She nodded slowly.

“It’ll be okay.”

She looked up at him then, and his unspoken message communicated itself through his touch and his gaze. She nodded again, and they left.

THE TRIP WENT BY fast. Raul was a good driver, and the Range Rover handled the horrible road as if it were the finest highway. They arrived at the orphanage in record time, which was good for Emma because she was an emotional wreck.

She’d thrown herself at him like some kind of desperate woman. She hadn’t had any other choice; her need to feel some kind of love had swept through her like a tornado. As addictive as a drug, his embrace had felt too good, too safe, too wonderful to ignore. She’d never done that kind of thing before with any man, but Raul made her do a lot of things she hadn’t done before. Like ignore her better judgment. Instead of kissing him, she should have been asking him about what Reina had told her. Deep down, though, Emma didn’t want to ask, because she didn’t want to know the answer. The consequences of Raul’s having been in prison were something she couldn’t deal with right now. Maybe later, but not now.

Emma was happy to see the main street of Samaipata. The tiny village was a madhouse-there were people everywhere preparing for the parade, laughing and hanging crepe-paper roses, calling out to each other and decorating windows with bright paint. Emma gave directions to Raul, and within a few minutes they were driving up to the compound.

“Park over there.” She pointed toward a shaded area just outside the wall that surrounded the buildings. “We can get the kids to unload everything.”

Raul nodded and eased the truck to the spot she indicated. Then, before he could even cut the engine, the gates flew open and a flock of children-all girls-spilled from the opening and ran toward them. Behind them came two nuns. Dressed in brown habits with hems that brushed the ground, the two women beamed and waved to Emma.

Emma introduced Raul to the nuns as they climbed from the truck. “This is Sister Maria and Sister Abelia,” she said. “They work here with the children.”

Raul shook hands with the two women. Their fingers were rough and work-worn, and he could only imagine the tasks they accomplished every day just to keep the place running.

They greeted him in Spanish and a little broken English, then began to chatter with Emma. The children swirled around them like a cloud of unbridled energy. Raul watched in awe, though Emma had already prepared him for what to expect. The girls ranged in age from three to eighteen, and they all wore the same thing-white dresses with blue trim. There were 120 students in the parochial school, none of them boys.

Leaving the women to their talk, Raul unlocked the back of the truck and began to remove the boxes and place them into the children’s waiting arms. It looked as though Emma had been collecting clothing and anything else she could lay her hands on for months. With everyone loaded down, the girls started into the compound. Raul handed Emma a smallish box, then took the largest one for himself. He had to stop and watch, though, as she headed for the buildings. Her progress was slow.

With every step, more children greeted her. Little girls and big, hanging on her, touching her, kissing her, so starved for attention they clung as closely as they could. Over her shoulder, she threw him an apologetic look, but then she focused solely on the children. The cool, remote banker was replaced by the woman he’d suspected was underneath, the one he’d glimpsed earlier in the day-a vulnerable, caring individual who had a lot of love and no one to give it to. The pain of seeing these kids must have been overwhelming, yet she had time for them all. There wasn’t a single child she didn’t touch or kiss or somehow connect with. It was amazing.

She was amazing.

“Is this a government facility?” Raul finally caught up with her and glanced around as they passed through the gate. The barren courtyard wasn’t exactly homey, and the square concrete buildings were stark and ugly in the hot sunshine. In the dirt two chickens scratched.

“Not exactly.” A pair of parrots swooped and screeched in a nearby cage as Emma dodged three dogs chasing a fly. “The government is supposed to give them fifty cents a day per child, but they never do. The place is funded by private donations-from churches in Italy and America mainly. Which makes sense.”

One of the younger girls grinned up at Emma and murmured something. Emma bent down and gave the child a quick kiss, then raised her eyes to see Raul staring at her.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“It’s usually Americans or Italians who come here for the children. No one in Bolivia adopts.”

Raul stopped on the sidewalk. “What do you mean-Bolivians don’t adopt?”

Emma halted, too. “They don’t accept the children as their own. It’s a cultural thing.”

“Then all these kids will end up in America?”

“No. Not these.” She shook her head slowly and met his eyes. “No one from outside Bolivia can adopt a child older than five. It’s the law. But they won’t take them themselves. Most of these kids will never have parents.”

IF SHE’D HAD any doubts about what kind of man Raul was, Emma lost them at the orphanage.

She took him through the entire place. Through the dormitories, where each room had six small beds each with a stuffed animal sitting on top of them. Through the cafeteria, where the tables were already set for the next meal. Through the laundry room, where two washing machines worked twenty-four hours a day. Through the garden, which produced far too little for so many.

The children were shy around Raul at first, but the longer he and Emma stayed, the bolder the little girls became. Finally he gave in, picked one up and carried the lucky child in his arms as they’d toured the outer buildings. All of three years old, if that, she grinned and flirted, batting her eyelashes at him, then finally put her head on his shoulder in blissful delight, her eyes dragging shut. He carried her up to her room and laid her down on her cot. Tenderly. Quietly.

Watching with a tight throat and a sting behind her eyes, Emma had almost broken down and wept. She could easily imagine him doing this with a child of his own, a little boy who looked just like him, or a little girl as dark and gorgeous as the one he’d just tucked in. Only when they went downstairs a few minutes later did she realize how everything had affected him, as well. He looked completely drained as they entered the courtyard, his face a reflection of the sadness he was clearly feeling, his eyes too bleak for her to endure. She didn’t understand his reaction, but she knew it was genuine. She’d seen the same black look in her own eyes.

The smell of homemade bread filled the terrace as they walked outside, the cries of the children echoing off the sun-streaked walls.

“Let’s go in here,” she said, pointing to one of the buildings. “It’ll be cooler and quieter than the cafeteria.”

He followed her into a room filled with sewing machines. She answered his unspoken question.

“They make most of their clothes,” she said, “but they also do embroidery to sell and make money.” She picked up a square of cotton, edged in lace. “These are pillowcases. They decorate them and peddle them downtown for a quarter apiece.”

Ignoring her explanation, he took the bed linen from her hands and put it down on a table nearby. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “Why do you torture yourself like this?”

“I love the children,” she answered. “They need my help. Why not?”

“But surely it hurts?”

“It would hurt more to never be around them.” She looked at him curiously. “And don’t say you don’t understand. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

She watched him struggle with an answer. After a long moment, he spoke. “I’m not the man I used to be, Emma. At one time, yes, I wanted to have a family, a home, a wife.” His voice turned husky. “But that didn’t work out…and it’s not something I’ve thought about in a very long time.”