Not For Sale. Sandra Marton

half-delirious with fever, dehydrated after vomiting up what little was in his belly.

      He was doomed.

      Except, he wasn’t.

      On that night, his life changed forever.

      Some do-gooding social worker was with the police. Who knew why? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that she took him to a storefront that housed one of the few organizations that saw street children as human. There, they pumped him full of antibiotics, gave him fruit juice to drink and, when he could keep that down, food. They cleaned him up, cut his hair, dressed him in clothes that didn’t fit, but who gave a damn?

      The clothes were free of lice. That was what mattered.

      Lucas wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was bright. He’d taught himself to read, to do math. Now, he attacked the books they gave him, observed how others behaved, learned to speak properly, to remember to wash his hands and brush his teeth, to say obrigado and por favor.

      And he learned to smile.

      That was the hardest thing. Smiling was not a part of who he was, but he did it.

      Weeks passed, months, and then there was another miracle. A North American couple showed up, talked with him for a little while—by then, Lucas had picked up passable English from one of his teachers—and the next thing he knew, they took him to a place called New Jersey and said he was now their son.

      He should have known it wouldn’t last.

      Lucas had cleaned up nicely. He looked cute. Black hair, green eyes, golden skin. He smelled good. He spoke well. Inside, though, the boy who trusted no one was still in charge. He hated being told what to do and the New Jersey couple believed children should be told what to do, every minute of every hour of every day.

      Things deteriorated rapidly.

      He was not grateful, his would-be father said, and tried to beat gratitude into him. His heart was owned by demons, his would-be mother said, and demanded he seek salvation on his knees.

      Eventually, they said he would never be any good. On his tenth birthday, they drove him to a hulking gray building and handed him over to Child Services.

      Lucas spent the next eight years going from foster home to foster home. One or two were okay but most of them. Even now, as an adult, his fists knotted when he thought back to some of what he and others had endured. The last place was so terrible that at midnight on the day he turned eighteen, he’d tossed the few things he owned into a pillowcase, slung it over his shoulder and walked out.

      But he had learned what would become the single most important lesson of his life.

      He knew precisely what he wanted.

      Respect. That was it, in a word. And he knew, too, that respect came when a man had power. And money. He wanted both.

      He worked hard, picked crops in New Jersey fields during the summer, did whatever manual labor he could find during the winter. He got his GED—his General Educational Diploma—because he had never stopped reading and reading led to learning. He enrolled in a community college, sat through classes when he was exhausted and desperate for sleep. Add a helping of socially acceptable good manners, clothes that fit the long, leanly muscled body of the man he had become, and the way to the top suddenly seemed possible.

      More than possible. It was achievable.

      At thirty-three, Lucas Vieira had it all.

      Almost.

      Almost, he thought grimly, on this day that had started with bad coffee and an inept secretary, and he had no one to blame but himself.

      Anger surged through him and he shot to his feet and paced the length of his big office.

      A bad sign, that uncharacteristic show of fury. Learning to contain one’s emotions was also necessary for success. Still, it wasn’t as bad as his having missed the signs of his current mistress’s unrealistic reading of what she’d called a relationship.

      When he’d thought about it at all, he’d called it an affair.

      Whatever it had been, he was on the verge of disaster.

      He was going to lose buying Leonid Rostov’s twenty billion dollar corporation. And the deal was close, tantalizingly close to finalization.

      Everybody wanted the Rostov holdings but Lucas wanted them more. Adding them to his already formidable empire would validate everything he had worked so hard to become.

      A few months ago, when word got out that Rostov might be selling, that he was coming to New York, Lucas had taken a gamble. He had not sent Rostov letters or proposals. He had not phoned the man’s Moscow office. Instead, he’d sent Rostov a box of Havana cigars—every photo of the Russian showed him with a cigar in his teeth—and a business card. Across the back he’d written, Dinner in New York next Saturday, 8:00 p.m., the Palace Hotel.

      Rostov had swallowed the bait.

      They’d had a leisurely meal in a private room. There was no talk of business. Lucas knew Rostov was sizing him up. Rostov ate heartily and drank the same way, Lucas ate sparingly and made each drink last. At the end of the night, Rostov slapped him on the back and invited him to Moscow.

      Now, after endless flying back and forth, negotiating through translators—Rostov’s English was chancy but how could Lucas fault it when his Russian began with zdravstvuj—hello—and ended with dasvidaniya?

      Now, Rostov was in New York again.

      “We have one more meal, Luke-ahs, one bottle of vodka—and then I will make you happy man.”

      Only one problem.

      Rostov was bringing his wife.

      Ilana Rostov had joined them the last time Lucas was in Moscow. She had a beautiful if surgically altered face; diamond earrings dangled like Bolshoi chandeliers from her ears. She moved in a cloud of choking perfume and she was fluent in English; she’d served as her husband’s translator that night.

      She’d also had her hand buried in Lucas’s lap beneath the deep hem of a crisply starched tablecloth.

      Somehow, Lucas had made it through the meal, the translator he’d hired for the evening oblivious, Rostov oblivious, only Lucas and Ilana Rostov aware of what was happening. He had barely escaped with his dignity, never mind anything else, intact.

      And Rostov was bringing her with him tonight.

      “No translators,” he’d said firmly. “Translators are functionaries of the state, da? You can, of course, bring a voman. But for talking, my Ilana will take care of you as good as she will take care of me.”

      Lucas had almost laughed. And he could laugh this time, because he had an ace up his sleeve.

      Her name was Elin Jansson. Elin, born in Finland, spoke flawless Russian. She was a model; she was Lucas’s current mistress. She would be his date, his translator…

      And his protection against Ilana Rostov.

      Lucas groaned, went to the window wall behind his desk and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

      It had all seemed so simple. He should have known better. Life was never simple, and today had proved it.

      “Mr. Vieira?”

      Lucas swung around. His temporary P.A. smiled nervously from the doorway. She was young and she made lousy coffee but far worse, no matter what he did to make her feel comfortable, she remained half-terrified of him. Right now, she looked as if one strong gust of wind might blow her over.

      And well she should look exactly that way, he thought grimly. He had left orders that he was not to be disturbed.

      “What is it, Denise?”

      “It’s Elise. Sir.” The girl swallowed dryly. “I knocked but you didn’t—” She swallowed again. “Mr. Rostov called.