Excerpt from
Whispering Vines
He paused and flicked a glance at Daphné. "By being Francisca, you'll give her a new lease on life. And you'll be doing me a great favor."
The caring he felt for his mother was there in his eyes. The pain he was going through was real--it made her heart go out to him. If it was in her power, she would make the old woman happy, Daphné vowed silently.
"I sincerely hope that I--th-that we bring her happiness."
"I know you will." He lifted his hand from the steering wheel to cover hers on her lap. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. The familiarity of the gesture was really odd, considering their short acquaintance. Veering his attention to the road, he swerved slightly to give way to an ancient rickety bus whose blaring music they could hear even with the windows closed. The strong urge to remove the anguish from his wonderfully appealing eyes left her disturbed. She had never seen such unfathomable pitch-black depths before. The depths you would love to fall headlong into!
Damian felt his gaze swivel back to take in Daphné's tense features: the limp copper-tresses clinging to her temple, the small bandage on her forehead reminding him of her injuries--some obvious and some not so obvious ones. He didn't know why he had proposed such a deception to her. He hated deceit in every form; it was against his principles. But Isidora's health was the issue here; surely he could bend his principles for her. But what about Daphné? What about her freedom? To be tied to the child, who was not even her own... She loved the child, he reasoned determinedly--she had said Anna was her family. He tried to dredge up the old resentment for Francisca. With her gone, even that was lost to him.
Yes. He would make it worth her while to go through all the trouble. When the time came for her to leave, he would offer her a generous amount in American dollars that she wouldn't be able to refuse. Somehow, the thought unsettled him.
Rows and rows of wild fuchsia whizzed past Daphné's window. Their brilliant hues of purple and magenta creating a confusion of their own in her already cluttered mind. "What are you going to call me?" It struck her that she wouldn't be able to bear being addressed as Francine. The Spanish 'Francisca' was better. "You can call me -- Francisca. But don't ever call me Francine. I just can't take it."
She sounded hysterical. "Un momento, Chica mia, do not fear--everyone is going to address you as 'Francisca.'" His hands had stiffened at this outburst, and now he heard Anna starting to get restless. Was Francisca's friend going to change her mind now? It didn't bear thinking about. Not where Isidora was concerned. And Anna. No, he needed her.