Still, she had to guard Matthew against being hurt if–when?–his father dropped out of his life.
She took a swallow of coffee before finally answering, “I want to talk about Matthew. He’s the important issue.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I might have given you the wrong impression yesterday. With the shock and . . .” She watched her hand lower the cup, as if fitting it into the depression of the saucer constituted a tricky maneuver. “I won’t stand between my son and his father. We’ll work it out so you can see him.”
“Thank you.” His intense eyes studied her for what felt like an hour. “And you?”
“And me what?”
“Will I see you?”
“I’m not about to hand over Matthew and leave you to your own devices, if that’s what you mean. I’m going to be around as much as it takes to make sure he’s okay–and you can be trusted.”
“I would never let any harm come to him.”
Despite their history, despite his lies, despite her good sense, she believed him. And that roused her anger.
“You won’t get a chance to harm him. I’ll see to that. So, yes, you’re going to be seeing me. As often as you see Matthew. There won’t be unsupervised visits until I’m totally satisfied.”
“I understand. But that’s not what I meant about seeing you.”
“Then I have no idea what you meant.”
“Yes, you do, Kendra.”
His brown eyes regarded her steadily. They were Paulo Ayudor’s eyes. The eyes of a man who hadn’t existed.
Except. . . In this light they weren’t as dark as they’d been in the murkiness of their shelter from Aretha. There, they’d seemed as black as his pupils. But now she saw the warmer tones of chocolate brown and even flecks of green and gold.
Paulo’s eyes had accepted whatever she’d told him. These eyes challenged her to admit the truth–at least to herself.
She did know what he meant. And that part of her that had hesitated over his outrageous marriage proposal last night wanted to agree. That made her even angrier.
“You can’t disappear into the night as a Santa Estellan named Paulo Ayudor, go back to being the legendary Taumaturgio for three years, pop up as Tompkins, then stroll in as a someone named Daniel Delligatti and think things will be the same.”
“What was there between us is the same. Unless. . . You’re not married–are you involved with someone?”
“That has nothi–”
“This Luke?”
“Luke’s a friend.” She’d meant to get answers, not give them. “And that isn’t the issue. You and I–we’re strangers. Strangers in the uncomfortable position of having a child together. We don’t–”
“We’re not strangers. We’re the same people who spent those hours together we thought might be our last on earth. The hours when we made Matthew.”
She ignored his final words, and the frisson they set loose along her backbone.
“No, we’re not the same. You’re certainly not–that was all fiction for God’s sake.” She hurried on before he could object. “And I’m not the same. From the time I found out I was pregnant, from the time I knew I would be raising my son alone, I became a different person.”
“Not deep inside, Kendra. There you’re the same person. So am I. And you know that person. But if you think you don’t know me, I’ll give you the opportunity to fill in blanks you think need filling in, like some form. Go ahead, ask me whatever you want. And–” He slanted a faintly amused look at her. “–whatever your sources haven’t already told you.”
This wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned. Pushing back the uncomfortable sensation of being caught off guard, she snapped, “You’re surprised I wanted to check out your story?”
“Not surprised. A little disappointed. But you shouldn’t be surprised I knew about it, either. You have your sources, I have mine.”
“Disappointed? That I don’t take you at your word – again–and let myself be lied to–again? Let me tell you, Daniel Benton Delligatti, when it comes to my son, I’m not taking any chances.”
“I know.” His words were not the least contrite. “That’s why I told people to tell your sources anything they want to know that doesn’t compromise security.”
“And you shouldn’t mind answering my questions directly, either,” she challenged, glaring into his eyes. Almost immediately, the danger of locking looks announced itself in a new warmth under her skin. She blinked, then studied his shoulder as she added, “Starting with how you became Taumaturgio.”
He said nothing. As the silence continued, she realized he would wait as long as necessary–until she met his eyes. She jerked her chin up and met his gaze.
“This is off the record, Kendra.”
“I doubt the Far Hills Banner would be interested in secret missions in Santa Estella. Organizational meetings for childcare cooperatives are more its style.”
“It’s not the Far Hills Banner I’m talking to. It’s Kendra Jenner, and I know what kind of reporter she is–wherever she’s working. Off the record.”
She was tempted to tell him she didn’t let sources dictate to her. But she’d never report this story. Not only because her job had changed, but because of Matthew. A spotlight aimed on Taumaturgio would almost certainly reach Matthew. And, to be honest with herself, she would never report the story because of him–Taumaturgio, Paulo, Daniel, whatever name he used. It would feel too much like betrayal.
“Off the record,” she agreed.
“People at the consulate knew what was happening in Santa Estella, with some officials selling off aid and getting rich, and they didn’t like it. Trouble is, when a country’s government is swearing up and down that the aid is getting where it belongs, it’s hard to push in and make things right. Causes nasty talk about Yankee imperialism and such. So our hands were tied . . . officially.”
“You already worked at the consulate?”
“No. I was brought in.”
“The consulate staff knew?”
He shook his head. “Only one contact.”
“But you’re career foreign service?”
“Not exactly, though I do get a government paycheck.”
“CIA?”
He grinned, a sudden, vibrant flash of white teeth against deeply tanned skin. Just like he had–No. She would not let memories of a man who hadn’t truly existed affect her. That had been excusable yesterday, with the shock of seeing him. But she’d thought this through, and she couldn’t afford that. The volatile compound of memories could blow up in her face.
“Bite your tongue. CIA’s too public. Too many people know what it’s doing, it’s too big a bureaucracy and generally too unimaginative to handle that kind of job.”
“I didn’t mean to insult your professional dignity,” she said tartly, and his grin widened. “But I’ve always heard about the CIA having people at the embassies.”
“Some embassies have CIA types around, but they aren’t the only, uh, specialists. Some specialists are officially in the foreign service. Some aren’t. I wasn’t. But I had the background to pass muster and they needed someone who could fly.”
She’d heard pieces of that background from her sources. As the younger son of a career foreign service officer, Daniel Delligatti had been brought up in embassies and consulates around the world. His older brother had continued in the family business and was working his way up the ladder, though the titles were vague. Daniel’s work history was even more difficult to pin down.
“Then exactly whom do you work for?” she asked. Her sources hadn’t come up with that yet.
He shook his head ruefully. “That’s one of the things I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t mean anything to you even if I did tell you the name, but–No, maybe you would have heard of it. But I still can’t tell you. It’s part of the deal when you sign on with the outfit.”
He said it simply, but it had the ring of a man who stood by his pledges.
Pledges.
We made a pledge, Kendra. . . . It’s a pledge I intend to keep.
She shook off the echo of his words and reminded herself that his convincing delivery could also be the hallmark of a consummate liar.
She had to remember how many times he’d fooled her already. Had to hold onto that knowledge for her peace of mind and to safeguard Matthew’s heart.
“So, you’re not with the CIA, but you are a spy.”
“Kendra–”
“You must have had special training.”
“Some, but–”
“Like how to kill? Have you killed people?”
“No.”
The stark way he said it not only convinced her, but reminded her that what he’d done in Santa Estella had been about saving people – children–not killing. But his next words returned a hint of self-mockery.
“I’ll tell you this, mostly what I do–did before Santa Estella–was fly for this government outfit when . . . well, let’s say in the sort of situations when our people couldn’t go standby on the next available commercial flight–if commercial flights went to those spots. So they had me and a few other pilots available. I had training in case things didn’t go exactly according to plan, but I’m a pilot, not a spy.”
One of her sources had left the information that he’d had a pilot’s license since about the same time he’d had a driver’s license on her answering machine last night. If she’d had any doubts before about how she would respond to his ridiculous proposal to make them a family, that had ended them.
“I remember hearing tales about Taumaturgio’s flying–no instruments, no lights, in planes held together by chewing gum.”
“Sometimes old chewing gum,” he said wryly.
“A daredevil.”
He frowned. “Not when I didn’t have to be. The idea was to make sure aid got through to the people who needed it–especially the kids. A crashed daredevil didn’t do them any good.”
“So what happened?”
He shifted, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, with his spread fingers meeting tip to tip.
“Nine months ago, I got called to Washington. The kind of invitation you don’t refuse. On a mission like this they allow latitude, they said, but not as much as they felt I’d taken. They said to retire Taumaturgio.”
“Nine months ago? When that story broke about a second planeload of kids you’d flown to the hospital in Miami.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I’d hoped to keep it quiet, but no hurricane saved me from a nosy reporter that time.”
She ignored the hint of teasing. “It was a good story.”
A story she’d followed with so many conflicting emotions. Was that when the suspicion that Paulo and Taumaturgio were linked first surfaced to her conscious mind?
She’d spent hours taping the reports. There’d been a lot about the plight of the children and much praise for Taumaturgio–from the children, the medical personnel and the people of Santa Estella, but no reporter had caught up with him. Gradually, the story died out.
“I’ll take your word for what makes a good story.”
“It got a lot of attention for Santa Estella.”
He shrugged. “So’d Hurricane Aretha. The gain wasn’t worth that price, either. Unfortunately that story brought a lot of attention to Taumaturgio bringing in kids illegally. The chain of command didn’t care for that. I suppose they’d known before, but they hadn’t had it out in the public. The Santa Estellan officials raised a stink, and Washington said Taumaturgio had to disappear.”
“Disappear? But the stories didn’t end nine months ago. Only two months ago–”
She stopped, recognizing what her words revealed–a woman who’d tracked all mentions of Santa Estella and Taumaturgio. But he took her statement matter-of-factly.
“I held out. Kept running supplies in, while I tried to get some big relief groups to put Santa Estella on their list.”
“But you had orders.”
“Call it a differing interpretation of exactly how much latitude I had.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t suppose that went over too well.”
“Not particularly. When that date to cease operations came and they realized I hadn’t closed down, they took measures to enforce their orders. But they had to find me first.”
She shook her head. Daniel Delligatti or Taumaturgio, he certainly had nerve. “And after that you still have a job?”
“Yeah. They had me in Washington for a couple weeks for debriefings that ended up being mostly telling me how many rules I’d broken how many ways, they put an official reprimand in my file, and they encouraged me to consider my future during this leave. But I’ve got a job to go back to.”
From what she’d read between the lines earlier, a job that would mean unscheduled departures to dangerous spots for unknown amounts of time. His life wasn’t his own.
“How does Matthew fit into this?”
“Whatever I do, Matthew will be part of it. As for specifics . . .” He spread his long fingers flat on the table. “During the four months of this leave, I intend to be around as much as you’ll let me, and let my son know he has a father who loves him.”
She didn’t know which part of that to respond to first, so she focused on the most practical part.
“Four months? You’re staying here four months?”
She had a sudden vision of Daniel Delligatti sitting at her kitchen table day in and day out for four months, and her trying to ignore him with about as much success as ignoring the proverbial elephant in the living room.
She’d go nuts.
“Yeah.”
For a second she was unclear if he’d answered her spoken question or agreed with her unspoken assessment. She would go nuts.
“What would you do in Far Hills for four months?”
His hesitation was more telling than any words. He’d go nuts sitting at her table day in and day out. After all, up until a couple months ago, he had been living two, three or who knew how many lives.
“I can take care of Matthew on the days you work.”
“Daniel, you haven’t considered the practicalities of this. You’re not comfortable with Matthew and–”
“That’s going to change.”
“–I have child-care arrangements. Besides, I work three days a week, so you’d still have four days a week to fill even if you took care of Matthew every minute I worked. I know the rates at the motel aren’t on a par with the Ritz, but even so, four months of staying there and eating out, and–”
“I’ll find a place.”
“Daniel–”
“I’m staying, Kendra.”
When she saw that stubborn expression on her son’s face she expected a true battle. And this time it was backed by the brawn and experience of one very determined adult male.
“You should think this through. Decide what you want to do–”
“I know what I want to do. I want to see this ranch you talked so much about during Aretha. I want to see Far Hills.”
“You can’t leap into this–”
“C’mon. You seem to be out of questions, so let’s–”
“I’m not out of questions. I have plenty of questions. I just think–”
“Fine. Ask them while you show me around.”
*
But she didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t get much of a tour.
Instead, he learned lessons.
These first lessons in being a father were coming fast and furious, and in unexpected ways.
The tour of Far Hills he’d prodded her into giving him would be abbreviated, she’d said, because she needed to pick up Matthew at Marti’s.
That was one lesson: A parent’s chauffeur duty wasn’t only the stuff of stand-up comedians’ one-liners.
He’d offered to drive his car.
Lesson number two: No car seat, no kid in the car.
His first purchase would be a car seat–and he’d install
it carefully after hearing the statistics Kendra spouted about the dangers of car seats incorrectly installed. She’d done a story on it, she told him, for the network.
She’d been so immersed in the topic that he hadn’t gotten much more than general directions for getting around the ranch and a few identifiers–“That’s Ridge House, where Ellyn and her kids live.” “Turn left here to go in the back way to the barn.”–as they drove to the main house, what Kendra called the home ranch.
Home. That’s what she’d called it in those hours during Aretha when she’d thought he–or Paulo–didn’t understand. But he had understood. And he’d recognized that she’d reserved the word for the ranch, never the places she’d lived with her mother.
Seeing it now, he couldn’t imagine anywhere more different from where he’d spent most of the past five years. Far Hills and Santa Estella both had mountains, but that was the only connection.
These mountains, unlike the lush peaks of Santa Estella so covered by vegetation that they were hard to see, stood out in stark relief, seeming unintimidated by a sky that could overwhelm the senses. Leading up to the peaks were folds of earth bleached by the dry autumn until they resembled immovable sand dunes.
Ahead, a line of trees allowed glimpses of buildings. They turned and drove parallel to the trees. A scattering of sheds backed along a pasture, then a corrugated metal structure, followed by an old building–well maintained but the record of its repairs shown in varied states of the wood. A series of corrals connected it to a newer, bigger barn. If he hadn’t already guessed, this confirmed that Far Hills Ranch was no small operation.
The road passed through a loose ring of trees, and he saw the house.
He gave a soft whistle. “So that’s where you stayed when you were here as a kid?”
Two full stories, with windows peeking out of the eaves of the third floor, and with substantial wings to either side of the central core–bigger than the public hospital on Santa Estella and considerably better tended.
The house was painted fresh white with sharp black shutters. Deep blue awnings shaded first-floor windows. The sweep of lawn, the plantings clustered around the house, the patches of fall flowers and even the big trees shading the whole thing showed signs they’d received more water than the arid areas along the road but not as much as they would have liked.
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