Claiming His Secret Son(23)

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?”