ZaneThe Santana Heir by Elizabeth Lane

Author:Elizabeth Lane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mills & Boon Desire
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Three

Grace opened her eyes. Blinding sunlight streamed through the open shutters of a grilled window. Dazed, she rolled away from the glare. What time was it?

The hands on the bedside clock pointed to 9:15. She groaned, remembering that most of South America was east of the United States. Peru would be on New York time. But her jet-lagged brain was still waking up in Arizona.

Zac must be on Arizona time, too. She had yet to hear a peep from the old-fashioned crib in the corner of the spacious bedroom.

Sinking back into the pillow she closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of a slow wake-up. They’d arrived last night in darkness, the house a sprawling hacienda behind high stone walls. After Emilio vanished, a stocky woman in local dress had shown Grace to this bedroom, with its adjoining marble bath. After a few moments of fussing over Zac, the woman had left her alone to put the baby to bed and brush her teeth. Too tired to unpack her pajamas, she’d stripped down to her underwear and crawled between lavender-scented sheets. The next thing Grace remembered it was morning.

Opening her eyes again, she scanned her surroundings. The massive four-poster bed looked as if it had been hand-hewn centuries ago from one giant tree. The canopy was draped in white netting, as was Zac’s crib in the far corner of the room. The downy coverlet was finished in a wine-colored brocade that contrasted richly with the open-timbered ceiling and whitewashed walls.

Like the bed frame, the dresser was lavishly carved, with a full-length mirror and matching velvet-topped bench. There were no closets, but a row of elegant wooden wardrobes stood along one wall. Clearly, this was no ordinary guest room. It had been built and furnished for someone with clothes to fill the wardrobes and adornments to justify the tall, gilt-framed mirror above the dresser. Grace tried to imagine generations of Santana men and women. How many of them had lived, loved and died in this room—and in this bed?

Grace hadn’t even known her own grandparents. How would it feel to have a family history going back for generations?

Roused to wakefulness, she swung her feet to the tiles and pattered over to the crib to check on Zac, who had yet to make a sound.

Grace parted the layered netting. Staring down into the crib, she gasped.

Zac was gone.

Tearing into her suitcase, she found her black nylon travel robe, flung it on and yanked the ties into a knot. Her motherly instincts were screaming. Her baby was missing in a strange place. What if he’d climbed or fallen out of bed and crawled away in the night? She had to find him.

Still barefoot, she burst out of the door and into a shadowed hallway. Grace froze, ears straining in the silence. She’d had nightmares like this—racing through dark passageways, searching for Zac. But this nightmare was real.

A faint light, barely visible, suggested a corner at the hall’s far end. She raced toward it, only to find herself looking down another long passageway.

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