Santiago Sol Page 3

  Ben had been in the family’s employ since before Sebastian needed to shave. He admired Ben’s loyalty. Even more, he admired Ben’s faith.

  “Deception, no matter how innocent the intention, never turns out well.”

  Sebastian scuffed his foot against the pavement. “I know.”

  “Thank you for the days off. I’ve missed my grandchildren.”

  “Say hello to Anna for me,” Sebastian said, thinking of Ben’s wife.

  Sebastian watched the gleaming black car pull away and considered the man’s warning.

  Using his maternal grandmother’s maiden name had been an impulse. He just wanted a few days to be...someone else. There would be plenty of time to bear the weight of being a Sandoval once he told his grandfather his quest had failed.

  He stepped into the elevator, pushed the button for his private floor, and leaned against the wall, laying out the remainder of his day in his head. He’d work out in his gym, maybe go for a swim, then check e-mail and other correspondence, and go to bed early before his breakfast date with the girl from the airplane. The thought of seeing her again washed the unpleasant residue of failure from his mind, and a smile flickered around his mouth as the elevator door slithered open. The smile disappeared at the sight of his cousin, sprawled across Sebastian’s antique Chesterfield sofa like a lazy cat.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see the goods, mi primo.” Diego brushed at a speck of lint on his forearm. “When I heard you’d run off to los Estados Unidos I assumed you were fetching grandfather’s precious walking stick, just in time for your birthday.” The last words came out in a feral hiss.

  Sebastian pushed past his cousin, dropped his bag on the floor, and headed for the kitchen. Diego’s footsteps echoed Sebastian’s, ringing off the wood floor and smooth concrete walls as his cousin followed.

  “Which of the housemaids did you bribe to get into my apartment this time?” Sebastian reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of mineral water, popped the top, and took a drink.

  “Unlike you, cousin, I don’t have to bribe. I merely have to ask, and the young ladies do my bidding.”

  Sebastian leveled a cool stare at his cousin. “If you’re looking for information, ask Abuelo. Better yet, get your father to do his own digging. In the meantime, Diego, get out of my house.” Sebastian lifted the stack of mail his housekeeper had left in a wire basket on the counter.

  “You didn’t find it, did you?”

  Sebastian glanced up, half expecting to see his younger cousin rubbing his hands together like a villainous cartoon character.

  “You’ll be the last person to know.” He smiled, showing his teeth.

  Diego twitched.

  “Even if you had the walking stick, you have no wife, no children of your own. You aren’t qualified to inherit.”

  Sebastian took a menacing step forward. “Neither is your father. Now get out.”

  Diego backed toward the door and flicked a manicured hand toward the expansive apartment. “Enjoy this while you can, cousin.”

  Sebastian heard the door swing shut with a quiet click, and clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth would crack. His cousin was the symptom of a larger problem: Sebastian’s uncle by marriage, Arturo Vargas. Like an insidious fungus, Arturo had infiltrated the Sandoval family on almost every level. Sebastian slammed the handful of envelopes back into the basket and stormed toward his exercise room. He needed to punch something.

  4

  Tansy halted just inside the door to the aparthotel, her eyes wide. She'd been expecting a simple hotel room. She marveled at the aparthotel’s gleaming wood floors, high-end furnishings, and balcony, which overlooked a city that was surprisingly beautiful. The mountains she had admired from the plane encircled the city like a fortress so that no matter where she looked, she saw snow-capped granite peaks.

  Her cell phone blipped from within her bag, signifying a low battery. She rummaged through her suitcase for the international adapter to the phone charger, plugged it in beside the bed, then kicked off her shoes, stretched out across the covers, and tumbled into a deep sleep.

  When she awoke, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a rosy hue around the room. She’d slept almost the entire day. She yawned and crawled out of bed. Her travel clothes felt grimy, so she showered and put on her pajamas. She had nowhere to go and no money.

  She called Eva’s attorney, got voicemail—no surprise considering the time difference—and explained about the airport pickpocket. Hopefully, the attorney would contact her soon. Being in a foreign country without cash or credit cards was disconcerting. She made the requisite calls to her bank and credit card companies informing them of the theft, and hoped that would suffice until she returned to the States.

  When her stomach reminded her she’d only nibbled at breakfast on the plane and then slept through lunch, she checked the kitchenette. The refrigerator was well-stocked, and she engineered a sandwich with a soft roll, cold cuts, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles. She put the sandwich on a plate, poured a glass of grape juice, and carried both into the combined dining and living space.

  Placing her impromptu meal on the small table, Tansy unpacked her laptop. From the depths of her bag, she extricated the list of contacts Eva had prepared and smoothed the folded paper flat on the table. Alternating bites of sandwich and clicks of the mouse, she began to search for the names on the list.

  An hour later, frustrated by the language barrier, and convinced the “translate” feature on her web browser was not designed to translate anything correctly, she opened the document that contained Eva’s memoir and dove into her second round of edits.

  When the light filtering through the balcony doors grew so dim she could no longer identify the letters on her keyboard, Tansy checked her notes, added two more sentences to the third paragraph, and saved the document. She eyed her sandwich, which had gone quite stale around the edges, and pushed it aside. With both hands she kneaded the back of her neck, where sore muscles attested to the emotional and physical stresses of travel.

  In the bedroom, her open suitcase still lay on the bed where she’d rummaged through it to find her pajamas. Pink taffeta and tulle billowed over the sides. Tansy pulled out the walking stick, running her hands along the dark polished wood with its natural knobs and bumps and twists. The silver fox head was cool to the touch compared to the wood. She marveled at the detail in the design, so carefully crafted she could almost make out individual strands of hair in the fox’s tail. Still, it was just a fancy stick, not the crown jewels.

  What she thought about the object didn’t change her commitment to Eva’s assignment, though. She would return the walking stick to the Sandoval patriarch. Just as soon as she found him. She tucked the object into the back corner of the closet, hung the party dress on a hanger, and shoved her suitcase in front of them both.

  Thoughts of Eva occupied Tansy’s mind while she brushed her teeth. The woman’s story, fraught with love and deception and joy and grief, seemed more poignant now that Tansy was in Chile where so much of the tale had unfolded.

  She turned back the matelassé coverlet, down comforter, and top sheet and slid under the covers with a sigh. Compared to her apartment at home, with her cheap sheets and her secondhand bedspread, the aparthotel was pure luxury. She would enjoy her stay in Santiago, however long it lasted.

  Dawn hovered outside when she awoke refreshed but nervous. She half-expected Sebastian to forget about her. She dressed in a black knit skirt that fell to her ankles, a white tank, a faded denim jacket with the sleeves rolled almost to her elbows, an armful of silver bangles, and a pair of silver hoop earrings. Pewter-colored flats completed the outfit.

  Before she left she checked her messages, but Eva’s attorney hadn’t responded yet. Tansy frowned. She’d have to tell Sebastian she would pay him back as soon as her new traveler’s checks arrived. She collected her messenger bag and tucked her room key inside. Her pulse increased a
s the elevator carried her downstairs, and she held her breath when the door opened.

  Sebastian leaned against the front desk and chatted amiably with the clerk on duty. Their combined male laughter carried through the lobby. Her companion for the day wore another dark suit, this one in a different cut than the one he’d worn on the plane. Underneath the jacket, instead of a button-up shirt and tie, a crew neck knit shirt in French blue stretched across his chest.

  He smiled when he saw her, then gripped her hands and leaned down, kissing both her cheeks. She stepped back, startled, and brushed her now damp palms over her skirt. She knew from Eva’s vibrant descriptions that it was a perfectly commonplace way to greet someone in Chile, but the sudden intimacy still came as a surprise.

  “You look lovely.” He smelled like sandalwood and leather.

  “Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

  “The weather is nice now. In another month or so it will be hot and everyone will be complaining,” he replied, leading the way outside and down the sidewalk.

  “Not so different from Colorado, then,” she said. “We complain about the cold and snow more than the heat, though.” She was taking two steps for every one of his, and he slowed his pace.

  “Café Melba is nearby. It’s a popular place for expats, and the best place in Las Condes for breakfast.”

  “Expats?”

  “Expatriates. Some are here on business, some have relocated long-term. Like Hemingway did in France.” They walked side-by-side for several blocks.

  Graceful palms swayed overhead, a strange contrast to the snow-capped peaks in the distance. Deciduous trees lined both sides of the street, their leaves rustling. An incongruous mix of architectural styles, from glassed-in skyscrapers to gothic towers, rose around them. Uniformed maids walked tiny dogs on leashes, and expensive cars rested on grassy plots in front of well-kept buildings.

  The air was redolent with the fragrance of flowers, coffee, and bread, the tang of cigarette smoke and heavily applied cologne, underlaid by the acrid stench of exhaust and the occasional whiff of garbage set out for pick-up, reminders that she was in a city of several million people. She sniffed and sneezed. Then sneezed again.

  Sebastian produced a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and extended it toward Tansy. She hesitated, but he pushed it into her hand. She used one corner to dab at her nose, and refusing to hand it back to him, tucked it into her bag. “I’ll wash it for you.”

  He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone like you, Miss Chastain.”

  She dipped her head, feeling a blush heat her face and wondering if he’d meant that as a compliment, or not. Before she could think of something to say, he grabbed her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.

  “Come along, we’re almost there, and the line will be getting long at this time of day.”

  Café Melba was located on a narrow, tree-lined street, occupying space on the ground floor of what looked like another apartment building. An outside patio sporting wide umbrellas at each table extended almost into the sidewalk. Sebastian opened the door to the cosmopolitan restaurant where elite businessmen in expensive Italian suits brushed arms with dread-locked hipsters wearing thick-rimmed, black glasses. Energy surged through the warm, noisy space. Papers, fliers, posters, and advertisements pinned to a corkboard fluttered in the slight breeze from a ceiling fan.

  Tansy moved to peer at the various ads for roommates, jobs, meetings, items for sale—the usual bulletin board fare, only in multiple languages. Her gaze roved across the board, her writer’s mind expanding and expounding on the lives, the stories, of the people who had posted things at Café Melba. Were they so different from the folks she knew at home who pinned similar notices on the bulletin board at the local Denny’s? She thought not.

  Her gaze landed on a magenta flier near the bottom right-hand corner of the board. Iglesia Espiritu Santo. She pursed her lips. Holy Spirit Church. That had been the name of the St. Johns’ ministry outreach. She unpinned the sheet of paper from the board.

  “Our table is ready,” Sebastian’s mouth was close enough that she felt his breath against her hair, and she shivered, unnerved again.

  She turned and waved the paper at him. “Do you go to church?”

  His brows drew together. “Not often, why?”

  “The woman whose memoir I’m writing. She was a missionary. This is the name of the ministry her family founded when they were here. There’s no guarantee it’s the same...”

  Sebastian directed her to a black-topped table for two near the front windows, then pulled out her chair.

  “There’s a worship service tonight. Would you be interested in attending?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she wished she hadn’t asked him.

  “I haven’t been to a church service in some time,” he said, “but for the sake of your tour, I will be happy to escort you.” Then he whisked the paper out of her fingers and blinded her with a smile. “Café Melba has excellent French toast, with fresh bananas and pineapple. Do you like French toast?”

  “That sounds good.”

  He raised a hand and a server appeared. He requested two orders of French toast and two coffees. “Is there anything in particular you would like to see today?”

  She pondered his question. Everything she knew about Santiago she’d learned during her work on the memoir.

  “There’s the Presidential Palace, the Plaza de Armas, Santa Lucia Hill...” Sebastian prompted.

  Tansy shook her head. “I’d like to see the Parque Forestal.”

  A muscle in Sebastian’s jaw twitched, and she felt the need to explain. “It’s one of the places the woman I’m working with speaks of often. She would go there to pray, and to read her Bible, and just to get away.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Not that I can think of. I don’t really know very much about all the landmarks and such. The Parque Forestal sticks out in my mind because she has mentioned it so often.”

  Sebastian dipped his head. “Then we shall go there.”

  The server reappeared, distributed their plates and left.

  Tansy leaned forward and spoke softly. “Do you mind if I pray?”

  “Of course not,” he replied, setting aside the silverware he’d already loosed from the napkin. To Tansy’s surprise, he reached across the table and held out his hand, palm up. She laid her fingers across his and tried to ignore the electric current that traveled up her arm. Then she swallowed and focused her attention on God.

  “Lord, thank You for this food and for Sebastian. Thank You for sending him to help me. I pray that he will find rest and refreshment during our time together and that You will make the way smooth and clear for his business endeavors.” Her skin prickled with embarrassment. She peeked at Sebastian, relieved to see he didn’t seem affronted by her prayer.

  He drizzled syrup over thick slices of baguette, dipped in egg and milk and fried to a perfect golden brown. Sliced ripe bananas and bright golden chunks of pineapple, sprinkled with ruby red pomegranate arils, complemented the toast.

  “So we’ll visit the Parque Forestal first.” He speared a piece of french toast and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “And then, this evening, of course, the worship meeting.”

  “That sounds lovely,” she murmured, watching him eat.

  “But that won’t make for a full day,” he said, stabbing the air with his fork.

  “What else did you have in mind?”

  His gaze came to rest on her face, and he seemed to consider his response.

  Tansy picked up her fork and took a bite from her own plate. Flavors—sweet, tart, buttery—exploded on her tongue. Stifling a groan of pleasure, she closed her eyes.

  Sebastian chuckled. “Bueno, no?”

  Her eyes snapped open, but she kept them focused on her plate. “It’s beyond good. Thank you.”

  “This afternoon I’d like to take you to Los Dominicos.”

&n
bsp; “What is it?” She swirled a piece of bread through the syrup.

  “It’s a restored monastery that now houses local artisans and their wares.”

  “Shopping?”

  “Yes. If you see something you like.”

  She grimaced. “I... I haven’t heard back from my employer about the stolen traveler’s checks. I don’t have any money with me.”

  “No matter.”

  She set down her fork with a clatter. “I can’t even pay for my part of breakfast.”

  “Please, Miss Chastain, don’t insult me. You forget, South America is still a land of chivalry. I’d be humiliated if you paid for our meal. And as for the shopping, if you see something you want, I’ll get it and you can, if you insist, pay me back later.”

  “I will pay you back. North America is the land of equality.”

  “We’ll take that up when the time comes. For now, enjoy your meal.”

  “I insist. I can’t go shopping until I have some money of my own.”

  He eyed her over his cup of coffee, and then smiled. “Fine. If your money doesn’t come through today, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  Tansy watched him, feeling a sudden, unwelcome kinship with Eva’s daughter. If Sebastian MacKenna was anything like the rest of his country’s male population, she understood on a very elemental level why Darcy had refused to leave at her father’s command.

  ****

  Sebastian guided Tansy through the crowd outside Melba’s with one hand on the small of her back. He kept his contact with her light and relaxed, even as his other hand clenched the paper in his pocket with a bruising grip. He had no desire to frighten her, but he recognized the name of the ministry on the flier. Iglesia Espiritu Santo. Holy Spirit Church.

  He’d heard it often during his childhood, whispered in gossipy tones and hurled as an invective during noisy arguments. It was scalded onto his subconscious like a brand, invoking both shame and curiosity. Could it be a coincidence? Was it possible the memoir Tansy was writing was that of his maternal grandmother? What sort of bizarre game was God playing?