Claiming His Secret Son

by Olivia Gates

  It felt as though he was back where he’d grown up.

  Shaking off the oppressive memories, he parked in front of Isabella’s leased residence, a magnificently renovated Tudor.

  Glaring at the massive edifice, he exhaled. If he’d been in any condition to think last night, he would have deduced the reason why she’d leased such a big house when Murdock had imparted that information. It was understatement to say he’d been unpleasantly surprised to find out she lived with her mother, a sister and three children.

  That put a serious crimp in his plans of relocating her to be near him. Now instead of invading her home to execute the seduction he’d had in mind, he’d come to get the lay of the land and to lie in wait for her.

  Exiting his car, he strode across the wide pavement and ran up the steps to her front porch. He rang the bell then stood back as the long-forgotten sounds of children rose from inside.

  The last time he’d heard sounds like that had been the day he’d left his family home.

  He’d stood outside as he did now, listening to Robert and Rose playing. They’d sounded so carefree with the ominous shadow of Burton lifted, if only temporarily.

  Little had his brother and sister known that Burton had only been absent because he was finalizing the deal that would make Richard the indentured slave of The Organization. They wouldn’t have been so playful if they’d known it would be the last time they’d ever see their older brother.

  Gritting his teeth, he reeled back the bilious recollections as feet approached, too fast and too light to be those of an adult.

  Splendid. One of the little people in her stable was the one who’d volunteered to open the door. An obnoxious miniature human to vex him more than he already was.

  All of a sudden the door rattled with what sounded like a little body crashing into it. That twerp had used the door to abort his momentum, no doubt not considering slowing down instead. Maybe waiting for Isabella in a home infested with abominations-in-progress who might aggravate him into devouring them wasn’t a good idea.

  But the door was already opening. It was too late to change his plan. Or maybe he’d pretend he’d knocked on the wrong door and—

  He blinked at the boy who’d opened the door and was looking at him with enormous eyes, his mind going blank.

  His heart crashed to one side inside his chest as the whole world seemed to tilt on its axis.

  Then his mind, his very existence, seemed to explode.

  Bloody hell...that’s...that’s...

  Robert.

  The bolt of realization almost felled him.

  There was only one explanation for finding a duplicate of his dead younger brother in Isabella’s home.

  This boy was his.

  Five

  “Who’re you?”

  The melodious question sank through him, detonated like a depth mine. Observations came flooding in at such an intolerable rate, they buried him under an avalanche of details.

  The texture of the boy’s raven locks, the azure sky of his eyes, the slant of his eyebrows, the bow of his lips. His height and size and posture and every inch of his sturdy, energy-packed body...

  But it was the boundless inquisitiveness and unwavering determination on his face that hit Richard so forcefully it threatened to expel whatever he had inside him that passed for a soul. That expression was imprinted in his mind. He’d seen it on his brother’s face so many times when he’d been that same age. Before exposure to Burton had put out his fire and spontaneity and hope, everything that had made him a child.

  Even had it not been for the almost identical resemblance, that jolt in his blood would have filled him with certainty. That Isabella had had his child.

  This was his son.

  “Mauri...don’t open the door!”

  “Already opened it, Abuela!” the boy yelled, never taking his eyes off Richard. Then he asked again, “Who’re you?”

  Before Richard considered if he could speak any longer, a woman in her fifties came rushing into the foyer.

  Her hurried steps faltered as soon as her eyes fell on him, becoming as wide as the boy’s, the anxiety in them dissipating, a genial smile lighting up her face.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Something tugged at his sleeve. The boy—Mauri—pursuing his prior claim to his attention. And insisting on his all-important question. “Who’re you?”

  Richard stared down at him, literally having trouble remembering the name he’d invented for himself.

  The boy held out his hand in great decorum, taking the initiative, as if to help him with his obvious difficulty in answering that elementary question. “I’m Mauricio Sandoval.”

  In the chaos his mind had become, he noted that Isabella had given the boy her new invented surname. He stared at the small proffered hand, stunned to find his heart booming with apprehension at the idea of touching him.

  So he didn’t, but finally answered instead, his voice an alien rasp to his own ears. “I’m Richard Graves.”

  The boy nodded, lowering his hand, then only said, “Yes, but who are you?”

  “Mauri!”

  At the woman’s gentle reprimand, Richard raised his gaze to her, shaking his head, jogging himself out of the trance he’d fallen in. “Mauricio is right. Telling you my name didn’t really tell you who I am.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “Mauri!”

  The boy shrugged at the woman’s embarrassment, undeterred. “I don’t mean funny ha-ha, I mean not like us. I like it. You sound so...important. Wish I could speak like that.” His gaze grew more penetrating, as if he wanted to drag answers from him. “Why do you speak like that?”

  “Because I’m British.”

  “You mean from Britain?” At Richard’s nod he persisted, “That’s not the same as English, is it?”

  The boy knew things most adults didn’t. “Not exactly. I do happen to be English, too, or rather, English first, having been born in England. But a lot of people are British—and that means they’re citizens of Great Britain—but not English. They could be Scottish, Welsh, or some Irish from Northern Ireland, too. But most of those people hate being called British, rather insisting on calling themselves English or Scottish or Welsh or Irish. I say British because the majority of people from the rest of the world don’t know the difference. And most don’t care.”

  “So you say British so they won’t ask questions when they don’t care about the answers. I ask questions because I like to know stuff.”

  Richard marveled at the boy’s articulate, thorough logic, his insight into what made people tick. He was too well informed and socially developed for his age. Isabella and her family were clearly doing a superlative job raising him.

  After digesting the new information, the boy persisted. “You still didn’t tell us who you are.”

  At the woman’s groan, Richard felt a smile tug at his lips at the boy’s dogged determination. It was clear when he latched on to something, little Mauricio never let go.

  That trait was more like him than Robert.

  On his next erratic heartbeat his involuntary smile froze. He sensed that there was more to Mauricio’s insistence than the drilling curiosity of a young and tenacious mind. Could it be the boy was that sensitive he felt the blood bond between them?

  No. Of course not. That was preposterous.

  But what was really ridiculous was him standing there like a gigantic oaf, unable to carry his end of an introduction with a curious child and a kindly lady.

  Forcing himself out of his near stupor, he cocked his head at the boy, that bolt of recognition striking him all over again. “In my defense, you told me only your name, too.”

  That perfect little face, so earnest and involved, tilted at him in challenge. “You’re visiting us, so you know stuff about us already. We don’t know anything about you.”

  Richard’s lips twisted at how absurd the boy’s rebuttal made his previous comment. It really hadn’t occurred to him to c
onsider that simple fact when he’d made it. His mental faculties had been all but demolished.

  While the boy was as sharp and alert as his mother. He got to the point and held his ground. As she always did.

  He inhaled a much-needed draft of oxygen. “You’re quite right. Knowing your name tells me a lot about you, based on what I already know about your...family, while knowing mine tells you nothing about me. You’re also right to insist on knowing who I am. It’s the first thing you always need to know about other people, so you can decide what to expect from them. Let me introduce myself better this time.”

  He held out his hand. The boy didn’t give him a chance to brace himself for the contact, eagerly putting his hand in his. And an enervating current zapped through him.

  He barely withdrew his hand instead of snatching it away, suppressing the growl that clawed at his throat at the lash of sensations.

  “My name is Richard Graves and I’m an old...associate of Dr. Sandoval’s.”

  Mauricio ricocheted a new question. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then, what are you?”

  “I’m a security specialist.”

  “What’s that?”

  Richard frowned. No one had ever asked him that question. When they probably should have. People assumed they understood what he did when most had no idea. That boy didn’t presume. He asked so he’d know exact details, build his knowledge on solid ground. As Robert had.

  Realizing his shoulders had slumped under the still-intensifying shock, he straightened. “It’s a lot of things, actually, and it’s all very important and very much in demand. The world is a dangerous place—and that’s why your grandmother was rightfully upset that you opened the door. I’m sure she told you never to do that.”

  The boy sheepishly looked at the woman who was standing there watching them, her expression arrested. “Yeah, she did. Mamita, too. Sorry, Abuela.”

  Anxious to drive his point home, make it stick, Richard pressed on. “You must promise never to do that again, to always—always—do as your mother and grandmother say. Security is the most important thing in the world. I know, trust me.”

  The boy only nodded. “I trust you.”

  The boy’s unexpected, earnest response was another blow.

  Before he could deal with it, the boy added, “I promise.” Then his solemn look was replaced by that burning interest again. “So what do you do?”

  “I am the one people come to, to make them safe.”

  “Are you a bodyguard?”

  “I’m the trainer and provider of bodyguards. To banks, companies, individuals, private and public events and transportation, and of course my own business and partners—and many other interests. I also keep people’s private lives and businesses safe in other ways, protecting their computers, communications and information against accidental loss or hacking.”

  With every detail, Mauricio’s blue eyes sparkled brighter in the declining sun. “How did you learn to do all that?”

  With another groan, the woman intervened again. “Mauri, what did we say about not asking a new question every time someone gives you an answer?” Then she squeezed her dark eyes in mortification. “As if my manners are any better!” She rushed toward him and touched him on the arm. Her smile was exquisite, reminding him so much of Isabella, even though she barely resembled her. “Please come in.”

  Her gentle invitation agitated him even more. The idea of spending more time with that little boy with the endless questions and enormous eyes that probed his very essence felt as appealing as electrocution. In fact, that would have been preferable. He’d suffered it before, and he could say for certain what he was feeling now was worse.

  Wishing only to run away, he cleared his throat. “It’s all right. I don’t want to interrupt your day. I’ll connect with Isabella some other time.”

  The woman’s hand tightened on his forearm, aborting his movement away from the threshold. “You wouldn’t interrupt anything. I already cooked and updated my website where I do some of my volunteer work. Bella stayed overnight at work, but Saturday is her half day, so she’ll be home soon.”

  So Isabella had explained her night away. But that wasn’t the important thing now. The pressing matter was the alien feeling coming over him as he looked into this woman’s kind eyes. He could only diagnose it as...helplessness. For the first time in his life he was being exposed to genuine hospitality, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

  As if sensing his predicament, she patted his forearm, her eyes and voice gentling. “We’d really love to have you.”

  Corroborating his grandmother’s request, the boy grabbed his other forearm. “Yes, please. You can tell me how you learned everything you do. Your job is as cool as a superhero!”

  The woman looked at her grandson with tender reproof. “Mr. Graves isn’t here to entertain you, Mauri.”

  The boy nodded his acceptance. “I know. He’s here to see Mamita.” He swerved into negotiation mode seamlessly, fixing Richard with his entreaty. “But you have to do something while we wait for her.”

  At Richard’s hesitation, the boy changed his bargaining tactic on the fly. “If your job is top secret and you can’t talk about it, I can show you my drawings.”

  Richard stared down at the boy. He drew. Like him. Something no one knew about him.

  His whole body was going numb with...dread? It was beyond ludicrous to be feeling this way. But he’d been in shackles, had been tortured within an inch of his sanity, and he’d never felt as trapped and as desperate as he did now with those two transfixing him with gentleness and eagerness.

  But there was no escape and he knew it. Those two frail yet overwhelming creatures had him cornered.

  Feeling as if he was swallowing red-hot nails, he nodded.

  Mauricio’s smile blinded him as he whooped his excitement, pulling at Richard. Once he had him over the threshold, he let him go and streaked away, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll go get my stuff!”

  Watching Mauricio disappear, Richard stepped into Isabella’s home as if stepping out from under tons of rubble.

  The woman closed the door behind him and guided him inside. “I’m Marta, by the way. Isabella’s mother, in case you didn’t work that out. I don’t know if Bella ever talked about me.”

  She hadn’t. Isabella had never mentioned her family. When he’d tried to investigate them as part of his research into her life, there’d only been basic info until she was thirteen. Anything beyond that age had been blank until she’d married Burton. He now knew she’d later wiped out her years of marriage to him, too. But at the time he hadn’t bothered to probe the missing parts, thinking them irrelevant to his mission. But he did remember Marta was her mother’s name. She hadn’t changed her name, either.

  Suddenly something else bothered him. He stopped. Marta stopped, too, her gaze questioning.

  “Once your grandson puts that logical mind of his to use, he’ll realize you didn’t follow your own rule about security. You didn’t make sure I know Isabella, or if I do, that we’re on the sort of terms that make it safe to let me into your home.”

  She waved his concern away. “Oh, I’m certain you know her, and well enough. And that it’s safe to invite you in.”

  Warmth spread in his chest at yet another thing he’d never been exposed to. Unquestioning trust. Not even Murdock, Rafael or Isabella had trusted him so completely that quickly.

  But such trust was unlikely coming from someone of Marta’s age, and one who’d grown up in a country where danger was a part of daily life to so many people.

  Was she letting her guard down now that they were in the States and in a secure neighborhood? Or because she judged people by appearances and from his she judged him to be refined and civilized? If she was that trusting with strangers, she could expose them all to untold dangers.

  He didn’t budge when she urged him onward, needing to make sure she didn’t make that mistake again,
either. “How did you come by that certainty? Did your daughter ever talk about me?”

  “No.” She grinned. “And she’s going to hear my opinion of that omission later.” Her eyes grew serious, but remained the most genial thing he’d ever seen. “But in a long and very eventful life, I’ve learned to judge people with absolute accuracy. I’ve yet to be wrong about anyone.”

  He grimaced. “You think you have an infallible danger radar? That’s even worse than having no discretion at all.”

  She chuckled in response to his groan. “So you first feared I drag in anyone who comes to our door, and now you think I overestimate my judgment?” She tugged at him again, her face alight with merriment. “Don’t worry, I’m neither oblivious nor overconfident. I am a happy medium.”

  He still resisted her, imagining how silly they must look, a slight woman trying to drag a behemoth more than twice her size, with him appearing the one in distress.

  “What happy medium? You think I’m harmless.”

  This made her giggle. “I’d sooner mistake a tiger for a kitten.” She sobered, though she continued grinning. “I think you’re extremely harmful. I know a predator when I see one, and I’ve never seen anyone I thought as lethal as you. But I’m also sure you don’t hunt the innocent or the defenseless. I have a feeling your staple diet is those who prey on them.”

  His thoughts blipped, stalled. How could this woman who’d just met him read him so accurately?

  She wasn’t finished. “So yes, I let you in because, beyond the personal details I don’t know, I took one look at you and knew who you are. In a disaster, and when everyone else is scared or useless, you’re the man I’d depend on to save my family.”

  He gave up. On trying to predict, or even to brace himself for what the next second would bring in this Twilight Zone of a household. He also gave up any preconceptions he’d unconsciously formed about Marta since she’d come rushing after Mauricio. Once he did, he let himself see beyond her apparent simplicity to the world of wisdom, born of untold ordeals, in her gaze. This woman had seen...and survived...too much.