Lost and Found Groom, McLinn, Patricia [ebook reader for pc and android .txt] 📗

never report this story. Not only because her job had changed, but because of Matthew. A spotlight aimed on Taumaturgio would almost certainly reach Matthew. And, to be honest with herself, she would never report the story because of him–Taumaturgio, Paulo, Daniel, whatever name he used. It would feel too much like betrayal.

“Off the record,” she agreed.

“People at the consulate knew what was happening in Santa Estella, with some officials selling off aid and getting rich, and they didn’t like it. Trouble is, when a country’s government is swearing up and down that the aid is getting where it belongs, it’s hard to push in and make things right. Causes nasty talk about Yankee imperialism and such. So our hands were tied . . . officially.”

“You already worked at the consulate?”

“No. I was brought in.”

“The consulate staff knew?”

He shook his head. “Only one contact.”

“But you’re career foreign service?”

“Not exactly, though I do get a government paycheck.”

“CIA?”

He grinned, a sudden, vibrant flash of white teeth against deeply tanned skin. Just like he had–No. She would not let memories of a man who hadn’t truly existed affect her. That had been excusable yesterday, with the shock of seeing him. But she’d thought this through, and she couldn’t afford that. The volatile compound of memories could blow up in her face.

“Bite your tongue. CIA’s too public. Too many people know what it’s doing, it’s too big a bureaucracy and generally too unimaginative to handle that kind of job.”

“I didn’t mean to insult your professional dignity,” she said tartly, and his grin widened. “But I’ve always heard about the CIA having people at the embassies.”

“Some embassies have CIA types around, but they aren’t the only, uh, specialists. Some specialists are officially in the foreign service. Some aren’t. I wasn’t. But I had the background to pass muster and they needed someone who could fly.”

She’d heard pieces of that background from her sources. As the younger son of a career foreign service officer, Daniel Delligatti had been brought up in embassies and consulates around the world. His older brother had continued in the family business and was working his way up the ladder, though the titles were vague. Daniel’s work history was even more difficult to pin down.

“Then exactly whom do you work for?” she asked. Her sources hadn’t come up with that yet.

He shook his head ruefully. “That’s one of the things I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t mean anything to you even if I did tell you the name, but–No, maybe you would have heard of it. But I still can’t tell you. It’s part of the deal when you sign on with the outfit.”

He said it simply, but it had the ring of a man who stood by his pledges.

Pledges.

We made a pledge, Kendra. . . . It’s a pledge I intend to keep.

She shook off the echo of his words and reminded herself that his convincing delivery could also be the hallmark of a consummate liar.

She had to remember how many times he’d fooled her already. Had to hold onto that knowledge for her peace of mind and to safeguard Matthew’s heart.

“So, you’re not with the CIA, but you are a spy.”

“Kendra–”

“You must have had special training.”

“Some, but–”

“Like how to kill? Have you killed people?”

“No.”

The stark way he said it not only convinced her, but reminded her that what he’d done in Santa Estella had been about saving people – children–not killing. But his next words returned a hint of self-mockery.

“I’ll tell you this, mostly what I do–did before Santa Estella–was fly for this government outfit when . . . well, let’s say in the sort of situations when our people couldn’t go standby on the next available commercial flight–if commercial flights went to those spots. So they had me and a few other pilots available. I had training in case things didn’t go exactly according to plan, but I’m a pilot, not a spy.”

One of her sources had left the information that he’d had a pilot’s license since about the same time he’d had a driver’s license on her answering machine last night. If she’d had any doubts before about how she would respond to his ridiculous proposal to make them a family, that had ended them.

“I remember hearing tales about Taumaturgio’s flying–no instruments, no lights, in planes held together by chewing gum.”

“Sometimes old chewing gum,” he said wryly.

“A daredevil.”

He frowned. “Not when I didn’t have to be. The idea was to make sure aid got through to the people who needed it–especially the kids. A crashed daredevil didn’t do them any good.”

“So what happened?”

He shifted, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, with his spread fingers meeting tip to tip.

“Nine months ago, I got called to Washington. The kind of invitation you don’t refuse. On a mission like this they allow latitude, they said, but not as much as they felt I’d taken. They said to retire Taumaturgio.”

“Nine months ago? When that story broke about a second planeload of kids you’d flown to the hospital in Miami.”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I’d hoped to keep it quiet, but no hurricane saved me from a nosy reporter that time.”

She ignored the hint of teasing. “It was a good story.”

A story she’d followed with so many conflicting emotions. Was that when the suspicion that Paulo and Taumaturgio were linked first surfaced to her conscious mind?

She’d spent hours taping the reports. There’d been a lot about the plight of the children and much praise for Taumaturgio–from the children, the medical personnel and the people of Santa Estella, but no reporter had caught up with him. Gradually, the story died out.

“I’ll take your word for what makes a good story.”

“It got a lot of attention for Santa Estella.”

He shrugged. “So’d Hurricane Aretha. The gain wasn’t worth that price, either. Unfortunately that story brought a lot of attention to Taumaturgio bringing in kids illegally. The chain of command didn’t care for that. I suppose they’d known before, but they hadn’t had it out in the public. The Santa Estellan officials raised a