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