"Maybe she didn't think you would believe her," she said shrewdly. "She was very frank with me about why she wanted the job as my a.s.sistant. She's pa.s.sionate about her land, and I believe she would have done anything to keep it, until she met you."

"Do you really think so?" he asked, looking at her.

"I'm almost certain of it." She touched his hand. "Ask her yourself, Anthony. Don't let her slip away from you."

Well, he wasn't going to. Nicola was his, no matter what, and soon she and everyone else would know that, including the man calling himself Antonio Mendoza Torres, who had given her seven million dollars.

The following morning he presented himself bright and early at the chambers of Mossman & Mossman and was shown into a small conference room, which held an oblong table and eight chairs, one on each short end and three each along the sides. He sat in one of the chairs at the short end, facing the door. He declined an offer of coffee. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, because he wanted to be there when Mr. Torres arrived. It would be a meeting just between the two of them.

Promptly at ten, the door opened and a man walked in. He stopped short, stared at Anthony, and turned pale. He half-turned toward the door, as though he intended to walk back out of the room.

"It's locked, Enrique," Anthony said drily. "Why don't you take a seat." He was unsurprised. He had considered all the possibilities and suspected that the man who had impersonated him was most likely his biological father's estranged nephew, Enrique.

Enrique hesitated then shrugged, a gesture that acknowledged inevitability and defeat. He took the middle chair on the longer side of the table, his back to the door. "So, you are alive, then," he said, as soon as he was seated.

"Very much so," Anthony replied. He waited, elbows resting casually on the arm of his chair, appearing completely at ease.

"I thought you were dead."

"And that is why you decided to take my place and my name?"

"It is a long story."

"I have time."

"You had been gone for several years, and your mother had long since died when the letter arrived from the lawyers," Enrique began.

At the mention of his mother, Anthony curled his fingers into fists as a host of images filtered through his brain. He fought down his latent anger and focused on what Enrique was saying.

He already knew the story. Mossman Senior had filled him in. His biological father Felipe Torres had died two years ago and had named his illegitimate son, Antonio, as his sole beneficiary, primarily because he wished to ensure that neither the government, which he had no use for, nor his relatives in Brazil, from whom he had voluntarily become estranged, would benefit from his hard-earned fortune. But he wanted to hear Enrique's version of events. He smiled grimly to himself, thinking that Felipe must have been turning over in his grave for the past two years at the irony of what had transpired.

"I opened the letter and read it," Enrique continued. "At the time, unfortunately, I was in what North Americans call 'a bit of a bind.' I owed money to someone, a small amount all things considered, but he threatened to harm me if I did not repay it very soon. Taking your place seemed like a way out of my predicament. Your mother was dead, and no one had any idea what had really happened to you. When your mother came back for the second time she told everyone you had run away. For all we knew, you might have been dead also, so I thought my actions would be hurting no one. I told my family I was going away, to New York, and I came here instead."

"An impostor," Anthony reminded him, his voice hard. "With false doc.u.ments and my mother's pa.s.sport to prove that you were her son. Where is it?"

"Locked in the safe at the house. You are free to take possession of the house and all the contents," Enrique told him unnecessarily.

"I am fully aware of that," Anthony said. What he wanted now was a truthful answer to the question that had weighed him down subconsciously for years. "Now tell me, how did my mother really die?" Of all his biological father's relatives, he believed the only one who would tell him the truth would be Enrique.

"You do not know? Then forgive me for being the one to tell you. She was returning from an errand and was. .h.i.t by a car being driven by a tourist."

"And her funeral? How was she buried? Where was she buried?"

Enrique looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then his expression cleared. "I understand why you ask this," he said. "My family was not very kind to you and your mother when you first came to Brazil from Jamaica, but they practice their religion, publicly at least. Your mother was given the last rites of her church and was buried in the village cemetery, not far from where many of the Torres family members are buried."

Anguish cut swiftly through him at the thought of his mother's final resting place denoting her as the outsider she had always been. After being told by Felipe that she and her son had to leave the estate, she had taken Antonio to Brazil, certain that the Torres family would be happy to see Felipe's son. But the family had been cold, hostile almost, except for Enrique, who was the same age as Antonio. The two young cousins had become friends and it was Enrique who had enlightened Antonio as to why the family was so hostile toward him and his mother .

Enrique had confided to Antonio that his father Felipe had left Brazil under a cloud, his sudden departure making him the prime suspect in the murder of a factory manager and the family had been subjected to questioning for months on end, the polcia turning up on their doorstep unannounced every so often, inquiring whether they had any news of Felipe's whereabouts. The relatives feared that if the polcia got wind of Valentina's arrival with Felipe's son, they would soon be on the doorstep asking more questions.

Disheartened by the hostile reception, his mother had left quietly one day, taking her son with her, and they had somehow wound up in Colombia. He didn't even recall how it had come about that she had ended up working for the Daughtys. He only remembered that compared to how they had lived before, life there had been good. And then came that fateful night when he met that lovely lady in the Daughtys garden and his life changed forever. Her name was Lady Felicity Astonville, and she had been so taken with him, she persuaded his mother to let her take him back to England where he would have a better life. That was 1984, and he had been twelve years old.

After thinking over Lady Astonville's request, his mother had agreed to let him go to England with them, telling him it would change his life, give him the future he would never have if he stayed with her. And she had been right. But in spite of his wonderful new life he had never stopped thinking about her. As he grew older his adoptive parents sensed his hidden sorrow and had hired a private detective agency to find her and bring her to England. The agency reported back that because of her age and the fact that her health was not good, she had been let go by the Daughtys several years ago. They provided her with a small gratuity, and she had returned to Brazil. Despite the poor treatment she and Antonio had received when they first went there under the illusion that they would be welcomed by the Torres family, it was still the only place outside her birth place of Santa Marta where someone would know who she was.

In his heart Anthony had always harbored a suspicion that his father's relatives had lied to the agency and that his Catholic mother had not received a proper burial with the last rites of her church. At least now the weight of that suspicion was finally lifted, although the pain of all she had been through, much of it on his account, would probably never leave him.

With an effort, he tore his mind away from the past and tried to focus on Enrique who was still speaking.

"I have spent very little of your fortune," Enrique was saying. "Hardly more than was required to pay the overseer and the workers. My own needs were modest. It was enough for me to be able to live in comfort and without fear. You will find that not very much has changed from the way your father left it."

"My biological father," Anthony amended mentally. Aloud he said, "Everything is basically intact?"

"Ah, there is a small matter. I lent money to friends who were in difficulties. I could not stand by and watch them lose their estate. But I have a signed note. So in reality you have not lost anything."

"Why could they not have gone to the bank?"

"That you will have to ask them if it is important to know. It was not important to me. I did not ask. These people I trust."

"Tell me about them," Anthony said, eyeing him keenly.

"The Edgerton sisters. Pretty," he said reflectively. "You may know them since they are...were...they will be your neighbors. Their parents died in a car crash last year, in the summer, and they wished to keep the estate and in time to become Blue Mountain coffee growers. At least, that is the dream of Nicola, the younger sister."

"How much money did you lend them?"

"Seven million dollars. Jamaica dollars," he amended, hoping to minimize the staggering size of the loan.

"And if they were unable to repay it?"

"I thought to marry Nicola. That way the estates would be joined and the money would stay in the family. It seemed like a good plan." His teeth gleamed momentarily and he completely missed the sudden glare in Anthony's eye.

"Did you propose to her?" Anthony's voice was dangerously soft.

"Yes, but alas, she refused me. I believe she has a lover in England. I told her if things do not work out in England I would still want her to be my wife."

"You can wait 'til h.e.l.l freezes over," Anthony thought, looking at him sourly.

Something about his demeanor must have filtered through to Enrique, because he looked suddenly discomfited. "So, what now?" he said uneasily. "Will you be calling the police?"

"I haven't made up my mind whether I want to do that. It depends."

"On what?"

"A number of things. First, you and I will have to meet with the lawyers. Certain matters have to be straightened out. I am sure that they will make every effort to simplify my life."

Enrique looked relieved.

"Then I need to see the Edgertons as soon as possible."

"The older sister Emma is here, but it may not be possible for you to meet Nicola as she is in England," Enrique informed him.

"She's here," Anthony said tersely. "She arrived two days ago."

"How is it that you know this?"

"She's here," Anthony repeated.

Enrique gave him a sharp glance. Their eyes locked. Enrique leaned back in his chair. "So, you are the English lover of Nicola," he said perceptively. "An interesting coincidence," he observed.

There was a telling silence as Anthony's eyes remained fixed on him.

"Obviously, Nicola does not know who you are since she has never questioned my ident.i.ty. Who does she believe you to be?" Enrique asked shrewdly.

"I am Anthony Astonville. I was formally adopted by the Astonvilles." d.a.m.ned if he was going to enlighten him about the Astonvilles' personal worth or the fact that he had been their sole beneficiary. "Now here is what I want you to do," he continued and outlined his plans.

After some discussion, Anthony stood up. "And now we must meet with the lawyers to begin discussions. In the meantime, I will await your telephone call at my hotel to advise me that everything is arranged. Please understand that I am reserving the right to inform Nicola and her sister of the circ.u.mstances of my birth in my own way at the appropriate time," he said, moving toward the door.

Enrique nodded. "Would you prefer that I live elsewhere? I have very few personal possessions to move and can easily find other accommodation," he said, adopting a casual tone.

Anthony paused, thinking. "I think we should hold off making those decisions until we talk with the lawyers. I myself will be staying at the hotel." He rapped on the door, which was immediately opened, and they went out.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

"Who was that on the phone?" Nicola asked as Emma came back out on the verandah where they had been chatting.

"Antonio. He's invited us over tomorrow night, just for drinks."

Nicola sighed.

"We don't have to go if you don't feel up to it," Emma said gently. "I can always call him back and cancel."

Nicola shook her head. "No. I've been enough of a wet blanket, moping since I got here. Let's go. It'll do us good to get out and Antonio is fun to be with."

Emma scrutinized her face. "What's going on, Nicki? I heard you this morning, in the bathroom."

She looked at Emma mutely. She wasn't crying, but her eyes showed she was drowning in unhappiness.

Emma sat down abruptly next to her on the wicker settee and took her hands in hers. "What's wrong, Nicki? Tell me."

"I think it'll be faster to tell you what's right, Em. The list will be so much shorter," she said. Her attempt at humor failed miserably and she began to cry, burying her face in Emma's shoulder.

Emma said nothing, rubbing her back until the storm of crying had subsided. "Are you pregnant, Nicki?" she asked quietly.

Nicola nodded, her face still buried in Emma's shoulder.

"How long?"

"Six, seven weeks," she gasped.

"Does he know?"

Nicola shook her head. "I can't tell him," she said brokenly.

"Why not?"

She shook her head again. "Don't ask me that, Em. I can't explain, not yet."

"It's all right. When you're ready to talk about it I'm here to listen."

She sat up, wiping her eyes. "I'm not going to play 'poor little me,'" she said. "It wasn't an accident. I wanted it to happen."

"Of course you're not a 'poor little me.' Your biological clock wasn't exactly running out at twenty-four, but it didn't have to be for you to make that choice if you wanted a child. You've always known exactly what you wanted out of life."

"I wanted his child, Em, his child. I suddenly knew it, after I'd been with him the very first time. I knew he was the only man I wanted to be the father of my child."

Chapter Thirty-Three.

They drove over to the Torres estate the following night. Antonio was on the veranda, watching for them. He came down the front steps as they drove up and waited while they got out of the jeep.

"Thank you for coming," he said, as they mounted the steps together and entered the living room. They settled themselves on the living room couch and he went to the antique sideboard to mix their drinks.

"Just a bitter lemon for me, Antonio," Nicola said.

She and Emma exchanged a glance. Emma asked for a gin and tonic. He poured the drinks and handed them around. Instead of sitting, he went to stand by the window. They sipped their drinks and watched him, curious about his obvious anxiety.

All at once, he uttered a little exclamation in Portuguese, walked over, and sat in one of the straight-backed wooden estate chairs. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, appearing lost in contemplation of the drink he held loosely in one hand. A silence fell.

"Nicola, Emma," he said suddenly. "I have to tell you something."

Nicola's heart contracted. She had an awful feeling he was about to say he needed them to repay their loan sooner rather than later. What was she going to do? She held her breath, while Emma looked uneasy. It seemed this wasn't going to be a purely social occasion after all.

"What is it, Antonio?" she asked. She sounded almost resigned.

"I have a confession to make. I have deceived you, and there are no words to tell you my sorrow over this."