Книга - Obsession

Obsession
Kay David


What would you do for your kids?Emma Toussaint would do anything–or so she's always thought. She needs money–lots of it–to regain custody, and then one day, opportunity comes knocking. All she has to do is break the law.What would you do to get even with the man who stole your life?Raul Santos would do anything–or so he's always thought. He was framed and sent to prison by a corrupt DEA agent. Now he wants revenge, and he doesn't care who gets hurt along the way–until he meets Emma.What would you do if the person you love is caught between you and your worst enemy? That's the question Raul has to answer.









Raul watched Emma


He’d seen her before, but each time he found himself surprised by her appearance. The tall, thin blonde hadn’t been what he’d expected. There was a hint of uncertainty, a slight hesitation in her manner. It wasn’t a detail anyone else would have noticed, but Raul had spent the past few years looking for people’s weak spots. He’d had to learn that skill because his life depended on it.

When he was ready to approach her, Raul moved away from the bar, threading his way through the crowd. And that was when he saw William Kelman.

Kelman was working the room, heading inexorably toward Emma. Raul had hoped all along this encounter would happen—had counted on it—but now that it was, the reality turned his stomach. Seeing Kelman approach her was like watching a snake stalk a mouse.

Raul grabbed a bottle of beer from a nearby waiter and told himself it didn’t matter. He had a job to do and nothing else was important. Emma Toussaint was Kelman’s mouse—and the reason Raul was there.

He and Kelman were two of a kind. Users. Predators. Men who took what they wanted and never looked back. In his other life, Raul had been a peaceable, law-abiding person, but all that had changed because of William Kelman. Now they were the same.

The realization should have made Raul unhappy. In his other life, it would have.


Dear Reader,

Obsession is set in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, a place 1 visited frequently a few years back when Pieter, my husband of twenty-five years, lived and worked there. The locale proved irresistible to me. Despite its overwhelming poverty, Bolivia is a place of beauty and hidden treasures. The longer I stayed, the more I realized I had to set a book in Santa Cruz. The city is lovely and the people even more so. Friendly and open, they are terribly interested in everything American.

In the course of my travels, however, I’ve learned that no matter how attractive the location, most Americans still long for home. They miss their loving families, their familiar haunts, even their fast-food restaurants.

Emma Toussaint is no different but she has a special reason for feeling this way. Forced from her job and divorced by an unloving husband, Emma has lost the right to see her children. She has only one phone call a week during which to hear their precious voices. She goes to Bolivia knowing she may never see them again, but hoping otherwise. Her hero, Raul Santos, is there for a totally different reason. He wants revenge. When their paths cross, neither will ever be the same again.

I hope you enjoy your “visit” to Bolivia and that you’ll love the two new friends you’ll make—Emma and Raul—as well!

Sincerely,

Kay David




Obsession

Kay David





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Major Stan Clark of the Texas Department of Highways provided invaluable insight for this book. I’d like to thank him and acknowledge his help. Texas is a great state because of men like Major Clark.

As always, a special thank-you goes to Heather, Pat and Marilyn, too. Great writers and even better friends.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#ub0580153-685c-556d-b6bb-7e5358448e65)

CHAPTER TWO (#u0be5c069-ec5f-5cca-81c1-e052af0b6fcb)

CHAPTER THREE (#ue18c18c3-959a-5ad2-a07c-c8601d797e9c)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ua651c5bc-d47b-5517-abe0-a614f56f4d0e)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


Santa Cruz, Bolivia

TWO YEARS, three months, seven days.

Staring out the smudged and dirty window of her taxi, the cobbled streets and crowded sidewalks passing by in a blur, Emma Toussaint wondered if the day would ever come when she would stop keeping track of time. When she would no longer look at a calendar and automatically calculate the number of weeks that had passed since her life—as she had known it—had ended. She doubted it would. Adding up the days was as natural to her now as breathing.

She tried not to dwell on the situation, but in moments like these, when she had to do something she didn’t really want to do, her past came back full force, and it was impossible to ignore. All that occupied her mind was what she no longer had.

Her family. Her home. The life she’d worked so hard to create.

As if he was deliberately trying to distract her, the driver plunged the vehicle into the melee of the First Ring, the taxi’s bumper barely missing the fender of the ancient truck in front of them. The city streets were laid out in a series of concentric circles, and the congestion never ended. Emma grabbed for the door handle, then realized too late it was missing. With a swoosh, she slid across the cracked leather seat to the other side.

She shook her head and held on to her purse a little tighter. The taxis in Santa Cruz were like everything else in this part of South America. Rundown and just getting by. For as long as she’d been in Bolivia, two years now, the whole country had seemed on the edge of collapse—a state with which she could easily sympathize.

The beat-up Toyota she was in whipped out of the traffic circle and merged onto Avenida de Ventura, the main street of Santa Cruz. It was after eight in the evening and the area was still crowded and noisy, exhaust and smoke hanging over the thoroughfare in a dirty brown cloud. Most of the cars packed around her were ancient and filthy, with gaping cavities in the passenger-side dashboard. She’d been here four months before her Spanish had been good enough to ask about the disconcerting holes. She’d learned then that the vehicles had come from Japan where they’d been right-hand drives. Ripping out the steering wheels, exporters adapted the cars, then shipped them to Bolivia. The autos had spent the prime of their lives in another country and had come here on the downswing.

Just like most of the people.

The driver barreled past four stop signs, honking, then blasting straight into the intersections without hesitating. A block later, he jerked the car to a stop at a light he couldn’t ignore.

Thinking of the party she was going to at the Taminaca Bar—dreading the party she was going to—Emma turned her attention away from the traffic and gazed out the side window. Quickly she realized her mistake and looked the other way, but not quickly enough. Her brain registered what she didn’t want to see, and her heart swelled with sympathy and pain.

The Quechua Indian woman who stood on the corner, every day, rain or shine, cold or hot, was there. Emma went down this street, Ayacucho, on her way to work, and she always saw her. She could see the India begging from her office window, as well.

The poor woman couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but she looked twice that. Her skin was like leather, toughened by daily exposure to the sun and wind. She wore a short-brimmed felt hat—the green one today, not the brown. Underneath it, her black hair hung in two thick plaits, which fell well past her waist. The strands were threaded with gray—from the dust or simply premature aging, Emma couldn’t tell. The rest of her outfit was the same; it never changed from one day to the next, except that she sometimes wore long pants beneath the four skirts she wore. Also three blouses, a vest, endless petticoats—more layers of clothing than Emma could generally count. And then there was the aguayo. Using every color of the rainbow, the fragile shawl was frayed and torn, mended so much Emma was continually shocked to see it still in one piece. As usual, the woman had knotted it behind her neck and then slung it diagonally across her chest. Each village wove a different pattern; if you recognized the design, you could tell where the owner came from.

Holding her breath, Emma looked at the aguayo.

The child was there, bundled up so tightly inside the rag it couldn’t move anything but its eyes. Two black dots stared back at Emma from beneath a thatch of equally dark hair. A smudge of something white was on the baby’s cheek.

A physical catch formed inside Emma’s throat, closing it down as tightly as if fingers were wrapped around her neck and squeezing. She struggled against the sensation and tried to swallow, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. She almost wished someone was trying to strangle her. Then her brain would shut down, too, and she wouldn’t have to think anymore.

That wouldn’t happen, though. Emma had seen the Quechua too many times and had hoped for that same kind of relief without it coming. There was always a child in the aguayo. Sometimes older, sometimes younger, but always there was a child. And seeing it always affected her just this way.

Without meaning to, Emma found herself leaning toward the car window, her palm flat against the glass, her fingers spread, almost as if she was reaching out for the baby. The pain in her chest spread in a wider circle and hampered her ability to think—but not to remember.

Sarah had been eight months old when Emma had left the States, just about the age of the child in the serape. Her eyes had been brown, too, and the fuzz on her head dark and curly. Almost five, Jake had looked more like Emma. Lighter eyes. Blond hair. When she’d brought Sarah home from the hospital, Jake had wanted to hold her. As usual, Todd had protested, but Emma had ignored her husband and carefully situated the little boy on the couch. She’d then lowered the infant into his arms, and when she’d stood up and looked at those precious children, the image had burned itself in her heart. She hadn’t understood, beyond the obvious, why it had fixed itself so firmly in her mind at that time. But then again, maybe she had. On a subconscious level, she’d been waiting for disaster for years. Todd had married her and brought her into his life, one completely different from her own, and it’d felt too good to be true right from the very beginning. Not to worry about money. Not to ever think twice about food, shelter or whatever else her children needed. Then everything had changed horribly, almost overnight.

The light went from red to green and the taxi roared down the street, the tiny dirty child and its begging mother falling behind. Emma turned and stared out the back window, but the glass was covered with grit and she couldn’t see them. Her heart shuddering, she faced the front once more, then tilted her head against the splintered leather seat and closed her eyes.

Two years, three months, seven days.

RAUL SANTOS leaned against the bar and sipped his cold Paceña, the bitter bite of the beer as it rolled over his tongue and filled his mouth such a pleasure he could hardly believe it. All his senses were heightened. The feel of the wood against his back, the scent of the flowers sitting on a nearby table, even the painting over the mirror by the liquor bottles. The colors looked brighter than they should have, the images more real. The Taminaca Bar in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, was so far removed, so incredibly different, from where he’d been six months ago, it was unnerving.

It almost seemed as if the past five years had happened to someone else.

Almost.

He drained the beer, set the empty bottle on the bar and nodded for another, his thoughts turning harder. Those years had happened to someone else. The young idealistic Raul Santos he had been before he’d been sent to prison was a completely different person from the man resting against the bar now. They shared the same name, but that was all. His mind, his body, his very soul had been taken out, torn into pieces and reassembled into something totally opposite.

Raul’s gaze roved the bar. It was an open-air place, but elegant, with white tablecloths and candlesticks. A blue pool, surrounded by hibiscus plants with enormous red and yellow blossoms, sparkled on the other side from where he stood. At each end of the pool, hammocks were suspended between palm trees. They swayed gently in the evening breeze, and the chatter of wild birds, contained in several cages along the walkway, filled the relative quiet. The place was beginning to fill with women in tight dresses and men in dark suits, arriving one after another. Someone started some salsa music and the pulsing beat drowned out the birds.

At the opposite end of the polished wooden bar, the bartender uncapped two more Paceñas for a black-jacketed cocktail waitress. Without turning her head, she eyed Raul. He eyed her back, his body responding before he could even think twice. There was something about South American women, he thought. The long black hair, the curvaceous bodies, the way they held themselves. He’d traveled to Buenos Aires once—in his other life—and the women there had been the same. Incredible. As she swished away, Raul stared at her backside and wondered if it was something they learned or if it was simply in their genes.

He turned to pick up his drink, and the bartender was waiting, wiping a white rag over the mahogany expanse between them. The man nodded toward the doorway leading out to the interior of the hotel. “Esa es la señorita. Allá.”

The bartender’s Spanish was different from the Spanish Raul had learned as a child in Texas, but not that different. He turned and looked. The woman he’d been waiting for stood on the threshold.

He palmed the bolivianos he’d tucked under his drink earlier and pushed the bills toward the bartender. Afraid he might miss her, Raul had wanted a second pair of eyes looking for the banker. “Muchas gracias, señor.”

“De nada.” The man’s dark eyes gleamed. “La señorita—es muy bonita, ¿no? Buena suerte, señor…”

Good luck? Raul nodded his thanks at the man’s sentiment, but he didn’t need it. He made his own luck.

Turning away, Raul focused on the woman. Emma Toussaint. He’d seen her before, of course, but each time he found himself surprised by her appearance. The tall thin blonde hadn’t been what he had expected, although he wasn’t able to explain exactly why. Tonight she wore a sleeveless black dress, straight and severe with a scarf tucked into the neckline. She’d probably read in a magazine somewhere that the square of silk would make the dress into a cocktail outfit. She’d been wrong to think so. It still looked like a banker’s dress. No nonsense. Businesslike. Boring.

His eyes went to her face. The first time he’d seen her, he’d decided her features were too interesting to be called pretty. Her cheekbones were so high they shadowed the strong-looking jaw beneath, and her nose was too straight and bladelike for conventional beauty. Her hair, falling straight to her shoulders, was glossy and smooth, her eyes hazel and cool. Only her lips seemed out of place. Full, lush and a red that had to be natural, they looked as if they were made to be tasted.

There was something about her, something elusive he couldn’t put a name to. She wore a hint of uncertainty, a slight hesitation in the way she held her shoulders. It wasn’t a detail anyone else would have noticed, but Raul had spent the past few years looking for people’s weak spots. He’d learned the skill because his life had depended on it. Now it was second nature.

As he watched, Reina Alvarado came up and greeted Emma. Kisses were exchanged and they began a conversation. The other woman was as conservatively dressed as Emma, but clearly a local. With dark hair and features, she had a fuller figure and gestured wildly as she spoke. She tottered on four-inch heels, too, a definite South American fashion trend. They were friends, he already knew, very good friends, and Emma obviously felt comfortable around her, some of the tension easing from her body as they talked.

He picked up his drink, biding his time. He wasn’t in a hurry. He’d do this like he did everything now—on his terms. Finishing the beer, he ordered another. The alcohol didn’t affect him.

The noise level of the party went up, and within the hour the music was all but impossible to hear above the chattering guests. Raul caught snippets of conversation, some in Portuguese, some in English, most in Spanish. He knew no one there, but several people spoke to him, made party conversation. Bolivians were friendly, courteous people, curious about Americans and always ready to talk business or simply converse. He found himself involved in more discussions than he would have liked. It made it harder to keep Emma Toussaint in his sights.

Her blond hair shone, though, and when Raul was finally ready, a little after midnight, he didn’t have any trouble spotting her on the other side of the pool. Moving away from the stool, he threaded his way through the crowd and headed toward the edge of the open air bar. Facing a bank of windows covered in reflective film, he walked parallel to her, his eyes trained on the windows, which were as good as mirrors.

And that was when Raul saw him.

William Kelman.

He was working the crowd, greeting people with a gracious smile and ambling slowly so he could talk to everyone. He blended into the group as though he was born to it. He was heading inexorably toward Emma, and Raul paused to watch the drama unfold. He’d hoped all along that this encounter would happen—had counted on it happening tonight—but now that the vignette was unfolding, the image turned his stomach. Seeing Kelman approach her was like watching a snake stalk a mouse.

Raul grabbed another bottle of beer from a passing waiter and told himself it didn’t matter. He had a job to do and nothing else was important. Emma Toussaint was William Kelman’s mouse, and that was the very reason he, Raul, was there.

He and Kelman were one of a kind. Users. Predators. Men who took what they wanted and never looked back. In his other life, Raul had been a peaceable person, a law-abiding citizen, even a gentleman some might have said, but all that had changed because of William Kelman. Now both of them were the same. Both of them sensed the weak and deceived them for their own advantage.

The realization should have made Raul unhappy.

In his other life, it would have.

“HE’S COMING this way. No! Don’t look. Stand still, I’ll tell you what he’s doing. Smile. Act casual.”

Emma tried to follow Reina Alvarado’s advice, but it wasn’t possible; she had to look. Turning her head, Emma glanced over her shoulder, then faced her best friend once more. “That’s him? The older one in the tuxedo?”

Reina nodded. “William Kelman. He’s a nice-looking man, isn’t he?” She raised a hand to her dark hair and fluffed it up around the crown of her head. “Maybe I can snag him. I’m tired of Miguel and all his problems. Did I tell you what he did last week?”

“No, you didn’t. But right now the only man I want to hear about is Mr. Kelman, please.”

Reina looked peeved, but only for a second. Nothing ever upset her for long, and that was one of the reasons Emma loved her friend so much. She needed the balance in her life that Reina gave her—the laughter, the jokes, the South American acceptance that life was what you were handed, not what you made it. They had met, literally, the day Emma had gotten off the plane. The bank had arranged for Reina, a local real-estate agent, to pick up Emma from the airport so they could begin to look at apartments. In the mass confusion of Viru-Viru, Reina had taken one look at the exhausted and obviously drained Emma, and they’d gone straight to the Yotau Hotel. Reina had checked Emma in, led her to her suite, then ordered room service for them both. They’d been friends ever since, and it’d paid off for Emma in more ways than one. Reina was a pipeline of information and gossip.

“What do you need to know?” Reina said now, her perfect eyebrows arching above snapping black eyes. “He’s rich, he’s an American, and he needs a banker.” She poked Emma discreetly in the ribs. “That’s you.”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh. “Haven’t you already relieved him of that money? Last time we talked, you said you were taking him to Las Palmas to look at houses.”

“I did,” Reina said smugly. “And he bought the biggest one out there. You know, the pink one on the huge lot with the pool and the garden.” She leaned closer. “It cost a fortune and he didn’t blink an eye.”

Emma’s interest quickened, and she risked another look. William Kelman had stopped to talk to someone, the local consul general, she realized with a start. The woman was smiling and laughing with Kelman as if the two knew each other well. Standing beside them was one of the directors of the embassy. Emma noticed he didn’t look quite as happy, but she gave him a passing glance only. She was interested in Kelman.

He wasn’t tall, but his military bearing added stature and power to his appearance. He was nearer to sixty than fifty, she estimated, with close-cropped hair almost completely gray. As she watched, he tilted his head toward the consul, and for the first time, Emma realized he had someone with him. A very young, very beautiful woman. Dressed in a gold sheath that revealed a stunning figure, she was standing to one side of Kelman, looking bored, her dark eyes searching the room for something more exciting, her body moving, unconsciously, it seemed, to the music of the band.

“You’re staring,” Reina hissed. “Turn around. I’ll tell you when he’s coming this way.”

Emma shifted to look at her friend once more, but as she did, she suddenly felt every one of her thirty-five years. The simple black dress she’d selected seemed dowdy. She hadn’t taken the time to apply more makeup or fix her hair. Touching the ends of it, she knew there was nothing she could do about it now.

Reina read her mind. “You look perfect,” she said. “Just like a banker.”

“I know,” Emma answered. “I just…” She shook her head. “That girl he’s with. She’s so young, so gorgeous…” She let her voice die out.

“They’re all young and gorgeous, chica, but we’ve got experience. That’s more important!”

A moment later William Kelman was at their side, the girl trailing behind him. “Reina!” He leaned over and kissed her. “How’s my favorite real-estate agent?”

Reina beamed. “Muy bien, señor. And how’s your Spanish?”

“It’s not improving,” he said. “Not one damned bit.”

Before he could say anything else, Reina reached out and put her hand on Emma’s arm. “This is my friend, Emma Toussaint.”

Emma extended her hand and William Kelman took it. He squeezed so hard she felt her ring cut into the flesh of her fingers, but on reflex, she squeezed back, just as forcefully. His eyes narrowed momentarily, then he released his grip.

“So you’re the banker, eh? I’ve heard a lot about you. Your name gets dropped in all the right places.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Emma met his eyes and smiled.

“You’re at Banco, right?”

“That’s correct. I work for Banco Nacional. I’m in charge of their foreign-currency exchanges and expatriate accounts.”

“Convince me it’s a good idea to put all my money with you and your bank.”

She smiled politely. There was a shop downtown that sold Brazilian blue topaz the exact shade of William Kelman’s eyes. She’d never liked the stone—its color was cold and impersonal.

“I don’t have to convince you,” she said. “Talk to my other clients and you’ll convince yourself.”

His expression didn’t change, but she’d dealt with so many men like him back in New Orleans she could tell what they were going to say before they opened their mouths. Like her ex-husband and his family, they had money and they thought it made them special.

“I’ve already heard everyone’s opinions,” he said. “But I make up my mind for myself.”

“Don’t you find that hard to do without the facts?”

He smiled. It was a chilly expression that matched his eyes. “Not really. I find most ‘facts’ highly overrated.”

She made a motion with her head, a quick tilt as if to agree with his witticism. She needed the man’s business—there was no reason to make him angry. “We’re not the biggest bank in town, Mr. Kelman, but we handle all the important accounts. I’m sure you’d be very happy with us.”

“I’ll come see you sometime next week.” He stuck out his hand. “I assume that’s convenient?”

She accepted his grip. This time it was looser, as if she’d passed some kind of test. “I’d be delighted to see you anytime.”

He nodded and moved away after kissing Reina on the cheek. Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her shoulders slumping before she could stop herself, relief flooding her now that the moment had passed. She’d come to the party for this one reason—to let William Kelman check her out and obtain a meeting with him. She hoped it was worth it.

Reina grabbed her arm and grinned. “Let’s go get another drink,” she whispered. “I have a feeling you’re going to have something to celebrate soon.”

RAUL WATCHED the two women head toward the bar, their business with Kelman obviously concluded. Emma Toussaint appeared more relaxed. Looking down at her friend, she tossed her head and smiled, her blond hair swinging against her neck. Even her step was easier, he noticed, less stiff and anxious. Clearly she was pleased with how the introductions had gone. Raul allowed himself a corresponding flicker of satisfaction, then he searched the room with his eyes and found Kelman to judge his reaction.

The man was in a group of people, laughing and talking. The young woman he’d brought with him was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to be participating in the conversation, but as Raul watched, he realized Kelman’s attention was actually focused somewhere else. Raul followed the other man’s gaze until he understood. Kelman was studying Emma Toussaint, looking at her with a measuring wariness.

In the past, Raul had always addressed his problems directly. As a well-trained attorney, he’d assess the situation, evaluate his priorities, then put his plan into action, a plan that was usually complicated and involved, yet never beyond the limits of what was legal. He believed in doing things the right way; justice and fairness were always behind him.

But the rules were different now. Kelman had changed them when he’d ruined Raul’s life. Honesty and ethics were out the window, replaced by lies and subterfuge.

But Raul could handle them as deceit as deftly as he’d been able to handle truth.

Finishing his beer, he gave the matter no more thought. He put the bottle down and headed across the room. Toward Emma Toussaint.




CHAPTER TWO


RAUL WAS FIVE STEPS from Emma’s side when a throng of party goers surged between them. Momentarily thwarted, he had to pause, and when he did, he felt the old familiar prickling sensation along the back of his neck. The one that had saved his life more than once. The one that told him someone had noticed him. Stuck within the center of the throng, he turned. William Kelman was staring directly at him.

All Raul could do was stare back. Sooner or later he’d expected Kelman to know he was in Santa Cruz, so it didn’t really matter. But Raul felt his muscles tense as their gazes locked. He’d wondered how he’d react the first time he looked into the other man’s eyes. Now he knew. He felt only an empty kind of satisfaction for what he knew was coming. It seemed strange, but that was it. Kelman narrowed his eyes, his expression puzzled.

A second passed, maybe two, and the moment was broken by a waiter coming between them. In that instant, Raul realized Kelman didn’t recognize him. For five years Raul had thought of nothing but seeking revenge on this man, and apparently he didn’t even remember Raul. Under different circumstances, the situation might have been amusing. For now, all Raul wondered was what this meant to his plans. He decided quickly that if Kelman couldn’t place him, all the better.

With the crowd still pressing around him, Raul gave up and let himself be carried down the sidewalk. The entire group spilled outside and began to pile into the taxis lining the street in front of the bar. They were moving on to another location, and even though they were strangers, they began to insist that Raul come with them. Laughing and playing along, he turned them down, then he saw the opportunity. He could connect with Emma Toussaint another time; now it seemed more important to avoid Kelman. A moment later, he was in a cab, driving away with a man and two women, heading for a party he knew nothing about. As they hit the nearby traffic circle, Raul sent a casual glance over his shoulder, back toward the bar. He wasn’t surprised at what he saw. William Kelman was standing under the overhang of the bar’s entrance, a cigar in one hand, a drink in the other. His eyes were on the departing taxis, and in the dim illumination from a nearby street lamp, his expression was still puzzled.

It wouldn’t take him long to figure it out.

EMMA WAS SITTING at her desk on Monday morning when the phone rang. She wasn’t reading the currency reports piled in front of her or writing the memo she had due in a few hours; she was just sitting. The party on Saturday night had left her drained, and Sunday had been as awful as it usually was. She lived all week for the moment she could call the States and hear her children’s voices, but the minute the telephone conversation was finished, she would feel the force of their absence and break down. The rest of the day was always a painful blur, just hours she had to endure until the next time she could talk to them.

The phone at her elbow sounded again and she reached for it without thinking. The voice at the other end was not one she’d expected, at least not this soon.

“Ms. Toussaint, this is William Kelman. I assume I’m not interrupting anything…”

She sat up straight in her chair. “Mr. Kelman, of course you’re not interrupting. I’m glad you called.”

“I’d like to discuss my banking situation with you as soon as possible.”

“I can see you today.” As she spoke, Emma pulled her calendar closer, but she didn’t really need to look at it. If Kelman had as much money as Reina said he did, Emma’s day was his. “When would you like to come by?”

“That’s just it.” The hint of reluctance she heard in his voice sounded studied, but Emma told herself she was imagining things. “I can’t come in today. Too much going on. I’d like to invite you to dinner, though. Could you meet me at Candelabra, say, around nine?”

Something about the man bothered her and she hesitated, then she chastised herself. There was no good reason she couldn’t meet William Kelman for dinner, none whatsoever. She didn’t have plans and dinner at Candelabra—the best restaurant in town—was always a pleasure. But more importantly, if she turned down this kind of opportunity and Christopher Evans, her boss, found out, he’d kill her. She’d already told him about meeting Kelman, and Chris was practically frantic to get the man’s business.

“Candelabra would be fine,” she answered. “I’d be happy to meet you there.” She scribbled the notation in her calendar, then pushed it back to the corner of her desk.

“Excellent. Give me your address and I’ll send a car.”

“That’s not necessary,” she protested. “I can catch a cab.”

“I insist. It’s the least I can do for making you work so late.”

He wouldn’t take no for an answer. By the time she hung up, Emma had given him directions to her home and a promise she’d see him at nine. She felt vaguely uncomfortable, but what did it matter? The man had the potential for becoming a very big client. If she signed him up, they’d be seeing each other a lot. Her customers were the kind who kept a close eye on their money.

Before she could devote more worry to the subject, her phone rang again, her internal line this time.

“Usted tiene una visita.”

“Felicity, Inglés, por favor.” Emma now spoke perfect Spanish, but she insisted that the secretaries and assistants in her department speak English. People with money were usually paranoid; the clients, mostly British and American, were more comfortable when they could understand what was being said around them. She frowned. It’d been a long time since she’d had to remind the young woman.

“I’m sorry… You have a visitor.” Felicity’s voice dropped in a way Emma had never heard before. “A gentleman.”

“Who is it?”

Felicity gave Emma his name, but it was not familiar, and he didn’t have an appointment, either. That was not unusual, though. With the level of wealth most of her clients enjoyed, they expected to drop in and still be welcomed. Emma told the secretary she’d be right out.

She checked her hair and lipstick in a small mirror she kept in her desk, then rose and crossed the carpet. Just outside her private office was a reception area that was exclusive to her clients. They could enter this quarter of the bank through the main lobby or come in by a door that led directly to the street. Emma entered the reception room and looked at her secretary.

Felicity met Emma’s eyes and tilted her head toward a man standing near the windows. He had his back to them, his hands locked behind him, but as Emma watched, he turned to face her. A field of energy seemed to surround him, waves of intensity rippling out from where he stood. Emma told herself she was being silly, but she swore she could actually feel the strength of his power from across the room.

She started toward him, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “I’m Emma Toussaint,” she said, holding out her hand as she got closer. “How may I help you, Mr. Santos?”

Up close, his magnetism was even stronger. She found herself holding her breath as his dark eyes passed over her in a practiced way. She’d become accustomed to the evaluations of South American males, but the way this man’s gaze scanned her body was different. It left her feeling strangely vulnerable. His touch added to the sensation. As they shook hands, it enveloped her with a sizzling heat.

“I’m here to open an account.” His voice was low and melodious with a hint of something she couldn’t place. “I understand you handle the customers with…special needs.”

“I’m in charge of the currency department, and I’m also the vice president of the expatriate accounts.” She answered carefully. “On occasion I do help with other areas.”

He glanced toward Felicity. The young woman was facing her computer screen with a look of such studied involvement, it was obvious she wasn’t missing a word. He turned back to Emma with an amused expression. “Perhaps we could go into your office and I could explain further?”

It wouldn’t be the first time a good client had walked in off the street. Never one to turn down an opportunity, Emma nodded, then led the stranger into her office, stopping beside Felicity to order coffee for them both. A moment later Emma was sitting behind her desk and Raul Santos was seated in front of her.

He wasn’t really her type, but he was an attractive man. Bronzed skin, dark eyes, black hair that gleamed. He was over six feet and clearly not a local. Emma found herself intrigued. Other available men had been in her office since her divorce, but something about this one was different. Maybe it was his intensity. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her with his dark gaze. One way or the other, despite her attraction to him, or maybe because of it, he made her uneasy. She shivered once before she could stop herself and spoke quickly to cover her interest.

“What brings you to Banco Nacional, Mr. Santos?”

He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her. “Everyone knows about El Banco,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the only game in town, isn’t it?”

“Well, there’s a Lloyd’s down the street and El Centro, too, but we’re the best.”

“In your opinion.”

She smiled. “In the opinion of all our customers, I’m sure. We are the most successful.”

“Doesn’t that depend on how you define success?”

“I define it as do most of our clients—by a large return on their investments.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” he conceded. “And what I’d like, as well.”

“So we were recommended, then?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She waited for more—a name, a hint of some sort—but he wasn’t going to give it to her. Felicity brought in the coffee, and when she left, he spoke again.

“It doesn’t really matter why I chose your bank. What’s important is the account I’d like to open.” Ignoring the coffee, he pulled a long black wallet from the inside pocket of his suit. The leather looked smooth and expensive; it matched the rest of him. He withdrew what appeared to be a printed check and pushed it across Emma’s desk, along with a business card showing his addresses and phone numbers. “I’ll be doing some trading. I think that should cover it.”

Emma made no move to pick up the check, but she looked down at it. Drawn from a bank in El Paso, Texas, it gave an amount of seven figures. Before the decimal point. She reached for her phone and hit one button. The door to the office opened immediately, Felicity on the threshold.

Emma motioned her inside, then handed the secretary the check and the card. “Please take care of the paperwork for this.” She glanced at the man across the desk. “Will you wait or shall I messenger the documents to you later?”

“How long will it take?”

The bigger the check, the shorter the time. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” she said.

“I’ll wait.”

Felicity nodded and hurried away, a tight grasp on the check as she disappeared out the door. Emma turned back to the man in front of her. Usually she had no trouble visiting with her clients, but for some reason, Raul Santos left her not quite knowing what to say. It felt strange. She hadn’t been tongue-tied in years, especially without knowing why.

“What brings you to the area, Mr. Santos? Are you from Bolivia?” Lame, Emma, really lame.

“I grew up in Texas, but I’ve been living in Washington until recently. I moved here to do business. I’m an importer.”

Shocked into silence, Emma kept a mask of polite interest on her face. Importer? The answer was a standard reply in some circles, but the last one she’d expected from this man. He’d definitely not struck her as being involved in the drug trade, but that was the euphemism everyone in Santa Cruz used for the narcotraficantes. “I see,” she finally said. “An importer…”

“That’s right. I import money.” He paused. “And export goods.”

“You must be good at it.”

He smiled for the first time and something—a quick unexpected reaction—tumbled around inside her chest. “I’m good at what I do, Ms. Toussaint. Very good.”

She nodded, uncertain what to say next. Surprisingly he kept the moment from being awkward by turning the conversation to her. “What about you? What brought you to Santa Cruz?”

She hadn’t expected the question from him, but Emma had dodged it so many times she had a pat answer ready. “International banking is my specialty. I wanted an opportunity to see the system work.”

“Why here? Couldn’t you have done that in the States?”

“I would have spent too many years back home working my way up. I came into Nacional and was quickly promoted to the vice presidency of expatriate accounts. That wouldn’t have happened in the States.”

“So you’re good at what you do, as well.”

His gaze was dark and unrevealing, but had a pull she couldn’t deny. “Yes, I’m good at it,” she replied, mimicking what he’d said about himself. “Very good.”

“Then we’ll be a great team.”

His words held an undercurrent of something that only increased her uneasiness, but she smiled. “Undoubtedly.”

A few minutes later, Felicity returned with the papers. He scanned them quickly, then signed them without questions, obviously familiar with the legal terms. When he finished and rose, Emma escorted him to the door of her office. He stood closer to her than she would have liked, but people did that in South America. She’d learned to live with it. However, being this near to Raul Santos made her all too aware of the custom.

“I’ll be traveling a lot, but my base will be here, in Santa Cruz.” He smoothed a hand down his tie, his fingers strong-looking. No ring. “I’d like to get to know the city. I know it’s not part of your job, but could I entice you to dinner this evening to learn more about it?”

He’d managed to surprise her again. “I—I have an engagement already,” she said.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Perhaps another time?”

Her pulse quickened even though she instinctively knew she should stay away from this man. Something told her he was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to upset him, though. She inclined her head and repeated his words. “Another time…”

He acknowledged her answer with a smile, but she wondered if the expression conveyed his true feelings. “I’ll be in touch.”

She watched him leave, then went back into her office. A second later, a movement outside her window caught her eye, and she walked over to the tinted glass. Raul Santos stood on the corner beside the Quechua woman. He was smiling at her and her child, holding out his hand. The Indian woman snatched at what he offered and ducked her head. A moment after that, he headed down the sidewalk.

Fascinated, Emma looked on as the beggar opened her palm and counted the bills the man had given her. It took her quite a while.

THE ENTRANCE to the restaurant was hidden behind a brick wall and iron gate. When Emma climbed from the car William Kelman had sent her, a valet ran out to the street, unlocked the gate and escorted her into the inner garden. By necessity, Bolivians had tight security, especially in the wealthier neighborhoods such as this one. In fact, Candelabra didn’t even look like a dining establishment, so perfectly did it blend in with the surrounding homes. The first time Emma visited, she’d thought the cabdriver had made a mistake and dropped her off at someone’s house.

She followed the valet over a small rock-lined walkway bordered by tropical plants. The largest, a beautiful bird-of-paradise, trembled in the night breeze, its red and yellow blooms striking even in the dim lamps near the door. When she stepped into the entrance to the restaurant, she could hear the muted sound of diners.

The maître d’ greeted her by name.

“Señorita Toussaint, how beautiful you look tonight!”

Emma smiled at the dark-haired man and replied in Spanish, “Estefan, you flatter me, as always. How are the grandchildren?”

He beamed. “Very well, as always, señorita. Thank you for asking.”

Leading her to the table, he continued his chatter until she was seated. “Señor Kelman called and said he would be a few minutes late. He begs your pardon and has ordered champagne for the table.”

Emma seriously doubted that William Kelman had ever begged for anything. Her attention focused, however, on the waiter who had appeared at the maître d’s side and was already opening a bottle of champagne. “None for me,” she said, putting her hand over her glass.

She hadn’t noticed until now, but Estefan already had a flute in his hand. He brought it around and placed it in front of her. It was full of a shimmering gold liquid. Bending closer to her, he rotated the glass to line it up with her plate. “Ginger ale,” he pronounced. “¿Está bien?”

She looked up at him with a grateful expression. “Muchísimas gracias,” she said quietly.

“De nada.”

The two men left the table after that, and Emma waited, her fingers wrapped around the thin crystal stem of the glass. She hadn’t had a drink since she’d come to Bolivia, and in her business, that wasn’t always an easy thing to avoid. The constant parties, the luncheon meetings—everything in Latin American either started or ended with alcohol. She’d been tempted, and always would be, but she hadn’t given in. Knowing what she did now, she couldn’t risk it, even though she’d already lost all that meant anything to her. One day she’d get her children back, and when she did, no one would be able to point a finger at her.

Sipping the soft drink, she concentrated, instead, on the men and women at the tables around her. In a country where the average daily income was eight dollars, very few locals could afford a meal that easily cost five times as much. Therefore, the people around her were either expatriates or criminals, sometimes both. She greeted a few with a nod of her head. Some were clients, as well.

And Raul Santos? What was he?

He certainly didn’t fit the profile of the local drug kings, but in Bolivia, you never knew. The largest homes and the luxury cars couldn’t be bought by anyone except those in the trade. Or by Americans, which he claimed to be. She touched the heavy silver knife beside her plate and argued with herself. He really could be a legitimate businessman. The country exported tin and jewelry and had a thriving natural-gas business. A huge sect of Mennonites farmed soybeans in the nearby valley, as well. They had U.S. agents who handled their sales. For all she knew, perhaps he was helping them. She should have set aside her usual reticence and just asked, but she suspected the answer would have been, most likely, not completely truthful.

Raul Santos had the look of a man who kept his secrets. She knew because she had her own.

The arrival of William Kelman a few minutes later put the other man out of her mind. He shook her hand and took the seat beside her. Scurrying over quickly, a waiter filled his champagne glass from the chilling bottle, and before Emma could say anything the man filled her flute with champagne, as well. She looked at the glass in dismay, then adjusted her features immediately.

William lifted his drink for a toast and waited expectantly. “To new beginnings,” he said. “And successful ventures.”

Emma brought the glass to her lips and held it there for a second. Kelman didn’t notice that was all she did. He launched into conversation, bombarding her with questions. By the time their food arrived, she’d explained Bolivian currency, the U.S. market and the future of trading in both. He was a quick study and asked probing questions. Almost too probing. She was being paranoid, but something about his cross-examination disturbed her, and she couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

She told herself it might have something to do with his background. He’d told Reina he’d lived in Santa Cruz early in his career with the U.S. government. Outside of Washington, D.C., Santa Cruz had the largest DEA office in existence. Reina hadn’t known for sure, but he must have been an agent; he definitely had the look of a man who’d been in law enforcement. He’d loved the town, he said, and now that he’d retired, without a wife or family to object, he’d returned to enjoy the warm weather and laid-back atmosphere. Regardless of his explanation, Santa Cruz seemed like a strange choice to Emma. The city was not a place most people would want to spend their golden years.

When they finished their dinner, he waved to the waiter, then without consulting Emma, ordered dessert and brandy. Rising from the table, he looked down at her.

“I have a phone call to make. Would you mind if I excused myself for a moment?”

Under the dim lights of the dining room, his blue eyes looked frostier than they had on Saturday.

“No, of course not,” she answered.

He took out a cigar and pointed it at her champagne glass. “You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed, but obviously he had. Emma watched him disappear toward the rear of the restaurant, then she picked up the flute of champagne and stared at the bubbling wine. She had one goal in life right now: to make as much money as she possibly could so she could hire the best lawyer she could find. That was the only way she’d ever see her children again. And making money meant keeping William Kelman happy.

But she couldn’t drink this wine. Alcohol had ruined her life already, stolen from her the very things she valued the most. If Kelman was insulted by her refusal to drink, then he’d just have to be insulted. She needed the money, but she couldn’t risk the progress she’d made so far. Nothing was worth that.

Reaching over to a nearby plant, she dumped the glass of expensive champagne into the container. At the very same time, a shadow fell over the table. She looked up to see Raul Santos.

SHE WAS WEARING a sleeveless black dress with a rounded collar. It was as simple and plain as the dress she’d worn on Saturday night, but she’d added pearl earrings and a necklace. In the candlelight, they gleamed almost as richly as her hair. She looked startled to see him.

“Mr. Santos!”

“Please call me Raul,” he said. He tilted his head toward the glass in her hand. “Bad wine?”

She glanced down at the empty glass, then back up at him. Her look was steady. “Yes,” she lied. “I didn’t want to embarrass Estefan.”

“Of course.” He didn’t question her further. It was none of his business, anyway.

“Are you here for dinner?”

“Yes, thanks to your secretary. She recommended this place, you know.” After I read the note in your calendar…

“I didn’t realize that. I’ll tell her you approved.” Her gaze went to the woman standing beside him, and he knew immediately what she was thinking. Had he already made plans with her when he’d asked Emma out, or had he asked her after Emma had turned him down?

The truth was much simpler. Wendy Fortune was an old friend, and they’d worked together in Washington on several different cases. To everyone else in Bolivia, she was an assistant to the local consul, but her real job was to keep an eye on people who needed watching. She and Raul went back a long way, and part of the path had been personal, too.

He explained none of this, but simply gave Emma her name. The two women shook hands.

“Are you alone?” he asked. “Would you like to join us?”

“I’m with someone,” she answered. “But thank you.”

They talked a bit more, then the maître d’ took them to their own table, a secluded one on the other side of the luxurious dining area, just visible from Emma’s own table. Two minutes later, her dining companion returned, pulled out his chair and sat down. This time when William Kelman’s eyes met Raul’s, instant recognition filled their depths.

From across the room, Raul smiled.




CHAPTER THREE


“DO YOU KNOW HIM?”

William Kelman’s voice was cold as he tilted his head to the other side of the room. Without even looking, Emma knew instantly whom he meant.

“Yes, I do,” she answered. “His name is Raul Santos.”

“Is he a client of yours?”

It wasn’t a question she could answer; the people whose money she handled valued their privacy. “My client list is confidential, Mr. Kelman. Surely you appreciate that fact as much as anyone.”

He grunted his reply and sipped his brandy, his eyes boring a tunnel across the dimly lit dining room.

After a second, she sneaked a look, too. Raul was meeting William Kelman’s stare, and he wasn’t blinking. She could almost feel the tension crackling between the two men. Raul’s friend Wendy seemed as aware of the silent confrontation as Emma. She reached out and put her hand on his arm and said something quietly. He leaned over to listen, but he didn’t break eye contact.

William Kelman looked away first.

“Tell me more about this currency thing,” he commanded.

Relieved by his change of subject, Emma took a deep breath. “The local currency is called a boliviano and it’s equal to one hundred centavos.”

“What’s that in American money?”

“It changes, but on Friday, a boliviano was worth about fifty cents, give or take a bit.”

“And you make money for your clients by trading this currency, right?”

“That’s part of what I do.”

“How does that work, exactly?”

“The official exchange rate floats, but it’s reviewed periodically. The government has five to ten million dollars they handle every day. I sell bolivianos for dollars or vice versa, and if I do it right, I make money on the margin—the difference between the two amounts.”

“How do you know how many dollars they’ll offer?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But that’s not really important. The rate is what counts.”

“How much do you make for your clients doing this?”

“It varies from day to day.”

“On?”

“On a lot of things. The markets the day before, the movement of the other currencies being traded, the local economy…”

He leaned his elbows on the table, and at the same time Emma felt a hot gaze on her back. Raul Santos was still staring at them, she could tell.

“Do you know the rate ahead of time?”

She looked at him in surprise. “The rate is examined by a government committee. If there is a change, it’s secret until it’s announced a few days later. For obvious reasons.”

“But if you did know the figure in advance, you’d make more money for your clients, right?”

His question was unsettling, but Emma tried to make light of it. “Only until I got caught—which would probably be immediately. If I knew the information in advance and acted on it, that would be insider trading. It’s as illegal here as it is in the United States.”

He paused, and for some reason, her uneasiness grew. “And you don’t break the law, do you, Ms. Toussaint?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t.”

He nodded slowly, but she had the feeling he didn’t believe her. “Not for anything?”

She opened her mouth to answer the same way, then she hesitated. She’d make a deal with the devil if it meant getting her kids back. She’d do anything for them, wouldn’t she? Even break the law?

Over the middle of the table, she lifted her eyes and their gazes locked. Then he smiled.

RAUL WATCHED William Kelman and Emma depart the restaurant. He’d thought Kelman was going to come over and speak to him, but he hadn’t, and Raul had felt a flash of disappointment. He’d almost welcome a direct confrontation, to settle things as he’d done when he was younger and knew less—with fists and bloodied noses. It was a more honest way, but Kelman didn’t operate like that. He was sneaky and underhanded, and when this was all over, bloody noses would not be the end result.

Rising from the table, Raul motioned to Wendy to do the same. “Let’s go,” he said roughly. “I want to follow them. I want to know where she lives.”

Wendy stood up, grabbing her purse and coat, while she protested, “This is crazy, Raul. You’re heading for disaster.”

Taking her elbow, he led her away from the table and shook his head. “Disaster was losing five years of my life to that son of a bitch. What’s going to happen next is not disaster.”

“And the woman? What do you think she’ll call it?”

Ignoring Wendy’s question, Raul stopped at the front door and motioned to the valet to bring his car, handing the man a wad of bills. He’d already arranged to have the car nearby, and within seconds they were in it and driving off. Ahead of them, along the boulevard, he could just make out the taillights of the car Emma was in. Kelman had departed in a different one.

As if the conversation had never been interrupted, Wendy spoke again, her voice insistent. “Emma Toussaint is going to get hurt, Raul. And she doesn’t deserve it. She’ll be an innocent victim, caught up in your scheme for revenge. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Raul swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a small crater. They were heading to the First Ring, in the central part of town, an older area shunned by most of the expatriates. “There’s no other way,” he said grimly. “And she’s not that innocent, anyway. I checked her out.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head impatiently. “It’s not important, but believe me, she’s had her share of trouble. And she caused most it herself.”

“Well, that might be true, but she didn’t cause yours. And it’s not fair to drag her into this.”

“Who said life is fair?”

Wendy shook her head at his cynical reply. “You should walk away and forget about him, Raul.”

“Is that what you would do?”

“Yes, I would, because this isn’t worth it. William Kelman is a dangerous man, and you’re going to get hurt, maybe killed. To make matters even worse, you’re going to take that poor woman with you.”

“No one’s going to die.” He paused. “I just want to make Kelman wish he was dead, and the key to that is taking his money. I can’t do that without her help.”

“And if she doesn’t offer it?”

“She will, whether she knows it or not.”

There was obviously nothing else she could say, and Wendy fell silent. Ten minutes later, Raul slowed his SUV as the vehicle ahead of them entered a deserted side street and parked, a cloud of exhaust pouring from its tailpipe. The homes were modest, not what he would have expected for an American banker. Emma stepped from the car and hurried to the front gate of a two-story house. It was mostly hidden behind a brick wall covered in some kind of greenery, but from the little Raul could see, it looked well tended. Unlocking the iron entrance, she disappeared from sight. His window down, Raul heard her walking up the sidewalk, then the sound stopped and a moment after that, a door slammed. The finality of the noise didn’t faze him. He threw his truck in gear and made a sharp U-turn. Fifteen minutes after that, he was in front of Wendy’s house.

“Is there any way I can change your mind?” Wendy reached across the seat and put her hand on his. Her touch was warm and it brought back memories. “Is there any way I can stop you from going back there?”

Beneath the casual tone, Raul heard what she was trying to ask.

“No,” he said. “Kelman might show up there later, and I need to know if he does. I have to understand what kind of relationship they have.”

He read the disappointment that flashed across her face, even though the expression was gone immediately. She’d expected his answer. She nodded and reached for the door handle, then paused.

“Going back there tonight would be a mistake, Raul,” she said softly. “A very big mistake.”

He met her troubled gaze with a blank one of his own. “It won’t be the first time. Or the last.”

BY THE TIME Raul got back to Emma’s, it was almost one in the morning. Except for a single low light in one upstairs corner, the house and gardens were dark. He parked the truck, then settled into the expectant stillness to wait.

EMMA RAN THE BRUSH through her hair and absentmindedly looked at her watch. Sarah and Jake had been asleep for hours, or at least they should have been. She imagined them in their beds, tucked in safe and sound. She’d done Sarah’s room in lavender and pink, Jake’s in dark green and navy. Todd had complained when Emma had selected the colors, saying they didn’t match the rest of the house. The decorator had concurred and been horrified when he’d seen them. But Emma hadn’t cared. Her hand stilled as she remembered her son’s face when he’d first seen the baseball wallpaper. His eyes had blazed with excitement, and he’d jumped up and down, squealing with delight.

Before Emma could stop herself, her vision blurred with tears. Angrily she threw down the hairbrush and wiped at her eyes, but it didn’t do any good. The stinging tears continued. She took a ragged breath, but several minutes passed before she managed to get a tenuous hold on her emotions. Searching her brain for a distraction, she focused on the first thing she thought of—Raul Santos.

Seeing him at Candelabra this evening had been a shock. She wasn’t sure why—the man obviously had no trouble getting a date—but she hadn’t expected him there, especially with a gorgeous woman on his arm. They’d talked a lot, their dark heads together, their hands wrapped around matching glasses of wine. What on earth had he thought when he’d caught Emma pouring out her glass of champagne? She couldn’t imagine what must have run through his head, but she told herself she didn’t care. It would have been far worse for her if she’d drunk the wine.

She stood abruptly and crossed her bedroom to the window facing the street. Over the garden wall, the avenue was dark and deserted, save for several vehicles parked on the other side. A night bird called out, his cry piercing the empty silence.

After a second she dropped the curtain and turned. Halfway to her bed, she stopped impulsively and returned to her desk by the window to flick on her computer. The hard drive whirred into action as she pointed the mouse to her server icon.

The modem connection clicked and hummed, then a few seconds later, connected. At the other end, the phone began to ring and her screen began to blink. Navigating to the site she needed, Emma entered her password, then nodded in satisfaction. Leon was on-line, just as she’d known he would be.

She imagined him sitting in a trance before his computer at the bank in New Orleans. The lab operated twenty-four hours a day, and Leon always took the night shift. Totally without social graces, he’d managed to insult half the management team when he’d worked as a summer intern at the bank. The other half had seen his wardrobe and assumed he was a homeless kid hanging around the lobby to stay cool. She’d sensed the brains behind the facade and had gotten Leon Davis his job; she hoped he remembered that now.

She typed quickly. “Leon, this is Emma Toussaint. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

His answer reflected his surprise. “I’m just surfing. Nothing important. What’s up?”

There was caution in his short reply, and she wasn’t surprised. Todd hadn’t just ruined her personal life; he’d annihilated her professional one, as well. Everyone at the bank—even down in the computer lab, she was sure—had heard the gossip. Knowing her ex-husband and his family as she did, she was sure he’d kept the bad news alive as much as he could.

Her fingers tapped out her answer. “I’m working overseas—in South America—and I’ve got a question. I don’t know anyone who could help me but you.”

The flattery worked, just as she knew it would.

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

She paused. He was brilliant and could get the information; she’d been the only person at the bank who hadn’t been ready to fire him when they’d discovered he’d hacked his way into the salary file to see what everyone was making. But how to pose her query?

“I want you to check out someone for me. Discreetly,” she typed. “Raul Santos. He’s a new customer at my bank. Used to live in Washington, D.C., or possibly El Paso, Texas.” She hit the enter key before she could think too hard about it.

“Sounds interesting. You want that real time or can I get back to you?”

“There’s no hurry.”

“No problem. I’ll catch you later in the week. Stay cool.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the monitor. She wasn’t sure why she’d done what she just had. If anyone found out, she’d have a hard time explaining. Requesting personal data on her clients was not standard operating procedure. On the other hand, Raul Santos didn’t seem like her usual client.

If she wanted to check out someone, it ought to be William Kelman. Any time a client asked the kind of questions he had this evening, a red light came on in Emma’s brain. Curiosity of that sort usually meant one thing—the person wanted it for a reason, and it generally wasn’t a legitimate one. She thought briefly of talking it over with Chris but just as quickly decided against saying anything to her boss. He didn’t like problems, and anything remotely out of the ordinary was a problem to him. She shut down her machine, empty silence replacing the mechanical hum of the computer.

One way or the other, she needed Kelman’s account and as many like it as she could find. Each one meant a bonus, and each bonus brought her one step closer to her goal—having enough money to buy the meanest, toughest lawyer New Orleans had to offer. She’d fought Todd with everything she’d had, but that hadn’t been enough. When she went back to try again, she’d have what she needed.

Nothing else mattered.

THE DIM LIGHT behind the upstairs window went out at 1:45 a.m. Raul glanced at his watch, then waited five more minutes before starting the truck. He drove slowly down the street toward Emma’s house and paused right in front. She didn’t know what kind of vehicle he had, so if she looked out the window it wouldn’t matter, anyway.

As if the house were breathing, the upstairs curtains moved in and out in a rhythmic pattern. Must be a fan, he thought, something to break the still night air. He wasn’t prepared for the image that appeared next in his mind, surprising him with its intensity. Emma in bed. The blond hair shining in the darkness. Her slim body in a nightgown. Her fingers curled against the sheets. In the restaurant this evening, her elegant beauty had made every other woman in the place look overblown, too made up.

Then he remembered his words to Wendy. Emma had had her share of troubles. The file he had on her back at the villa he’d rented contained only the barest details, but they were grim. She’d grown up in Louisiana and met Todd Toussaint at college. They’d married, and two children had followed quickly—but so had disaster.

Todd Toussaint had made sure everyone knew the split was not his fault. He divorced her and her life went downhill quickly. She was fired from the bank, and he gained full custody of the children. Without a family, a job or even references, she’d ended up in Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

Emma Toussaint had nowhere to go and nothing to lose. She was just the kind of woman William Kelman would seek out and use.

All Raul had to do was stand by and watch it happen.




CHAPTER FOUR


THEY MET AT PARQUE URBANO twice a week, where four laps around the track equaled two miles. Reina could keep up with Emma for three circuits, but on the fourth one, she always fell back and Emma would surge forward. They’d connect again at the finish line. On Wednesday morning, as Emma was ending her run, she saw Reina, already sitting on the curb, fanning her face. She rose slowly as Emma neared.

“One more time,” Emma urged her, still jogging in place. “C’mon, we’ll walk it.”

“I can’t,” Reina puffed. “No way.”

“I thought you were interested in a rich husband,” Emma teased, finally stopping. “How’re you gonna catch one if you can’t run after him?”

Reina made a face of disgust. “Good point. I’ll go, but you have to bribe me.”

Emma took a swig from the water bottle she’d left on a nearby bench. “With what?”

“I want to hear about your dinner with William Kelman.”

Emma shook her head and began to walk, Reina trailing at her side. “You know I can’t talk about my clients with you.”

“I don’t want to know about his bank balance! I meant your dinner, silly.”

Emma spoke slowly. “Well, he’s…strange. You should have warned me. He asked me all kinds of questions about trading.”

“That’s your job. Why is it strange for him to ask you about it?”

“Let’s just say the questions weren’t the kind I usually get,” Emma answered. “They were more about how to get around the system than how to use it the way you’re supposed to.”

“He’s been in and out of Santa Cruz for years and never had any trouble. I think he’s okay.”

“You think he’s okay because you’re interested in him.”

“And why shouldn’t I be? He may be old, but he’s rich and single. He told me all about himself when I was showing him houses. He was a big shot with the government. He went back and forth between here and the States, doing deals. He’s not some narcotraficante.”

The word made Emma’s mind shoot off in a different direction. Toward the man she’d met the other day. She spoke impulsively. “Reina, do you know a guy by the name of Raul Santos? He’s an American, too. You haven’t shown him anything, have you?”

Reina stopped so fast her tennis shoes kicked up tiny clouds of dust. “Where did you hear that name?”

“A…friend mentioned him,” Emma said, crossing her fingers inside her pocket. “She, um, wants to introduce us.”

“Don’t do it.” Reina’s gaze turned serious and she put her hand on Emma’s arm. “I’ve heard things about him. He’s not what he seems.”

Emma’s pulse took a leap. “What do you mean?”

“There are rumors about him. Not good ones.”

“Do you think he’s—”

“I don’t know what I think, only what I’ve heard, and he’s someone to stay away from. He’s not your kind, sweetie.”

Reina might be the biggest gossip in town, but she never talked badly about people. “Have you met him?” Emma persisted.

“I’ve seen him. He came into our office, inquiring about renting a place. Another agent took care of him, but I saw him passing through. Later she told me who he was.” Reina met Emma’s gaze speculatively. “He’s a very nice-looking man.”

Emma nodded slowly. The smoldering, dark-eyed sensuality he possessed had struck her immediately, and she’d be a liar to disagree. And yes, she’d glanced in his direction more than once last night at the restaurant. Obviously she had more interest in him than she did in most of her clients. Not only had she e-mailed Leon about him, she’d now asked Reina about him. Still, it didn’t mean she was interested in Raul Santos. At least not that way.

It was purely professional, Emma told herself. Nothing personal.

She turned the conversation in a different direction, and Reina seemed happy to oblige. They chatted until they finished the lap, then the two said goodbye, Reina driving off in her pride and joy—a Toyota Four Runner she’d paid a fortune for, given the exchange rate—and Emma trotting down the street. The park wasn’t that far from where she lived, and she liked the extra warmup and cool-down time she got by walking there. Fifteen minutes later, she reached her street and then her house. Putting her key in the garden gate’s lock, she turned it, then realized with surprise the gate was already open. She stopped and stared at the key ring.

She’d locked the gate when she left. She always did.

Despite the warm November sun, a chill of uneasiness swept over her. She quickly glanced up and down the sidewalk. The street was empty, and when she turned back to her house, it looked the same. Nothing appeared disturbed. The front door was shut, and the windows were tightly secured, just as they’d always been.

Should she go on in or…or what? You didn’t call the police for things like this, not here. This wasn’t the States. The guard at the bank did double duty sometimes, helping people with private security matters, but this hardly seemed worth bothering him about. And what if it was nothing? The man would say she was a fool, and before she could blink, everyone at the bank would hear the story. She couldn’t afford anything remotely negative said about her at work.

She hesitated a moment longer, then resolutely pushed open the gate and stepped inside. Locking it securely behind her, Emma walked up the sidewalk to the entry. Her mouth suddenly dry, she reached for the doorknob and told herself she was being ridiculous. Everything was fine, and even if it wasn’t, what could a thief take from her that mattered? Material things meant nothing to her now. All she really valued was her bank balance, and no one could get to that.

The old-fashioned knob was large and heavy. Emma twisted it sharply to the right, but it held and she gave a huge sigh of relief. She must have just forgotten the gate, that was all.

Unlocking the door quickly, she stepped inside. Her pulse continued to race, though, and just to be on the safe side, she called out, feeling silly all the same. “Hello? Is anyone here?” She switched to Spanish. “La policía está aquí,” she warned in a loud voice. “Me entiende?” The police are here. Do you understand me?

The only answer was silence, so she closed the door behind her. Listening closely, she stood immobile and waited. She heard no soft footfalls, no stealthy departure, no hint of anyone’s presence. Finally, after a few more minutes of listening to her heart pound, she accepted what the stillness told her. She was alone.

Still spooked in spite of herself, she grabbed the wooden cane resting by the front door. She’d discovered it in one of the closets after moving in, and the heavy silver top, shaped like a bird’s head, had kept her from throwing it away. She’d check out the house just to make sure. With the walking stick in hand, she went into every room. Nothing was disturbed or missing. By the time she made the tour—living room, dining room, kitchen, then upstairs into the two bedrooms and the bath—she’d convinced herself everything was fine. Of course, someone could have circled behind her to hide, but why would someone even be there? A thief would run.

She went back downstairs and into the kitchen, and that was when she realized she’d forgotten the maid’s room. A tiny closet-size area with a separate bath, it had a door to the patio at the rear of the house. She gripped the handle of the cane and tiptoed to the closed door beside the refrigerator. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the handle and pushed open the door.

The room was empty. And the door leading outside was locked. Emma let out her breath in a whoosh and leaned against the wall, her legs suddenly trembling now that her foolish search was over.

There was no one inside the house. She was fine. She was safe. She’d simply left the gate unlocked, her mind on something else. Like Raul Santos.

She gave a shaky laugh and turned to go upstairs and shower. Just for good measure, she took the cane with her.

Over the running water, she never heard the back door close.

BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Emma was exhausted. The week had been a hard one, and she was looking forward to the end of it, despite the fact that on Saturday she had another party to go to. This one, a charity event, was out in the country at a club the expatriates favored called La Sierra. She didn’t want to attend any more than she’d wanted to attend the last event, but business was business. Reina had told her William Kelman would be there, and that was all it took. He had yet to come into the bank. If Emma had to woo him some more to obtain his account, then she’d do it. She didn’t have the luxury of being proud and hadn’t in quite some time.

She spent the morning doing paperwork, her only interruption coming when her phone rang at close to one. She picked it up and answered.

“You have a call from the States,” Felicity said. “A Mr. Leonard F. Davis III. Are you available?”

It took Emma a minute to recognize the name, but when she did, her throat went tight. “Put him through,” she said.

The minute she said hello, Leon said excitedly, “This guy is something, Emma, the guy you asked me to look up. How’d you hook up with—”

She made her voice as businesslike as possible as she interrupted him and halted the flow of words. “Mr. Davis! What a surprise. I thought you were going to e-mail me this information.” She glanced toward her open office door nervously. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I was gonna mail you, but when I saw this, I had to make it direct. I’m calling on my lunch break. I don’t know what kind of bank you’re working for now, but this guy’s not like the customers we used to get here.”

“What do you mean?” she asked calmly.

“Well, for one thing, he’s into some serious money. Real serious. Most people don’t carry six figures in their local checking accounts, right? Out there in El Paso, he’s run more than that through on several occasions, some of it cash.”

Cash deposits of more than ten thousand dollars were always scrutinized. It meant tons of paperwork and hassle, but the banks complied; they had to or risk more than they wanted if the deposits were ever questioned.

“Did they check out?”

“All the forms were fine. Nothing fishy on the surface.”

As quietly as possible, Emma leaned forward in her chair, the phone in her hand. Felicity was at her desk, and as Emma watched, the secretary rose, picked up her coffee cup and walked across the reception area to the small kitchen that was concealed behind a screen.

“Could you find addresses for him?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, but…” His voice trailed off. She could hear the sound of paper being shuffled, then he spoke again. “There’s something weird about it, though. He lived in Washington, just like you said, but there’s a five-year gap.”

Emma waited for him to explain, but he said nothing more. “A gap? What do you mean?”

“I mean a gap. The guy just disappeared for five years. He lived at 1019 Oak Cypress Drive for seven years, Unit 302C. Took the paper, subscribed to magazines, had a credit card, then everything stopped. It was like he flew to the moon or something. Five years later he resurfaced.”

“That’s crazy. Are you sure you looked—”

“I checked everything. Nothing got past me, okay?”

Emma bit her tongue. She’d forgotten how defensive Leon was. “And you did a great job, I’m sure. I just don’t understand, that’s all.” She peered through her office door and caught Felicity going out into the hallway. She was heading for the main section of the bank, probably the offices out front. A new vice president had just been hired, and Emma had heard the secretaries giggling and talking about the man. Seeing the woman leave, Emma felt a moment’s relief and spoke again.

“What do you think the gap means?”

“I don’t know, unless…”

He didn’t say more, so she pressed him. “Unless what?”

“Well, he did live in Washington. Worked at a big law firm there—”

“He’s an attorney?”

“Yeah, passed the bar first time he took it, no problem.” His voice went up a notch. “But listen, Em, maybe that was a cover, you know? Maybe he’s one of the alphabet men.”

“Speak English,” she said impatiently. “What are saying?”

“He could be a spook. CIA or FBI. Maybe even DEA, since he was in El Paso, too.”

She’d considered every possibility, but not this one. She was skeptical. “That seems a little farfetched, Leon. And it wouldn’t explain the money. Lawyers do okay, but not that well, and government employees certainly don’t make that kind of money.” Except for William Kelman, she thought unexpectedly.

“Maybe it wasn’t from a payroll. Maybe he funneled it for someone.”

She spoke again, this time almost to herself. “There’s got to be another explanation. I can’t buy this one.”

“Oh, there’s another one, all right, but you aren’t gonna like it any better.” Leon paused, the line falling silent for a few seconds before he spoke again. “The guy coulda been in prison. I checked but didn’t find anything. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though.”

“Leon! That’s ridiculous! What on earth would make you think—”

A knock sounded on her open door, interrupting her words. Emma jerked her head up.

Raul Santos stood in the doorway.

SHE ACTUALLY WENT pale when she saw him, Raul noted. With a quick mumble, Emma Toussaint hung up the phone and came out from behind her desk to greet him. Raul tried to read the emotion on her face as she walked toward him, but he wasn’t fast enough. She recovered her composure immediately and placed a mask of politeness on her features. She’d been surprised to see him, but something more had passed over her face. Guilt? Confusion? Anxiety? He immediately thought of William Kelman and wondered if he’d been on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Santos!” she said. “How nice to see you. How are you?”

She held out her hand and he took her fingers in his, holding them as he answered, “It’s Raul, remember? And I’m very well, thank you.” After a moment longer than necessary, he released her hand, but the feel of her skin stayed with him. Soft and silky—and freezing cold. She was nervous.

He told himself she couldn’t possibly have found out anything about him—not that fast. He smiled. “It was good to see you Monday evening. The restaurant is excellent, isn’t it?”

“It is wonderful,” she answered. “Did your friend enjoy it?”

“Yes, she did. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, but I had no idea where to go. She’s the one who told me about Santa Cruz and the opportunities here.” He held out the flowers he’d been holding by his side. “I brought your secretary a little something to thank her for her help, and I thought you might enjoy these, as well.”

The delicate fragrance of freesias and white roses wafted up from the cone he handed across the desk.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with pleasure as she brought the flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply. “How thoughtful of you! They’re gorgeous. Thank you very much.”

She looked both flustered and touched, as if it’d been a long time since a man had brought her flowers. He murmured his reply, wondering what she would think if she knew more about him.

He pointed to one of the chairs in front of her desk. “May I sit, or am I interrupting?”

“Please.” She gestured toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I’ve actually come to set up a trade I’d like you to handle. You have that information I requested, don’t you?”

Her expression went blank, then her brow furrowed as she obviously remembered. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Felicity told me you’d asked for some stock reports and I completely forgot. I’ve been so busy.” She shook her head in an embarrassed fashion and abruptly laid the flowers on her desk, turning quickly to the computer monitor sitting nearby. She began to type as she talked, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Maybe I can get them on-line. If I put out a rush request, it’s possible I’ll have them by this afternoon…”

She wore a dark brown suit with a straight pointed collar. The severity of the cut and somberness of the color did everything it could to make her look unattractive.

But it failed.

He mentally shook himself and returned to the task at hand. The report didn’t matter, but she didn’t know that. It’d only been an excuse to return to the bank. He could use this opportunity to his advantage, though.

“You could make it up to me in another way.”

Her fingers stopped abruptly, and she looked at him, her hazel eyes darkening. “How?” she asked cautiously.

“Have dinner with me Saturday. Surely by then the reports will be here, and we can discuss the details of the trade. You can execute it for me at the beginning of next week when you’ve got the time.”

She wanted to say no. He could read the refusal on her face, but her business acumen wouldn’t let her. He was a major client, and she didn’t want to upset him. She couldn’t afford to upset him. He felt a moment’s sympathy for her, but ignored it and pressed his case. “It’s the least you can do,” he said with a smile, “to make up for forgetting about me.”

“I didn’t forget!” she said quickly. “I assure you, that’s not the case. It’s just that I’ve been busy and—”

“It’s not important,” he said, dismissing her excuse. “But come to dinner with me, anyway, and convince me of that.”

She hesitated for a second. “I have an obligation that night, out at La Sierra—”

“Oh, yes, the charity auction for the hospital. Las Hermanas de Socorro. I forgot about it.”

She was trapped, and they both knew it. If he’d been unaware of the event, she might have been able to get away with her excuse, but not now. He couldn’t have worked it better if he’d planned it. He silently thanked Wendy for mentioning the gala.

“La Sierra is on the road to Cochibamba, isn’t it?” he said in a pleasant voice. “I’ve heard it’s quite lovely out there.”

“It is.” After a moment’s hesitation, she spoke again, saying the only thing she could. “Would you like to go with me? I could introduce you to some of the other expats, show you around a bit…”

He looked into her eyes and smiled. “Tell me where you live and what time to pick you up.”

BY SATURDAY EVENING, Emma had begun to ask herself just what she’d been thinking when she’d invited Raul to attend the party with her. Reina would see them and she’d give Emma a hard time later. William Kelman obviously had a problem with him, too. To top things off, Leon Davis had practically insisted the man was a felon. She’d known all this and she’d invited him, anyway.

As she pulled one of her endless black dresses from the closet, Emma tried to analyze what was going on, but she couldn’t come up with an answer. Sure, she found him attractive, but she hardly knew him, for God’s sake, and most probably shouldn’t let it go any further. Since her divorce, she’d made it a policy never to date anyone associated with her work. Actually she never dated at all. It wasn’t worth the effort, and besides, there were always questions, questions she didn’t want to hear or answer. But now she’d broken all her rules and asked out Raul Santos. It didn’t get any worse than that.





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