Santa Fe, New Mexico
"You're sure about the boy—and his mother?"
Jordan's grip tightened on the phone.
"You're the one who has to be sure, Mr. Cooper." The
private investigator's voice was as flat as a digitized
recording. "The packet's on its way to your ranch by
courier – birth certificate, hospital records, the mother's
address and several discreet photos. Once you've seen
everything, you can draw your own conclusion. If you need
follow–up—"
"No, there'll be nothing else. I'll transfer your fee
as soon as I've seen the documents."
Jordan ended the call with a click. The packet would
be arriving from Albuquerque within the hour. If his hunch
was right, it would hold enough legal and emotional
dynamite to blast his well–ordered world into chaos.
Stepping away from the desk, he stared out the window of
his study, which commanded a vista of open ranchland
stretching toward the horizon. In the distance, the Sangre
de Cristo Mountains, rich with autumn color, glimmered in
the November sunlight. This was Cooper land, as it had
been for more than a hundred years. When his mother died
it would pass to him as the sole surviving heir of the
family trust. But if the report confirmed what he
suspected...
Jordan turned away from the window, leaving the thought
unfinished. It wasn't too late to back off, he reminded
himself. When the packet arrived, he could burn the damned
thing unopened, or shove it through the shredder. But he'd
only be destroying paper. Nothing could erase the memory
of Angelina Montoya or change the reality of what she'd
done to his family.
Especially now.
Jordan's eyes shifted toward the far wall, bare except
for a group of framed family photos. The largest showed
two young men grinning over a stringer of freshly caught
rainbow trout. Their features were so nearly identical
that a visitor would've been hard pressed to tell which was
Jordan and which was his twin brother, Justin.
When the picture was taken the two had still been
close. Three years later, Justin had fallen for
dark–eyed Angie Montoya, hostess in an upscale
Mexican restaurant off the Plaza. His determination to
marry her had torn the family apart.
Convinced the woman was a gold–digger, Jordan and
his parents had taken every action they could think of to
separate the couple. The resulting schism between the
brothers had never had a chance to heal. Rushing home from
a ski trip on the eve of Angie's birthday, Justin had flown
his Cirrus SR22 plane into a storm and crashed into a Utah
mountain.
Grief had dragged Jordan's father into an early grave
and made a bitter old woman of his mother. As for Angie
Montoya, she had simply vanished—until last week
when, after nearly four years, Jordan had come across her
name. Searching further, he'd found a picture that had him
on the phone within the hour with the best private
investigator in the state. He'd wanted answers and now he
was about to get them. The report would almost surely
confirm what Jordan had suspected.
Angelina Montoya had not only stolen Justin from
his family—she had stolen Justin's son.
Albuquerque
"You've been working hard on that picture, Lucas."
Angie swiveled her chair away from the bedroom computer
hutch to give her son her full attention. "Why don't you
tell me about it?"
Lucas held out the drawing—three lopsided
stick figures sketched in crayon on a sheet of copy
paper. "It's our family. This short one is me. This one
with long black hair is you."
"And who's this, up here at the top?" Anticipating
the answer, Angie felt her throat tighten.
"That's Daddy, up in heaven. He's looking out for
us, just like you said."
"That's right. Do you want to put this picture on
the fridge to remind us?"
"Okay." Clutching his masterpiece, the boy
scampered down the hall toward the tiny kitchen. Angie
gulped back a surge of emotion. It wasn't easy, living
with daily reminders of Justin. But she'd wanted to make
sure Lucas didn't feel fatherless. She kept Justin's
framed portrait at the boy's bedside and an album of
snapshots on the bookshelf, within his reach. His small
fingers had worn the pages thin at the corners.
Most of the photos showed Justin and Angie
together, or Justin alone. There were no pictures of
Justin's family. After the way they'd treated her, she
wanted nothing to do with any of them—especially
Jordan.
It was Jordan who'd come on her birthday to bring
the news of Justin's death. He hadn't said much, but
Jordan's manner had made his feelings clear. Weeks
earlier, the family had offered her fifty thousand dollars
to walk away from Justin. If she'd taken it, Justin would
still be alive.
Angie would never forget the bitterness in those
contemptuous gray eyes. How could two brothers who looked
so much alike be so different? Justin had been warm and
loving, quick to laugh and quick to forgive. The thought
of Jordan conjured up words like cold, judgmental,
mercenary...
And manipulative. She'd had firsthand experience
with that particular trait of his.
The sound of the door buzzer broke into her
thoughts. "I'll get it!" Lucas called.
"Stop right there, mister. You know better."
Striding into the living room, she scooped him up in her
arms. Their cramped two–bedroom apartment was
affordable, but the neighborhood wasn't the best. When
someone came to the door, Angie made it a rule to send
Lucas to his room until she knew the situation was safe.
Maybe by next year, if her web design business continued to
grow, she'd have the money to rent a small house with a
fenced yard. Until then...
The doorbell buzzed again, twice. Setting Lucas on
his play rug, Angie closed the bedroom door and hurried
back down the hall. She didn't get many visitors here, and
she certainly wasn't expecting company. Any unexpected
knock tended to raise her suspicions.
Jordan tensed as the light, rapid footsteps
approached. Seeing Angie again was bound to be awkward as
hell. Maybe he should have sent somebody else
first—someone who could assess the situation without
putting the woman on her guard. But no, whatever waited
on the other side of that door, he was duty–bound to
face up to it. He needed to do the right thing—for
his family legacy, for his brother's memory...even for
Angie, if time had mellowed out her stubborn streak enough
to let her see reason.
The deadbolt slid back. The latch clicked. Jordan
held his breath as the door opened to the width allowed by
the security chain.
Eyes the hue of rich black coffee stared up at
him—eyes framed by lush, feathery lashes. Jordan had
almost forgotten how stunning those eyes could be. He
watched them widen, then narrow suspiciously.
"What do you want, Jordan?" Her husky little voice,
taut with strain, pricked his memory.
"For starters, I'd like to come in."
"Why?" She made no move to unfasten the chain.
It seemed her stubborn streak hadn't mellowed in the
slightest. "So I won't have to stand out here and talk to
you through this blasted door."
"I can't imagine we'd have anything worth saying to each
other."
Jordan's thin–drawn patience snapped. "You have a
choice, Angie," he growled. "Let me in so we can talk like
civilized people, or I'll shout loud enough to be heard all
over the building. Either way, I'm not leaving until you
hear what I came to say." He paused, reminding himself
that it wouldn't do any good to threaten her. "Who knows,"
he added, "this might be something you'll want to hear."
He braced himself for a stinging retort. Instead she
simply closed the door. Jordan waited in the silence.
Seconds crawled past before he heard the rattle of the
chain. Slowly the door swung open.
He willed himself to look at the apartment first. The
living room was bright and clean, the walls freshly
painted, the slipcovered sofa decorated with red, blue and
yellow cushions. But the place didn't look much bigger
than one of Jordan's horse stalls. He had seen what was
outside—the loitering teens, the gang graffiti on the
walls. If this was the best Angie could afford, she had to
be struggling financially.
There was no sign of her son. Only a battered copy of
Goodnight, Moon on the coffee table betrayed the presence
of a child in the apartment. She would've put the boy out
of sight, of course. Maybe that was the reason she'd taken
so long to undo the chain latch.
As he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, Angie
moved into Jordan's line of vision. She was dressed in a
simple black tee and faded jeans that fit her shapely body
without being provocatively tight. Her dark hair fell past
her shoulders in silky waves. Her feet were bare, the
toenails painted a soft baby pink.
She was seductively beautiful. But Jordan had been
aware of that even before his brother fell in love with her
– and afterward too.
He braced against the replay of that unguarded moment in
his car, the taste of her tears, the willing heat of her
ripe mouth, the sinuous fit of her curves in his arms.
He'd done his best to block the memory. But forgetting a
woman like Angie was easier said than done.
He cleared his throat. "Aren't you going to ask me to
sit down?"
"There's room on the sofa." She was clearly ill at
ease. He imagined she would have liked to settle herself
in a chair on the other side of the room, but aside from
the couch there was nowhere else to sit other than the
floor. After Jordan had taken his seat, she perched on the
padded arm at the far end, her toes working their way
beneath the seat cushion.
Jordan shifted his position to face her. She didn't
trust him, and he couldn't blame her. But somehow he had
to make her listen. He had to make this right—for
Justin's sake.
If he could help his brother's son and the woman Justin
had wanted for his wife, then maybe his brother's soul
would forgive him...and perhaps someday, Jordan could
forgive himself.
Jordan hadn't changed. Angie studied the frigid
gray eyes, the pit bull set of his jaw, the unruly brown
hair with the boyish cowlick at the crown. If he smiled
he'd look a lot like Justin. But she'd hardly ever seen
Jordan smile, at least not at her.
The sight of him had sent her pulse careening like
a cornered animal's. Jordan had the face of the man she'd
loved. But his heart was solid granite. If he'd taken the
trouble to track her down, she could be sure it wasn't out
of kindness.
"How did you find me?" she asked.
"Internet. Your name was on a web site you'd
designed for a printing business. Pure chance, but I was
curious. I clicked through to your home page and saw the
photo of you working at your computer. I couldn't help
noticing you weren't alone."
Angie's heart dropped as his words sank home. A
neighbor had taken the picture. At the last second, Lucas
had moved in so close that the lower edge of the frame
showed the top of his head from the back.
A sick fear crept over her. She could have cropped the
photo. Such a simple precaution. Why hadn't she done it?
What had she been thinking?
But the picture couldn't have told Jordan enough to
bring him here. Angie's temper flashed as the truth
dawned. "You had me investigated, didn't you?"
His jaw tightened. "Where's the boy, Angie? Where's
Lucas?"
"You have no right to ask!" She was on guard now, a
tigress ready to strike in defense of her cub. "Lucas is
my son. My son!"
"And my brother's son. I have a copy of the birth
certificate. You listed Justin as the father. I'm
assuming that's the truth."
Something crumbled inside her. "I did that for Lucas,
so he'd know. But Justin..." She gulped back a surge of
emotion. "He never even knew I was pregnant. I was going
to tell him when he came home for my birthday."
"So you were never married. Not even secretly."
"No. You needn't worry on that account, Jordan. I have
no claim on your family's precious money, or anything
else. So go away and leave us alone."
She studied his face for some sign that her words had
made an impact. But his expression could have been
chiseled in basalt.
"You might have told us," he said. "It would've meant a
lot to my parents, knowing Justin had left a child."
"Your parents hated me! How could I expose my innocent
baby to those ugly feelings?"
"I want to see the boy."
No! Angie's heart slammed. She'd had no warning, no
time to prepare Lucas for this.
"I don't think—" she began. But it was too late.
She heard the opening of the bedroom door and the cautious
tread of small sneakers. Evidently, Lucas had grown tired
of waiting and decided to check things out for himself.
Short of lunging for her son, there was little Angie
could do. She watched in mute horror as Lucas emerged from
the hallway and caught sight of their visitor.
His brown eyes opened wide. Then his face lit with
joyous wonder. "Daddy!" he cried, racing across the
room. "Daddy, you came back!"