are saddled and waiting.” His insistent hand propelled her toward the stables. “When the morning’s over, you’ll thank me.”
Grace allowed him to guide her. Emilio had flung down a challenge. If she gave in to her fear he would lose a hefty measure of respect for her—respect she was going to need in the days ahead.
Somehow she would have to conquer her terror.
As they came into the stable yard Grace saw two saddled horses. Both were Peruvian Pasos, the smaller one a silver-gray gelding, the larger a stallion, a magnificent golden palomino.
“Those foals in the paddock are his sons,” Emilio said. “He sires fine babies, but not yet one of his color.”
“A stud? And you ride him?” Grace willed herself not to flinch as the palomino snorted and tossed his handsome head.
“Pasos are the gentlest of horses, even the stallions,” Emilio said. “You’ll see.”
“Me?” Grace swallowed a gasp. “You’re going to put me on that horse?”
“Don’t worry.” Emilio patted the gelding. “You’ll be on Manso, here. He’s a calm old fellow. A child could ride him.”
Manso. Grace took comfort in the name, which meant tame, or gentle. Maybe she’d be all right. Still, her stomach spasmed as Emilio held the bridle and stepped aside for her to mount. A cold bead of sweat trickled down her forehead.
She had to do this.
Holding her breath, she placed a sandal in the stirrup and pushed upward. The horse shuddered as she settled into the saddle. Grace’s pulse surged. “Easy, boy.” She stroked the sleek neck, feeling the warmth of skin beneath her hand. It was just a leisurely ride, she told herself. She was foolish to be frightened.
Handing her the reins, Emilio swung onto the stallion. “Vámonos,” he said, taking the lead. “Let’s go.”
Grace nudged the gelding forward, feeling the unaccustomed flow of the Paso’s gait beneath her. The easy sway was like rocking in a comfortable chair. As they trailed through the dappled shade her fears began to ease.
The narrow path wound up a rocky hillside. Emilio rode ahead of her, sitting his horse with the air of a conquistador, back straight, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and taut buttocks. Tendrils of ebony hair curled low on the back of his suntanned neck. Grace could almost imagine stroking them with her fingers as he...
With a mental slap, she jerked herself back to reality. Emilio was a man who bedded models and movie starlets. Even if she wanted him—which she told herself she most certainly did not—she wasn’t the sort of woman he’d choose. She was useful to him; that was all. Having her here to care for his brother’s son was a convenience. She went along with it because raising the boy here was better than having him taken from her entirely.
But that didn’t mean she’d allow herself to be used. She would fight for the right to keep Zac close and raise him as she saw fit. The last thing she wanted was for Cassidy’s precious son to become a playboy like Emilio.
The trail widened into an overlook. Emilio reined the palomino and waited for Grace to catch up. Sitting silently, he gave her time to take in the view of the long, green valley, cut through by a tumbling river. Villages and farms dotted the riverbanks. Cattle, donkeys and sheep grazed on stone terraces cut like giant staircases into the hillsides.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
“You’re looking at the Sacred Valley of the Incas,” Emilio said. “The terraces were where they planted their crops.”
Gazing farther down the valley, Grace could see more terraced slopes. “So many, and those terraces are huge,” she said. “How could people build something like that, with no machines?”
“No one knows. But the Incas were master engineers and builders. You’ll see more of their work in Cusco. And one of these days I’ll take you to Machu Picchu.”
“I’ve seen photos. The real thing must be breathtaking.” Grace lifted her hat and let the breeze cool her damp face. The gelding swished a fly with his tail. Her nerves jumped at the sudden movement, but she held her fear in check. It bolstered her courage, knowing she’d managed to ride this docile horse. Given time, she might even conquer her nightmares.
But where would her life be by then?
“I want you to stay, Grace.” Emilio’s voice was like warm honey, flowing and persuasive. “You could have a beautiful life here, working on your art and watching Zac grow up. What could be better?”
Having someone to love and a family of my own. That would be better. Grace’s reply remained unspoken. There was no point in sharing a dream that she knew would never come true. And anyway, the man didn’t care about her happiness. She was a handy solution to the challenge of raising his brother’s son while he pursued his women and his carefree life. He wanted her to stay, because it would take the responsibility off his shoulders. Grace was used to having to shoulder responsibility. She’d done it for Cassidy time and time again. But this time, taking on the responsibility would mean giving up her independence. Could she handle that?
“What are you thinking?” His sensual gaze made her tingle with awareness. But this was just part of his game, Grace reminded herself. Seduction would be second nature to a man like Emilio Santana. But it wasn’t going to work with her.
She shot him a chilling look. “I’m thinking that it’s too soon for a decision. It’s a given that I won’t be separated from Zac. But I need time to weigh my options. I’m hoping you’ll give me that time.” In truth, she’d already ruled out every option except staying. But Emilio didn’t need to know that. The idea that she might settle for a part-time arrangement or even try to get Zac back was the only bargaining chip she had.
“Take all the time you need.” He led the way as they meandered down the slope toward a village. Now and then he paused, pointing out a bird, a flowering tree, a carved stone jutting from the earth. He’d slipped into tour guide mode, pleasant but impersonal.
The village was small, little more than a cluster of adobe dwellings joined by a cobbled street. But it was a busy place. Through an open gate, Grace glimpsed women weaving in a courtyard. Children in spotless school uniforms hurried toward a bus stop. A wandering donkey nibbled at blades of grass between the stones.
“Everywhere I look I see something I want to paint,” Grace mused aloud.
“And you’ve barely begun to see it all.” Emilio slowed his horse to let a flock of geese waddle across the road in front of them. “An artist like you would never run out of inspiration here.” That much was true, Grace conceded.
Two men in native garb strolled toward an open doorway where a scrap of red cloth fluttered from a pole.
“The red flag on a house means the women have brewed a fresh batch of chicha,” Emilio explained. “They’re selling it by the glass.”
“Sort of like the lemonade stand I had as a kid. I could use a cold drink. Is it any good?”
He chuckled. “It’s made from fermented maize. I won’t go into what’s involved, but trust me, it’s an acquired taste.”
“Oh.”
