However, moments after he’d returned to Santa Fe and walked into his apartment, the telephone rang. The feminine voice speaking Spanish on the other end of the wire had shattered his euphoria. His aunt tearfully informed him that Alejandro was declining rapidly, and that his doctor had had him transferred to a hospital, where he was resting comfortably after having been sedated.
He hadn’t hesitated, telling Sonia he would be there as soon as he secured a reservation. He called Emily and left a message on her cell phone voice mail that he was leaving the States for Mexico. His next call had been to Grant Carsons, who expressed his sympathy and promised to keep the other three people who made up the inner circle of the campaign committee abreast of their candidate’s personal crisis.
He slipped into a taxi outside the airport terminal, instructing the driver to take him to the hospital his aunt had mentioned. Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the hospital, and the driver removed his passenger’s garment and carry-on bags. Chris paid him, adding a generous tip and rushed into the small hospital. After securing a visitor’s pass from a clerk who provided patient information, Chris took the stairs to the third floor instead of waiting for an elevator.
He hadn’t realized how fast his heart was beating until he stood outside Alejandro Delgado’s room, peering at his father’s gaunt body and colorless face, blending with the pristine linen. Clear, measured drops of liquid dripped through a tube and into the needle inserted into a vein on the back of his right hand. Even from that distance, Chris could see the dark bruises from the intravenous feedings. The distinctive sound of a machine monitoring vitals shattered the silence in the room.
Taking several steps, he moved into the room just as an elderly nurse, sitting on a chair in a corner, rose to her feet. She seemed startled to see him but recovered quickly.
“He’s resting, señor.”
Chris nodded. “How long has he been asleep?”
“His doctor prescribed a morphine drip earlier this morning to ease his pain.” She glanced at her watch. “The attending doctor will return in another hour.”
Placing his luggage in a corner near the door, Chris walked over to the side of the bed. “I’ll wait for him.”
The older woman offered a polite smile. “There’s a waiting room at the end of the hall.”
“I’ll wait here,” Chris insisted, stressing the last word.
This time the nurse nodded. Turning, she walked back to the chair she’d vacated, sat down and picked up a magazine. She knew the young man was the patient’s son. Alejandro Delgado’s sister had informed her that he was expected to arrive from the States sometime that day. Well, he had come, and there was no doubt that he was a Delgado. Not only did he look like his father, but he sounded like him. When they had brought the patient in, he had demanded to be taken back home, where he could die with dignity. However, his protests were ignored, and it wasn’t until the needle was inserted into his hand, filled with a solution of life-sustaining nutrients and a powerful painkiller, that his objections were overridden. Within minutes he had succumbed to the narcotic that permitted him to sleep peacefully.
Running his fingers over the paper-thin flesh on his father’s cheek, Chris leaned closer. “I’m here, Dad.” He pressed his lips to Alejandro’s cool forehead. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He took a chair next to the bed, knowing he’d lied to the sleeping man. Everything wasn’t going to be all right. Alejandro Delgado-Quintero was dying. When he had leaned over the inert body, Chris had heard the death rattle in his father’s chest. And like his mother had more than thirty years before, when she waited for the return of her son, he waited for his father to draw his last breath.
Closing his eyes, Chris tried to recall his wife’s face. His wife. A secret smile curved his firm mouth when the image of her face seeped into his mind. He still found it hard to believe that he and Emily Kirkland were married. Legally they were husband and wife, yet despite the fact that he’d slept with her, nothing much had changed between them. And, unlike most newlyweds, they were living separate lives.
He hadn’t lied to Emily when he said he would walk away from the campaign to save his marriage. When he’d walked into his sister’s house after returning from Mexico and saw her cradling his nephew to her breasts, the scene jolted him like an electric shock. In that instant it wasn’t Isaiah Lassiter in her arms but their son. A son he hadn’t realized he wanted until after he’d exchanged his wedding vows. He wanted to be governor of the state, but not as much as he wanted to be a husband and a father.
Moving the chair closer to the bed, he reached out and laid his right hand over Alejandro’s left. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind blank. He was still in that position when his father surfaced from his drug-induced sleep to find his son sitting at his bedside, holding his hand in a protective grip.
* * *
Alejandro tried to focus on his son’s profile, but the tears in his eyes would not permit him to see clearly. He pulled his hand away, and Chris woke up.
Black eyes surveyed him critically. “Dad? Are you in pain?”
Shaking his head slowly, Alejandro moaned as a spasm of pain gripped him in a tight fist, refusing to release him. “No,” he lied. He didn’t recognize his own voice. His throat hurt, as if he’d been yelling for hours.
Chris glanced up at the bag. It was nearly empty. He looked for the nurse, but she had left the room. “I’m going to call for a doctor to change your IV.”
Alejandro clawed at his hand. “No, Chris. Don’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
His eyelids fluttered wildly when he tried to compose his thoughts. He couldn’t think clearly because his body was being poisoned by the narcotics flowing into his veins.
“I want to talk to you. Just this last time before I die.”
A frown creased Chris’s forehead. “You’re not going to die.”
A knowing smile curved Alejandro’s mouth. “You should be ashamed of yourself, lying to a dying man. And your father at that.”
“When did you become a comedian?”
Alejandro sobered quickly, inhaling sharply as the knot of pain held him in a savage grip, held him hostage. He had to talk—and talk fast. Closing his eyes, he prayed for strength.
“I want you to tell your mother that I’m sorry for everything. Tell her that I still love her. She is the only woman I’ve ever loved.” His narrow chest rose and fell heavily with each labored breath. “Is she still beautiful?”
Chris managed a trembling smile. “Yes, she is.”
The confirmation elicited a smile from Alejandro. “I knew she would be. I always wanted to grow old with her, but it was not to be. She told me that I was a better boyfriend than a husband, because once we married I couldn’t remain faithful to her.
“I didn’t sleep with the other women because I wanted to. I did it because I was afraid of loving Eve too much.” He opened his eyes, his gaze wavering. “Loving your mother frightened me. It was as if I couldn’t control myself with her, so I took other women. With them I was always in control.
“Then she left me. She left me and took my son with her. The judge in the American court told me that I could only see you on certain days.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “The supercilious buffoon told me, Alejandro Delgado-Quintero, that I had to have you back at your mother’s house at a certain time or she could call the police and have me arrested for kidnapping.
“I hated the American justice so much that I decided to challenge it. That’s when I took you. It was so easy that I couldn’t stop laughing. Then the laughter stopped when you began crying for your mother. Nothing I could do or say could stop you when you cried yourself to sleep night after night.
“I’ve spent many years atoning for my sins, though I know I can’t erase you
r pain, or your mother’s.” He took a deep breath, then let it out in a ragged sigh. The death rattle echoed above the beeping sounds coming from the ventilator.
Chris patted his hand. “I’m going to get the doctor.”
“No, not yet. I don’t have a lot of time, but I want you to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“When you have a son, name him after me.”
“Dad.”
Turning his head slowly, Alejandro glared at his son. “Promise me, Christopher.”
He wanted to scream at his father that he was a master manipulator. That even on his deathbed he wanted to control other people’s lives.
“What if I have daughters?”
“You will have a son,” Alejandro stated defiantly. “The Delgado-Quinteros will not end with you. Promise me, then go get the doctor and tell him to fill my veins with his poison.”
Chris stared at him, wanting to hate him, yet he couldn’t. No matter what he’d done, he couldn’t hate him. “I promise.”
A satisfied smile parted the older man’s lips. “Good. Now, kiss me before you go and get the doctor.”
Rising to his feet, Chris sat on the side of the bed. He laid his hand alongside his father’s face. Leaning close, he pressed his lips to the dry cheek. “I love you, Daddy.” Without warning, his eyes filled with tears, falling and splattering over Alejandro’s face.
“Gracias, mi hijo. Te amo,” he whispered. Tears leaked from under his closed lids, mingling with those of his son. “Go!” he gasped in English.
Chris rose from the bed, reaching for a handkerchief. He managed to wipe away the moisture staining his face before he walked out of the room. His aunt was coming down the hall, flanked by a doctor and the same nurse who had sat by Alejandro’s bedside.
Sonia’s expression brightened when she spied her nephew’s tall figure. He met her, cradling her gently in his embrace while the doctor and nurse saw to their patient’s needs.
“Thank you for coming, Cristobal. I prayed you’d get here before he left us to sleep with the angels.”
Tightening his grip on her waist, he led her back into the room. They stood motionless, their gazes fixed on the flat line on the monitor. Alejandro was gone.
Chapter 25
Santa Fe
It was another four days before Emily heard her husband’s voice again. It was the second message he’d left on her cell phone voice mail, and this one was profound and pregnant with emotion: Alejandro’s gone. I’ll be in Las Cruces if you need me.
Unlike the first one, when he’d notified her that he was going to Mexico, there was no declaration of love or that he missed her, and something whispered to her that she was losing her husband. Their marriage had not even begun, yet they were apart more than they were together.
She was no longer officially assigned to cover Savoy’s campaign, so it wouldn’t matter if she and Chris went public with their marriage. Shaking her head, Emily quickly dismissed the notion. They couldn’t—not until the police apprehended Bettina’s murderer.
Law enforcement efforts were hampered because, after a private memorial service, the Gibsons cremated their only child, then listed their home with a Realtor. Bettina Gibson had been dead exactly eight days when her parents left Santa Fe without leaving a forwarding address or telephone number. Detective Vincent McGrady had called her to see whether she knew of their whereabouts, and she’d informed him that the Gibsons had refused to take her calls, or to see her when she visited their home.
Richard Adams called her back to the station, reassigning her to edit copy and supervise a journalism student intern. She hadn’t argued with Richard because she only saw the intern twice a week, allowing her time to help the homicide detective with his unsolved case.
The telephone on her desk rang twice, indicating that the call came from an outside call. Leaning over, she picked up the receiver before it rang again. “Emily Kirkland.”
“Miss Kirkland, I’m going to make this quick. Don’t interrupt me or I’ll hang up. I think I know who killed Bettina Gibson.”
“Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“Goodbye, Miss Kirkland.”
“No…please. I won’t interrupt again.”
“I’ll contact you again.”
“Don’t call me here.” Emily lowered her voice. “Take down my cell phone number.”
“Give it to me.”
She whispered the number into the receiver, repeating it. Then she heard a dial tone. The woman had hung up.
Her hand was steady when she replaced the telephone on its cradle, though her stomach muscles had contracted tightly. Closing her eyes, she tried to steady her erratic pulse.
I think I know who killed Bettina Gibson. The woman had said that she thought—not that she knew for certain. The call had provided her with a lead—a slight lead. One that was worth following up.
Las Cruces
Chris dropped his mother’s hand, draping an arm over her shoulders and pulling her closer to his side. Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss to her silver hair.
“I’ve spent the past three days in Mexico,” he began softly.
Her head came up slowly, eyes so much like his own widening in shock. “What were you doing there?”
He hesitated, his gaze sweeping around the room. It lingered first on his stepfather, then sister, then returned to his mother. “Burying Alejandro Delgado.”
Eve Blackwell-Sterling’s soft gasp was audible in the swollen silence. “How long had you been communicating with him?”
Chris stared over his mother’s head at Matthew Sterling. There was no mistaking the icy contempt in his gaze.
“A month.”
Eve’s lashes fluttered wildly. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“There was no need.”
“Why now, son?”
Chris turned his attention to his stepfather. “Because I had questions about my father—questions Mom refused to answer. The rumors about Alejandro Delgado being a Mexican traitor are running rampant through the Savoy camp, and it’s only a matter of time before they’ll go public with them.”
“But Daddy’s your father,” Sara stated, speaking for the first time since she walked into her parents’ family room. She was overly protective of the connection between her father and brother. She never thought of him as her half-brother, or Matt Sterling as his stepfather.
Chris glared at his sister, who seemed to shrink under the withering stare. “That’s not what Billy Savoy gleaned from my birth certificate.”
Eve pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “You contacted him because of the rumors?”
“That was the only reason.”
Reaching for Chris’s hand, she threaded her fingers through his. Alejandro Delgado was gone, and so was everything they’d ever shared—everything except the child they’d created.
“You did what you had to do.”
“Did you get your answers?” Matt asked.
“Yes.” His expression brightened, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Alejandro’s death isn’t the only reason I wanted to meet with everyone. Mom, Dad, I know the two of you plan to sell Sterling Farms at the end of the year, so I’d like to offer a bid.”
Sara sat up straighter, the brilliant lights in her gold-green eyes sparkling. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to buy Sterling Farms.”
“Sterling Farms?” the other three chorused in unison.
“Only the ranch house,” Chris said quickly, staring at his sister. “I know you and Salem were talking about starting up a stud farm.”
Sara nodded. “Salem and Daddy are just talking.”
Leaning forward and resting his elbo
ws on his knees, Matt gave his stepson a direct look. “Why the house? Don’t you plan on living in the governor’s mansion?”
“Yes, I do,” he replied confidently. “But I need a permanent residence once my term is over.”
“What about your loft in Santa Fe?”
“I plan to list it with a Realtor after the election.”
“You don’t plan to continue your political career?” Sara asked, her gaze locking with his. “I thought your ultimate goal was the State Supreme Court.”
“I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things over the past month.” He missed the questioning gazes that passed between his sister and parents. “I’d hate to come back to visit Sara, Salem and my nephew and catch a glimpse of strangers living in the house where I grew up. It just wouldn’t be right.”
What he did not tell his family was that Alejandro Delgado had bequeathed him and Emily the Delgado-Quintero property in Puerto Escondido. The house and surrounding land had belonged to the Delgados for more than 400 years, and the terms of Alejandro’s will made certain the tradition would continue for centuries to come. Chris did not want to claim the lands of a man who was his father only because they’d shared a bloodline, while denying the legacy of the man who had become his father in every way possible.
Matt looked at his wife, and she nodded. “That settles it. The house is yours.”
Rising to his feet, Chris extended a hand to Matt, who also stood up. The two men exchanged a rough hug, then pounded each other’s back.
Sara rose gracefully from the love seat. “When are you going back to Santa Fe, bro?”
“Tomorrow morning. Why?”
“Why don’t you spend the night with us, then leave with Salem in the morning? He’s flying up. Besides, Isaiah would love to see his uncle again.”
Chris smiled at his sister. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
He kissed his mother tenderly, promising to call her in a few days, hugged his stepfather, went into his bedroom to retrieve his luggage, then followed Sara out to her car.
Private Passions Page 23
