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Richard stared down at him, literally having trouble remembering the name he’d invented for himself.
The boy held out his hand in great decorum, taking the initiative, as if to help him with his obvious difficulty in answering that elementary question. “I’m Mauricio Sandoval.”
In the chaos his mind had become, he noted that Isabella had given the boy her new invented surname. He stared at the small proffered hand, stunned to find his heart booming with apprehension at the idea of touching him.
So he didn’t, but finally answered instead, his voice an alien rasp to his own ears. “I’m Richard Graves.”
The boy nodded, lowering his hand, then only said, “Yes, but who are you?”
“Mauri!”
At the woman’s gentle reprimand, Richard raised his gaze to her, shaking his head, jogging himself out of the trance he’d fallen in. “Mauricio is right. Telling you my name didn’t really tell you who I am.”
“You talk funny.”
“Mauri!”
The boy shrugged at the woman’s embarrassment, undeterred. “I don’t mean funny ha-ha, I mean not like us. I like it. You sound so...important. Wish I could speak like that.” His gaze grew more penetrating, as if he wanted to drag answers from him. “Why do you speak like that?”
“Because I’m British.”
“You mean from Britain?” At Richard’s nod he persisted, “That’s not the same as English, is it?”
The boy knew things most adults didn’t. “Not exactly. I do happen to be English, too, or rather, English first, having been born in England. But a lot of people are British—and that means they’re citizens of Great Britain—but not English. They could be Scottish, Welsh, or some Irish from Northern Ireland, too. But most of those people hate being called British, rather insisting on calling themselves English or Scottish or Welsh or Irish. I say British because the majority of people from the rest of the world don’t know the difference. And most don’t care.”
“So you say British so they won’t ask questions when they don’t care about the answers. I ask questions because I like to know stuff.”
Richard marveled at the boy’s articulate, thorough logic, his insight into what made people tick. He was too well informed and socially developed for his age. Isabella and her family were clearly doing a superlative job raising him.
After digesting the new information, the boy persisted. “You still didn’t tell us who you are.”
At the woman’s groan, Richard felt a smile tug at his lips at the boy’s dogged determination. It was clear when he latched on to something, little Mauricio never let go.
That trait was more like him than Robert.
On his next erratic heartbeat his involuntary smile froze. He sensed that there was more to Mauricio’s insistence than the drilling curiosity of a young and tenacious mind. Could it be the boy was that sensitive he felt the blood bond between them?
No. Of course not. That was preposterous.
But what was really ridiculous was him standing there like a gigantic oaf, unable to carry his end of an introduction with a curious child and a kindly lady.
Forcing himself out of his near stupor, he cocked his head at the boy, that bolt of recognition striking him all over again. “In my defense, you told me only your name, too.”
That perfect little face, so earnest and involved, tilted at him in challenge. “You’re visiting us, so you know stuff about us already. We don’t know anything about you.”
Richard’s lips twisted at how absurd the boy’s rebuttal made his previous comment. It really hadn’t occurred to him to c
onsider that simple fact when he’d made it. His mental faculties had been all but demolished.
While the boy was as sharp and alert as his mother. He got to the point and held his ground. As she always did.
He inhaled a much-needed draft of oxygen. “You’re quite right. Knowing your name tells me a lot about you, based on what I already know about your...family, while knowing mine tells you nothing about me. You’re also right to insist on knowing who I am. It’s the first thing you always need to know about other people, so you can decide what to expect from them. Let me introduce myself better this time.”
He held out his hand. The boy didn’t give him a chance to brace himself for the contact, eagerly putting his hand in his. And an enervating current zapped through him.
He barely withdrew his hand instead of snatching it away, suppressing the growl that clawed at his throat at the lash of sensations.
“My name is Richard Graves and I’m an old...associate of Dr. Sandoval’s.”
