him from his island nation and smuggled into the Netherlands, he arrived the next day, a shaken and somewhat traumatized refugee, at the noisy, cheerful home of the Dykstra family. He was told this would be his new home, his new family, and that he must never speak of Ambria, never let anyone know anything about his past. The people who brought him there then melted away into the scenery and were never seen again—at least not by him. And there he was, suddenly a Dykstra, suddenly Dutch. And not allowed to ask any questions, ever.
The Dykstras were good to him. His new parents were actually quite affectionate, but there were so many children in the family, it was easy to get lost in the shuffle. Still, everyone had to pitch in and he did learn to take care of the younger ones. He also learned how to listen and quietly glean information. From the very beginning his purpose in life was to find out what had happened to his family and to find a way to connect with any of them who might still be alive. As he got older, he began to meet the right people and gain the trust of the powerful in many areas, and little by little, he began to piece things together.
At first the socializing had just been a natural inclination. But over time he began to realize that these people did move in circles close to the wealthy and the influential, elements that might prove helpful in his quest to find out what had happened to his family—and his country. Over the years various things half-heard or half-understood sent him on wild-goose chases across the continent, but finally, six months ago, he’d hit pay dirt.
He’d been playing a friendly set of tennis with Nico, the son of a French diplomat, when the young man had stopped his serve, and, ball in hand, had stared at him for a long moment.
“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “I met someone at a dinner in Paris last week who could be your twin. It was a fancy banquet for the new foreign minister. He looked just like you.”
“Who? The foreign minister?”
“No, idiot.” Nico laughed. “This fellow I met. I can’t remember his name, but I think he was with the British delegation. You don’t have a brother in government?”
By now, David’s heart was pounding in his chest as though he’d just run a four-minute mile. He knew this might be the break he’d been searching for. But he had to remain cool and pretend this was nothing but light banter. He took a swing into empty air with his racquet and tried to appear nonchalant.
“Not that I know of. All my brothers are happily ensconced in the business world, and spend most of their time in Amsterdam.” He grinned across the net. “And none of them look much like me.”
He was referring to his foster brothers, but the fact that he wasn’t a real Dykstra was not common knowledge and he was happy to keep it that way.
“The ugly duckling of the family, are you?” teased Nico.
“That’s me.”
Nico served and it was all David could do to pay enough attention to return it in a long drive to the corner. Nico’s response went into the net and that gave David a chance for another couple of questions, but Nico really didn’t seem to know any more than what he’d said.
Still, it was a start, and the information breathed new life into his hopes and dreams of finding his family. He got to work researching, trying to find a list of the names of everyone who had attended that banquet. Once he had that, he began searching for pictures on the Internet. Finally, he thought he just might have his man.
Mark Stephols was his name. There were a couple of other possibilities, but the more he stared at the pictures of Mark, the more certain he became. Now, how to approach him and find out for sure?
He could find out where Mark was likely to be at certain public events, but he couldn’t just walk up and say “Hi. Are you my brother?” And if he actually was, the last thing he could risk was standing side by side with the man, where everyone could immediately note the resemblance between them and begin to ask questions. So as he waited for the right chance, he began to color his hair a bit darker and grow a mustache. There was no point in making identification too easy.
His highly placed social intimates came in handy, and very soon he obtained an invitation to a reception where Mark Stephols could be approached. Despite the hair dye, despite the mustache, the moment the introduction was made—“Mr. Stephols, may I introduce Mr. David Dyskstra of Dyskstra Shipping?”—their gazes met and the connection was made. There was instant—though silent—acknowledgment between the two of them that they had to be related.
They shook hands and Monte leaned close to whisper, “Meet me in the rose garden.”
A few minutes later they came face-to-face without any witnesses and stared at each other as though they each weren’t sure they were seeing what they thought they were seeing.
David started to speak and Monte put a finger to his lips. “The walls have ears,” he said softly.
David grinned. He was fairly vibrating with excitement. “How about the shrubbery?”
“That’s possible, too, of course. Don’t trust anything or anyone.”
“Let’s walk, then.”
“Good idea.”
They strolled along the edge of a small lake for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, until they were far enough from the house and from everyone else, to feel somewhat safe. They looked at one another, then both jockied comments back and forth for another few minutes, neither knowing just what to say, neither wanting to give the game away, just in case what looked true wasn’t.
Finally, Monte said out of the blue, “Do you remember the words to the old folk song our mother would sing when putting us to sleep for the night?”
David stopped where he was and concentrated, trying to remember. Did he? What had that been again?
And then he closed his eyes and began to murmur softly, as though channeling from another time, another place. In his head, he heard his mother’s voice. From his mouth came the childhood bedtime song in Ambrian. When he finished and opened his eyes again, he turned to his brother. Mark had been still, but tears were coursing down his tanned cheeks. Reaching out, he took David’s hand and held it tightly.
“At last,” he whispered. “At last.”
Chapter Five
AYME didn’t sleep for long, and soon she was up and reacting to the beauty of the countryside.
“I don’t know why I haven’t come to Europe before,” she said. “I’ve just been so wrapped up in law school and starting a new career and being there for my family.”
Her voice faded on the last word and she had to swallow back her feelings. Every now and then it hit her hard. She had to hold it back. There would be a time to deal with sorrow and pain. The time wasn’t now.
“And boyfriends?” David was saying. “I’m sure you’ve got a boyfriend back home.”
She settled down, shaking away unhappiness and trying to live in the moment. “Actually, I don’t,” she admitted.
“Really.”
“Really.” She thought about it for a moment. She kept meaning to get a boyfriend. So far her life had just been too busy to have time for that sort of thing. “I’ve been going to college and going to law school and working, as well. There just hasn’t been time for boyfriends.”
“You’re kidding.” So it was just as he’d thought. She was a workaholic who needed to learn how to be young while she still had the chance. “Most women make time.”
“Well, I didn’t. I was so set on doing the very best I possibly could and succeeding and making my parents proud of me.”
“Your adoptive parents, right?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Ah.” He nodded, too. So it was a classic case of overcompensation. She probably spent all