LITMIR.BIZ

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him. He wasn’t going to be able to walk into her home and pick her up in his arms. She’d never let him close enough. She backed away now if he even approached her.

      He thought of her with other men, with the scores of them he’d accused her of sleeping with. His fault. It was his fault. Tat would never have let another man touch her if she’d ever really belonged to Rourke; he knew that instinctively. But he’d pushed her into affairs. Her name had been linked with several millionaires, even a congressman. He’d seen photos of her in the media, seen her laughing up into other men’s faces, her body exquisite in couture gowns. He’d pretended that she was only playacting. But she wasn’t. She was twenty-five years old. No woman remained a virgin at that age. Certainly not Tat, whom he’d baited and tormented and rejected and humiliated.

      But he had to get near her. He had to know if there was any slight chance that she might not hate him, that he could coax her back into his life. She’d never let him in the door in Maryland, where her home in the US was located. She had security cameras—he’d insisted on them—placed all around the house she owned there, the house that had belonged to her father.

      Tat’s father had worked for the US Embassy. His people had been wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He’d married Maria Cortes of Manaus, a woman who had Dutch and highborn Spanish heritage who was also an heiress. It had been a marriage of true love. They had houses in Africa and Manaus and Maryland. Tat had inherited the lot, and their combined fortunes. Tat had loved her mother. It had devastated her when Maria died of a fever she caught nursing a friend.

      He knew how Tat revered her mother. How could he tell her what the woman had done? It would shatter her illusions. But he would have to tell her something, to try and explain his behavior.

      How to get near her, near enough to make her listen, that was the problem. His eye fell on an invitation on top of the stack of mail one of the workers had left on the bureau for him to go through. He frowned.

      He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a formal invitation to a gala awards ceremony in Barrera. It was a personal invitation from General Machado himself. Now that his country was secure once more, all the loose ends tied up, it was time to reward the people who had helped him wrest control away from the usurper, Sapara. Machado hoped that Rourke could come, because he was one of several people who would be so honored. He went down the list of names on the engraved invitation listing the honorees. Just above his name was that of Clarisse Carrington.

      His heart jumped. Machado had promised that she would be recognized for her bravery in leading two captured college professors to safety and giving the insurgents intel that helped them recapture Barrera’s capital city and apprehend Sapara.

      Tat was going to be in Barrera, in Medina, the capital city. She would certainly go to the awards ceremony. It was a neutral place, where he might have the opportunity to mend fences. Certainly he was going to go. The date was a week away.

      He took the invitation back to bed with him, scanning it once more. Tat would be in Medina. He put the invitation on the bedside table and stretched out, his hands behind his head, his body arching softly as it relived the exquisite memory of Tat half-naked in his arms, so many years ago, moaning as he touched her soft breasts and made the pretty pink nipples go hard as little rocks.

      The memories aroused him and he moaned. Tat in his arms again. He could hold her, kiss her, touch her, have her. He shuddered. It would take time and patience, much patience, but he had a reason to live now. It was the first time in years that he felt happy.

      Not that she was going to welcome him with open arms. And there was the matter of her lovers, and there had to have been many.

      But that didn’t matter, he told himself firmly, as long as he was her last lover. He’d bring her here, to the game park. They could live together...

      No. His expression was grim. Despite her diversions, Tat was still religious. She would never consent to live with him unless he made a commitment. A real one.

      He got up from the bed and went to the wall safe. He opened it and took out a small gray box. He opened it. His hand touched the ring with tenderness. It had belonged to his mother. It was a square-cut emerald, surrounded by small diamonds, in a yellow gold setting. Tat loved yellow gold. It was all she wore.

      He closed the case, relocked the safe and tucked the ring into the pocket of a suit in the closet. He would take it with him. Tat wasn’t getting away this time, he promised himself. He was going to do whatever it took to get her back into his life.

      He lay back down and turned out the lights. For the first time in years, he slept through the night.

      * * *

      Three days later, K.C. came into the living room, where Rourke was making airline reservations on a laptop computer.

      “You’re going to Barrera, then?” K.C. asked.

      Rourke grinned. “You’d better believe it,” he chuckled. “I’ve got my mother’s engagement ring packed. This time, Tat’s not getting away.”

      K.C. sighed and smiled tenderly. “I can’t think of any woman in the world I’d rather have for a daughter-in-law, Stanton.”

      Something in the way he said it caught Rourke’s attention. He finished the ticket purchase, printed out the ticket and turned toward the other man.

      “Something up?” he asked.

      K.C. moved closer. He was looking at the younger man with pride. He smiled. “I knew all along. But the doctor just phoned.”

      Rourke’s heart skipped. “And...?”

      K.C. looked proud, embarrassed, happy. “You really are my son.”

      “Damn!” Rourke started laughing. The joy in his eyes matched the happiness in his father’s.

      K.C. just stared at him for a minute. Then he jerked the other man into his arms and hugged him. Rourke hugged him back.

      “I’m sorry...about the way it happened,” K.C. said heavily, drawing back. “But not about the result.” He searched Rourke’s face. “My son.” He bit down on a surge of emotion. “I’ve got a son.”

      Rourke was fighting the same emotion. He managed a smile. “Ya.”

      K.C. put a hand on Rourke’s shoulder. “Listen, it’s your decision. I’ll do whatever you want. I was your legal guardian when you were underage. But I would like to formally adopt you. I would like you to have my name.”

      Rourke thought about the man who’d been his father, who’d raised him. Bill Rourke had loved him, although he must have certainly thought that Rourke didn’t favor him. Bill had been dark-haired and dark-eyed. The man he’d called his real father had been good to him, even if there hadn’t been the sort of easy affection he’d always felt for K.C.

      “It was just a thought,” K.C. said, hesitating now.

      “I would...like that very much,” Rourke said. “I’ll keep my foster father’s name. I’ll just add yours to it.”

      K.C. smiled sadly. “Your father was my best friend. It tormented me to think what I did to him, to your mother. To you.”

      “I think it tormented her, too,” Rourke said.

      “It did. She loved me.” His face hardened. “That was the worst of it. I had nothing to give her. Nothing at all. She knew it.”

      Rourke’s one good eye searched his father’s. “Nobody’s perfect,” he said quietly. “I have to confess, I wished even when I was a boy that you were my real father.” He averted his eye just in time to miss the wetness in K.C.’s. “You were always in the thick of battles. You could tell some stories about the adventures you had. I wanted so badly to be like you.”

      “You’re very like me,” K.C. said huskily. “I worried about letting you work for the organization. I wanted to protect you.” He laughed. “It wasn’t possible. You took to it like a duck to water. But I sweated blood

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