then she’d really have her hands full.

Buckling him into his high chair she washed his hands, gave him some finger food and kept an eye on him as he fed himself. Cassidy’s son was a beautiful child, with ebony curls and heart-melting brown eyes. His coloring would have come from his Peruvian father. But when Grace looked at the little boy, it was Cassidy she saw looking back at her.

Ever since she had found out that Cassidy was pregnant—and that it was unlikely she would live to raise her son herself—it had been Grace’s plan to adopt her stepsister’s baby. The paperwork had taken months, but now the wait was almost over. In a few weeks she would finalize the process that would make Zac her legal son—the only child she could ever have.

Splat! A chunk of cooked, mashed carrot hit her cheek and stuck there. Zac grinned and giggled, showing his new baby teeth. Throwing food was his newest discovery, and he was good at it.

“That’s quite an arm you’ve got, mister. We should think about baseball later on.” Laughing, she boosted him out of the chair and untied his bib. “Time to wash up. Let’s go.”

Zac had managed to get as much lunch on his face and hands as in his mouth. As she passed the hallway mirror, Grace caught a glimpse of herself with the baby in her arms. The two of them looked like they’d been in a food fight. In the few seconds it had taken her to cross the small kitchen, he’d smeared the front of her white T-shirt and coated a lock of her hair. Between her morning run and Zac’s meal, she was a sweaty, sticky mess. As soon as the little mischief-maker was down for his nap, she’d be ready for a shower.

Grace had just stepped into the bathroom with the baby when the front doorbell rang.

Talk about timing... It was most likely a delivery or a salesperson. Maybe if she didn’t answer, the caller would give up and leave.

But the bell rang again, more insistently this time. With a sigh of surrender, Grace switched the baby to her left hip, strode to the front door and opened it.

The tall, dark man on the porch was a stranger. But Grace recognized him from his photos in the supermarket tabloids, usually with some actress or model draped on his arm. The Peruvian Playboy, one scandal sheet had dubbed him.

Arturo Santana’s brother wouldn’t just drop by to say hello. Grace’s stomach knotted as she met his piercing eyes. Emilio Santana, she sensed, had come here for a reason. And that reason must have something to do with Zac.

Clasping the baby, Grace braced herself for trouble.

* * *

Emilio’s gaze took in the woman and child. She was athletically built, her long, tanned legs stretching from white running shoes to black nylon shorts. Strings of dark blond hair had escaped from her sweatband to dangle around her carrot-smudged face. Wide hazel eyes—her most striking feature—blazed defiance. With her golden coloring and challenging manner, she reminded him of a lioness defending her cub.

As for the baby... Something jerked around Emilio’s heart as he studied the boy. The dark Latino coloring was like his own family’s, but he could see traces of Cassidy, as well. Dirty face and all, the child was perfection.

So this was Arturo’s son.

He found his voice. “Grace Chandler? My name is Emilio Santana.”

“I know who you are.” Her arms tightened around the baby. “My question is, what are you doing here?”

“This may take some time. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Despite the courteous words, she was visibly bristling with distrust as she stepped aside for him to enter. The house was small but tastefully furnished and well kept. Emilio saw no sign of a man about the place, and the woman wasn’t wearing a ring. Good—that would make things simpler.

“Please sit down,” she said, nodding toward a leather armchair. “When you rang the doorbell, I was about to clean up this baby and change him. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Take your time. I can wait.”

As she headed down the hall, Emilio settled back in the chair. He was grateful for the chance to compose his thoughts. The impact of seeing his brother’s son had staggered him. He was still grappling with his emotions. But one thing was already certain. Young Zac was his last link to Arturo and the heir to the Santana name. The boy was Emilio’s insurance that, whether he married or not, the family legacy would continue. He would not be going back to Peru without him.

As for the boy’s aunt... He’d managed some online research during his private flight from Lima. Grace Chandler, he’d learned, was an accomplished children’s book illustrator. The website he’d found hadn’t included a photo, so her chiseled, blonde good looks had come as a pleasant surprise—especially those long, golden legs...

But he would tuck that thought away for a more suitable time.

He surveyed the small room—the colorful cushions, the shelves filled with books, the thriving green plants in handmade pots and the guitar propped in one corner. Everything looked comfortable and well cared for, though certainly a far cry from the luxury he was accustomed to.

His wandering gaze found a photograph on a low shelf. It showed Cassidy, leaning over an iron railing with the sky behind her. Her emerald eyes were dancing, her rich auburn hair fluttering in the wind. His throat tightened. How could anyone so full of life be gone?

Those weeks that she’d stayed in their home she’d seemed in perfect health. But now Emilio remembered the headaches that had plagued her every few days. Had Cassidy known, even then, that she was dying?

Was it possible that she’d set out to get pregnant with Arturo’s child?

Emilio burned with questions—and his only hope of answers lay with Grace Chandler.

* * *

Grace’s hands shook as she taped Zac’s diaper in place and fastened the clean blue onesie between his plump little legs. At least now he’d look presentable for...dared she even think the word? His uncle?

How could this have happened? After Arturo’s letter, she’d believed it was safe to go ahead with the adoption. She’d started making a lifetime of plans for her stepsister’s son. Now a dark-eyed stranger who’d appeared out of nowhere could change everything. Had Arturo sent him, or had Emilio Santana come on his own?

More important, what did he want?

Settling Zac in the safety of his crib, she pulled off her soiled shirt and replaced it with a clean, black V-necked top. That done, she yanked off her terry cloth sweatband, splashed her face clean and gave her shoulder-length hair a few licks with the brush—after rinsing away the traces of carrot mush. Even as she tidied up, she knew her appearance didn’t matter. She wasn’t the one her visitor had come to see. Her instincts told her that Emilio Santana had come for Zac.

And she meant to fight him with everything she had.

He rose as she returned to the living room with Zac in her arms. In faded jeans, an open-necked white shirt and casual black jacket he looked as elegant as a movie hero. It occurred to Grace that she could’ve taken the baby, crept out the back door and driven away in her car. But she knew it wouldn’t have made any difference. A man like Emilio Santana would have the means to track her down anywhere.

“Will he come to me?”

“He’s not used to strangers. Sit down. I’ll give him a chance to check you out.” Grace lowered herself to the ottoman and put Zac on the rug. “Sorry I don’t have a drink to offer you, Mr. Santana—unless you’d settle for iced tea. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Please call me Emilio. And don’t worry about the tea.” He took his seat. His English was flawless, his accented voice deep and rich. If she’d closed her eyes, Grace might have pictured Antonio Banderas. But this unsettling man was even better-looking.

Zac had decided to investigate the visitor. He was crawling on all fours toward the chair where Emilio sat. Grace resisted the urge to reach out and pull him back. She’d been present at Zac’s birth and first held him when he was only minutes old. She had loved him from the moment Cassidy told her she had a baby on the way. If this presumptuous man thought she was just going to hand over her child and walk away...

“What’s his full name?” Emilio was studying the baby. “Izac? Zachary?”

“It’s plain Zac—Cassidy’s choice. Zac Miller, legally, although I plan to change the last name to my own when the adoption becomes final.” Grace emphasized the word when.

“I understand you’re no blood relation to the boy.”

The knot in Grace’s stomach tightened. “No, but Cassidy wanted me to raise him. And I have a letter from your brother, consenting to the adoption.”

“I know. I’ve seen a copy of that letter. I found it when I was going through my brother’s files.” His voice went flat. “Arturo’s dead. He was killed in a car crash last month.”

Grace felt her heart drop. She stared at Emilio, waiting for the second blow that was sure to come.

“I checked the status of Zac’s adoption. I know it hasn’t been finalized. As the executor of my brother’s estate, I’m asking you to put it on hold.”

“Why?” Grace’s question emerged as a croak. Her heart was pounding. She felt vaguely nauseous.

“My brother agreed to the adoption on condition that the boy have nothing to do with our family since he planned to marry and start a family with his wife. But his death has changed everything. As far as I know, this boy is Arturo’s only child.”

Zac had reached the chair and used the padded arm to pull himself to his feet. He stood looking up at Emilio with eyes that would melt granite. Emilio brushed a fingertip across the silky curls—a subtle gesture of possession.

Grace snatched the baby into her arms. “So you want to take him. What if I say no?”

His stony expression answered her challenge. “I’ve already contacted my lawyers in Los Angeles. If necessary, they’re prepared to block the adoption and bring the matter to court.”

Grace’s arms tightened around Zac’s warm little body. The adoption had already cost her thousands. She had no resources left for a prolonged legal battle. But how could she give up this precious child to be raised by strangers?

“There are stronger ties than blood,” she said. “One of them is love. Zac is my son in every way that matters. Nothing could force me to let him go.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“And do you, Grace?” His obsidian eyes drilled into hers. “To my knowledge, my brother sired no other children. This boy could be the heir to more than you’ve ever dreamed of. You love him like a son—don’t you want what’s best for him? I have a plan in mind. At least hear me out.”

“We don’t need your family’s money, if that’s what you’re implying. I earn enough to get by, and Cassidy left a trust fund for Zac’s education.”

“Listen to me.” His voice rasped with impatience. “This isn’t about money. It’s about the boy. You seem to be the only mother he knows. Separating the two of you would be cruel—and whatever you may think of me, I’m not a cruel man. I cared for Cassidy as a friend and I want her son to be happy.”

Grace stared at him in confusion. Now what? Did he intend to leave and let her keep Zac?

“I’m proposing to take the two of you back to Peru with me,” he said. “You could see the estate where Zac would grow up and the privileged life he’d enjoy. After that you’d have three choices. You could give him up to my custody and go home, you could work out some kind of visitation arrangement with me, or you could choose to stay in Peru and raise the boy to manhood.”

As his words sank home, Grace felt the shock all the way to her bones. This, then, was her reality. Emilio Santana was Zac’s biological uncle. He intended to take his nephew. Her only option was whether or not she would agree to go with him, and leave her life in Arizona behind. If she tried to keep Zac there with her, this man had the power to raise an army of lawyers against her.

She inhaled shakily. “You’re saying, if I stayed in Peru, I could take care of Zac, but I couldn’t adopt him.”

“That’s right. It would be your choice.”

She rose to face him, holding the baby tight. “But I wouldn’t be his mother. I’d be more like his nanny.”

Emilio’s eyes narrowed. His look was dark and dangerous. “You’d be part of his life. The only other option is to let him go for good.”

Two

Grace pressed close to the window as the Gulfstream G500 dropped toward Lima. Far to the west, the setting sun streaked the clouds with rose and flame. Below the plane, breathtakingly close, the craggy peaks of the Andes jutted into the thin air like ice-tipped daggers.

“Unbelievable,” she murmured.

“Isn’t it? I never get tired of flying home.” Emilio emerged from the cockpit where he’d been consulting with his private pilot. Grace was still getting used to his way of making things happen. Within a few hours of their first meeting, he’d pulled strings to secure the couriered delivery of visas from the Peruvian consulate for her and Zac. Grace had been given just one day to pack and recruit a friend to house-sit. The next morning she and Zac had been picked up and driven to the airport in a chauffeured limousine. Bypassing the hassle of ticket and security lines, they’d been whisked along a side road to Emilio’s private plane. Almost before she’d realized it, she was having hot coffee and flaky cheese croissants in the air, served by a slim young man who fussed over Zac and smiled at her efforts to make herself understood in her high school Spanish.

To paraphrase Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she wasn’t in Arizona anymore. She and Zac had been swept up by this cyclone of a man and transported to another world—a world that, for Grace, was still shrouded in unreality.

“How is the boy doing?” Emilio slid into the leather seat across the aisle. He’d spent much of the flight in the office section of the plane, leaving Grace to tend Zac in the main cabin. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to impose his presence on her; or, more likely, he simply hadn’t had much interest in her company. As his nephew’s caretaker, her status wasn’t far above a servant’s.

Grace glanced toward Zac, who lay strapped in his car seat, sound asleep. “The little pill spent most of the day wearing himself out,” she said. “I’m hoping he’s down for the count. I know I am.”

Emilio’s gaze lingered on the sleeping baby, as if examining each feature for traces of his brother. “He’s a beautiful child, isn’t he?”

“He had a beautiful mother.” Grace squelched the urge to remind him what Cassidy had gone through to carry and deliver her baby, refusing needed medicines to treat her cancer that might have caused him harm. All that Arturo had given up was a minuscule blob of DNA—and that while thoroughly enjoying himself. Emilio had contributed nothing at all. The idea that this man was entitled to storm into her life and snatch away the child she loved was unthinkable. But that was her new reality.

“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.

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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