Книга - Peter’s Return

Peter's Return
Cynthia Cooke


HIS EX WAS BEING HELD HOSTAGE BY A KILLER…But CIA agent Peter Vance has to protect the cover he's painstakingly constructed during their years apart - drug-cartel leader Baltasar Escalante believes Peter is a dealer. Planning Emily's escape is the only thing Peter can do for the woman he's never stopped loving, but the compassionate doctor refuses to bail when a dying little boy needs her specialized care.When Escalante learns the deal is a trap, Peter and Emily find themselves on the run in the Venezuelan countryside. Can Peter save his former wife from the drug lord's wrath…and can he and Emily redeem the past?









They were deep in the jungle now, not a sign of civilization in sight. Emily couldn’t help wondering where they were being taken…until their ransom was paid.


If their ransom was paid.

Don’t think like that, she told herself, but she was alone in the world. She swallowed her despair; she’d dealt with her parents’ car accident years ago, but Peter was another matter.

She’d lost touch with her ex-husband. It had been a long time. If he’d discovered she was gone, would he come looking for her?



FAITH ON THE LINE:

Two powerful families wage war on evil…and find love

ADAM’S PROMISE—

Gail Gaymer Martin (LI #259)

FINDING AMY—

Carol Steward (LI #263)

GABRIEL’S DISCOVERY—

Felicia Mason (LI #267)

REDEEMING TRAVIS—

Kate Welsh (LI #271)

PETER’S RETURN—

Cynthia Cooke (LI #275)

PROTECTING HOLLY—

Lynn Bulock (LI #279)




CYNTHIA COOKE


Ten years ago, Cynthia Cooke lived a quiet, idyllic life, caring for her beautiful eighteen-month-old daughter. Then peace gave way to chaos with the birth of her boy/girl twins. Hip-deep in diapers and baby food and living in a world of sleep deprivation, she kept her sanity by reading romance novels and dreaming of someday writing one. She counts her blessings every day as she fulfills her dreams with the love and support of good friends, her very own hunky hero and three boisterous children who constantly keep her laughing and her world spinning. Cynthia loves to hear from her readers. Visit her online at http://www.cynthiacooke.com.




Peter’s Return

Cynthia Cooke








This book is dedicated to my special friends,

Rosanne Falcone and Margaret Dear, for all your help and support on

this story and to my family for rearranging their summer to fit into

Mommy’s writing schedule. You are the best! I love you!


Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean

not on your own understanding; in all

your ways acknowledge Him, and He

will make your paths straight.

—Proverbs 3:5-6




Cast of Characters


Peter Vance—His dangerous CIA job and the almost-fatal explosion destroyed his marriage and sent him deep underground for the past three years. But running into Emily at Baltasar Escalante’s estate can blow his cover…and get them both killed.

Dr. Emily Armstrong—Peter’s ex-wife is not the adventurous type…so why is the lovely doctor in Venezuela working for Doctors Without Borders?

Baltasar Escalante—The drug lord will do anything to comfort his dying son, including kidnap doctors to ease the boy’s suffering.

Snake—Escalante’s henchman helps Emily—but for what reason?

Dr. Robert Fletcher—The other doctor from Vance Memorial abducted with Emily. Will he live to see his wife and sons once more?




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Letter to Reader




Chapter One


Caracas, Venezuela

Dr. Emily Armstrong grabbed onto Dr. Robert Fletcher’s shoulder. “We’ve been kidnapped!”

Robert’s lips twisted in amusement as he patted her fingers. “Let’s not be dramatic, Doctor.”

Emily withdrew her hand and leaned back against the seat. “I should have known the moment I saw this black monstrosity of a vehicle with its leather seats and tinted windows that we were in trouble. Only bad guys and government agents drive these things. I know—I was married to one.”

“Really?” he said dryly. “I always find it amazing that before the marriage we’re Mr. Perfect, Mr. Wonderful, yet after—”

“Not a bad guy,” she corrected. “A government type.” She screwed her lips into a don’t-you-know-anything expression, leaned in closer, and lowered her voice. “CIA, if you must know.”

“I’ve heard,” Robert replied. “The illustrious missing Peter Vance. Heard he gave it all up and headed for the woods to find himself. What was that, three years ago? You must have done quite a number on him.”

Emily snorted, though a pang shot through her. “Peter loved his work, loved the danger. I couldn’t see him giving it up for anyone, not even me.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and watched the South American city pass by.

“Why give it up? You seem like a girl who likes a little danger in her life.”

Emily turned from the tinted window as high-rise apartments gave way to ramshackle shacks, and brushed her long blond hair behind her ear. “Who, me? I don’t do danger.”

It was Robert’s turn to snort.

“What?” she demanded, not sure how he could possibly get the impression from her boring, nothing-ever-happens-to-me life that she could be the type of woman who liked danger.

“If I believed that, even for a second, then you’d be home right now in your safe little apartment, in your idyllic American town and not on your way to a primitive Venezuelan clinic.”

Emily lifted her chin in indignation. “I said I don’t like danger, I didn’t say I don’t like helping people. When Kate Montgomery told me about the condition of the poor children living in the barrios, how could I not agree to come down here and help?”

“Even after what had happened to Adam?”

“Adam’s shooting was an extraordinary circumstance. Dr. Valenti was a desperate man who got himself addicted to painkillers. Otherwise, I don’t believe he ever would have tried to steal drugs from the clinic. But you’re right, whatever he got himself into, he got in too deep. Thank the Lord he’s a bad shot and Adam survived. In any case, Dr. Valenti was caught and extra security measures at the clinic have been put into place. We shouldn’t have to worry about anything like that happening again.”

Robert looked grim. “Unfortunately, Valenti was killed in jail so we’ll never know the truth of what was behind it all, or who.”

“You’re looking for conspiracies where they don’t exist,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “Nothing else could possibly go wrong.” But even as she said the words, she realized she was worried. Something didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what was bothering her. The town? The car? The driver? “Unless of course we’ve been kidnapped. You know kidnappings are very popular in this region.”

Robert’s shoulders shook with an unsuppressed chuckle.

“I’m glad you find me so amusing,” she said and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “How much longer to the clinic? I thought it was just outside Caracas.” She glanced out the window. “We’ve been outside of Caracas for a while now.”

The man didn’t respond, just continued driving as if she weren’t even there. She couldn’t say she liked his looks much, all dark and swarthy with a large coiling red-and-black snake tattooed on his arm.

“Relax,” Robert said, nudging her. “We have nothing to worry about. It’s a good thing you don’t ‘do’ danger. I have a feeling you wouldn’t do it very well.” His smile grew wide and generous.

Emily gave him a serious pout. “And what about you? It’s not like I’m leaving a family behind. What’s your story? Why would you leave Pamela and those two precious sons of yours to come down here?”

“No story, just doing what I do best.”

“Ha!” Emily blurted. “Just a small dose of arrogance to go with that cup of ego, Doctor?”

He laughed a hearty sound that reached deep inside his chest. “All right, I confess. This stint on my résumé will do wonders for my career. I’ll only be gone three months, not long enough for my family to even miss me.”

“Don’t count on that.”

He nodded, suddenly serious. “I know. I miss them already.”

She gave his shoulder a pat, then looked past him out the window and saw a sign for Santa Maria de Flores. “I think we’re here.”

They continued through the small primitive town, passing run-down houses and barefoot, half-clad children playing in the street. Emily frowned as the driver turned onto a small dirt road on the outskirts of town that led up into the hills. “Is this right? Shouldn’t the clinic be back in the town?” Robert looked as nonplussed as she felt. She turned back to the driver. “Excuse me?” she said loudly.

“He probably doesn’t understand English,” Robert said.

“Con permiso?” she amended. Something was wrong with this driver. Joking aside, something really had been nagging her ever since she saw him in the airport holding up a Doctors Without Borders sign. Without question, they’d followed him like little lambs to the slaughter. “Con permiso,” she said a little more forcefully, and this time tapped the driver’s shoulder.

Ignoring her, the driver leaned forward and pushed a button. Before she could take another breath, a clear partition rose between them. Emily looked into Robert’s widened eyes. The shocked disbelief on his face would have been comical if it weren’t for the sick feeling of dread growing in her stomach. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Robert tried to open his door, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he tried the window. It, too, was immovable.

“Oh, Lord, protect us,” Emily said between breaths that were suddenly coming too fast and too short.

“It’s okay, don’t panic. I’ve heard about these guys. If we pay them, they’ll let us go. In fact, some are even desperate enough to take a check. Did you bring your checkbook?”

“Checkbook?” she blurted. “That’s absurd. Who would I make it out to, Mr. Kidnapper?”

“It’s true. I saw it on 20/20.”

“You’re not serious?” Her eyes searched his. He was. “Let’s pray it will be as simple as that,” she muttered.

They didn’t say another word as the driver took them deeper into the Venezuelan countryside.

Emily closed her eyes. She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It had been so long since she’d been able to connect with the Lord. She’d made a promise, not any ordinary promise, but a deathbed promise to God and she’d broken it. She’d lived with the shame for so long it was almost automatic, almost comfortable. She couldn’t go asking for more favors now.

Robert took her hand in his and she held it, thankful for his warmth and friendship. She didn’t know what she’d do if she were alone.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “You have to believe that.”

She nodded. “I know. We have to. We’re doctors, we’re the good guys. Not only that, we’re Americans.”

Robert smiled and squeezed her hand before turning back toward the window as the driver veered off onto a gravel road. They were deep in the jungle now, not a sign of civilization in sight. Emily couldn’t help wondering where they were being taken and under what kind of conditions they would be forced to live until their ransom was paid. If their ransom would be paid.

Don’t think like that, she told herself, but the sad fact was she was alone in the world—no husband, no siblings, no family to come to her rescue. She swallowed her despair; she’d dealt with her parents’ car accident years ago, but Peter was another matter.

She’d lost touch with him and hadn’t seen him—no one had—in a very long time. But if by some miracle of God he’d discovered she was gone, would he come looking for her? Would he care? The realization that she couldn’t be sure brought little comfort, only the familiar squeeze of regret. His job, his mission, whatever it was he was working on always came before she did.

“Look!” Robert whispered, interrupting the well-worn path her thoughts were taking.

Emily sat up straighter as glimpses of a large stucco wall came into view. They turned at a bend in the road then stopped before a tall iron gate. The driver nodded to the guard sitting in a booth and the gate swung open. Emily couldn’t help but be riveted by the grounds inside the gates.

The parklike setting of benches and statues placed strategically beneath cascading trees surrounding a large duck-laden pond caught her breath. Tucked among the trees were several shrubs trimmed in various animal shapes. Flowers in every shape and size greeted them in a riot of color.

Here and there, she spotted the clay tile roofs of several small out-buildings. She tried to focus through the thick foliage, to get her bearings on the bungalows and see what their use was, but she could only catch scattered glimpses before they disappeared into the jungle. A golf cart passed, but instead of laughing tourists enjoying the eighteenth hole, two guards in tan uniforms with rifles slung over their shoulders watched the Suburban, giving their driver a slight nod as they passed.

They turned right onto a cobblestone road and slowly approached a breathtaking Spanish colonial mansion. Emily leaned into Robert and whispered, “I don’t think my checkbook is going to get us out of this one.”

“Neither do I,” he agreed, and a grim look of futility filled his face. She squeezed his hand as they followed the drive around back and parked in front of a garage larger than the elementary school on the corner of Emily’s block back in Colorado Springs. In front of the garage, a series of golf carts were parked next to a bright red Porsche.

“Pinch me, Robert. I think we’ve just been transported into a Fantasy Island rerun,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Shh, be serious and be quiet. Let me do all the talking.”

“Gladly,” she whispered. “And as soon as you get us out of this, I’ll try not to remind you how sexist you are being.”

“Deal,” he grumbled. They watched the driver get out and open their door. “Just where are we?” Robert demanded with more bravado than Emily knew he felt.

“You are the guests of Mr. Escalante,” the driver said, then stepped back and waited for them to get out of the car.

Robert stood, but didn’t move out of the doorway, effectively blocking her exit. She pushed up on her knees and peeked around him. “I demand you take us to the Doctors Without Borders clinic,” he insisted.

The driver tilted his chin down and gave Robert a bone-chilling stare. He gestured toward the mansion. “I suggest you cooperate. It will make your stay here a little more pleasant for all of us, if you do.” He stepped around Robert and held out his hand. “Dr. Armstrong.”

Robert stepped aside. Without taking the driver’s hand, Emily got out of the car. There was something dark and dangerous and almost slithering in the man’s eyes. He looked like a man who wouldn’t give a second’s hesitation to killing them right there on the spot. This was not someone she wanted to touch.

The driver nodded, seeming to accept her slight and said, “Follow me.”

Robert started forward and Emily followed close behind. “What do you think they want from us?” she said, leaning forward and whispering in his ear.

“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder, “but whatever it is, cooperate.”

“Of course I’ll cooperate,” she muttered. What made him think she wouldn’t cooperate? As they walked through the lush grounds, Emily wondered if they could make a run for it. And if they did, how far would they get?

“Mr. Escalante’s compound encompasses over two hundred acres,” the driver said as they walked. “At all times, there are guards patrolling every inch of the estate in case you should ever need help.”

That answered her question.

He gestured beyond the garages. “Through those trees is the tennis court and swimming pool. There is also a hot tub should you feel the desire to relax your muscles after your long journey.”

Somehow she didn’t think a hot tub would do the trick. As they walked, Emily tried not to be awed by the beauty of the plants, the orchids and the blooming vines hanging from trees. She sucked in a breath as she caught a glimpse of a red, blue and green macaw unlike any she’d ever seen. “It’s the Garden of Eden,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” Robert agreed. “But watch out for snakes.”

The driver turned back and looked at them. The dead emptiness in his eyes curled her toes. “I hate snakes,” she whispered, and tried to smother the prickling sensation moving through her.

The man led them into a walled-in, shaded courtyard complete with a mosaic of Spanish tiles and a large fountain. Robert stopped next to an intricate wrought-iron table. “Why have you brought us here?” he demanded, and refused to take another step.

The driver kept walking.

Emily threw Robert a pointed look. “What should we call you?” she asked in her most pleasant and professional voice that barely hid the anxiety squeezing her throat.

The man halted and turned back, his cold, predatory gaze stopping her in her tracks. “Snake.”

Emily swallowed. She should have known. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.

He turned away, breaking the contact. Emily was so relieved she followed him without hesitation through the French doors and into a room filled with plush leather sofas and chairs facing a big-screen TV.

“All the luxuries of home,” Robert muttered.

Snake stood in the center of the room. “This is where you’ll stay.” He pointed into another room holding a massive mahogany table. “There is a kitchen for your use through there. Mr. Escalante’s chef prepares a meal each evening at six. If he wants you to join him, you will. If not, you may have the meal delivered here by informing Esteban.”

“Esteban?” Emily squeaked, finally finding her voice.

A muffled cough sounded behind her. Emily turned. A small dark-haired man bowed his head to her and Robert.

“Anything you need, just ask Esteban. He is here to serve you,” Snake said, then turned from the room and headed down the hall.

“At least he’s not named after a predator,” Emily muttered.

Robert frowned. “Be good.”

She smirked and followed Snake down the hall. He opened doors off the main corridor that they passed—the kitchen, a bedroom for Robert, one for her—and still they continued down the hall. Fear and irritation twisted inside her, tightening her muscles and making her tense. She didn’t like being kept in the dark, and she certainly didn’t like being told what to do. They reached a massive wooden door.

“This will take you back out to the front of the compound,” Snake said.

“You mean we can leave whenever we want?” she asked in her most innocent voice. Robert nudged her. She shrugged him off. She was getting tired of not knowing where they were or what was going to happen to them.

“You are free to wander the estate, though I would stick to the cobblestone paths. After all, we are in the middle of a jungle.” He turned and headed back down the hall.

Emily stared after him. “And what exactly was that supposed to mean?” she asked Robert.

“Exactly what it sounded like,” Robert said. “Wander too far and you’ll be eaten.”

She took one last look at the door before following them back into the main room. Still, she might just prefer to take her chances in the jungle.

“Mr. Escalante will be with you shortly,” Snake said, then left the room.

Emily let out a sigh of relief as he disappeared from her view, then turned to Robert. “Do you think this Escalante guy is in charge of the Doctors Without Borders program? Is that why we’re here?”

“Would be nice, but I doubt it.”

So did she, but she couldn’t help hoping. “What kind of a name is Snake anyway? Why do you think they call him that?”

“Maybe his bite is poisonous,” Robert said as he studied the grounds outside the windows.

“Yeah, or maybe he can squeeze the life out of you with his monstrous hands.”

Robert turned to her, his eyebrows raised.

She got up and started to pace. “I’ve been kidnapped and brought to paradise by a man named Snake and I have no idea why, or what’s going to happen next, or if I’m going to get to go home, or live, or breathe ever again.”

Robert walked over to her and patted her back. “You’re hyperventilating.”

“I am not!” she insisted.

He cocked an eyebrow that reminded her of an indulgent father reprimanding his young.

She couldn’t say she liked it much. “All right, maybe I am…just a little.” She didn’t know if she heard his approach or if she just felt his dark stare, but she turned to find a large man filling the doorway. Once he had their attention, he strode into the room with the casual ease and confidence of a general commanding his troops.

“Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Armstrong, thank you for coming. I’m most appreciative of your help,” he greeted in a strong booming voice.

“We weren’t given much choice,” Robert said. “Mr…?”

“Escalante. But, please, call me Baltasar. I’m sorry if we worried you. Circumstances dictated the necessary action. I assume your drive from Caracas was comfortable?”

“Why exactly are we here?” Emily asked abruptly, somewhat disconcerted by his slicked, black hair or perhaps it was his piercing gaze; either way her skin was crawling.

Baltasar’s eyes met hers and pinned her to the floor. “I need you to help my son.” He sat on one of the long leather sofas, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “If I may get to the point, my son, Marcos, is very sick. I’m afraid he’s dying. I need your help to make his last days as comfortable for him as possible.”

Emily took a deep breath and sat in a chair nearby.

“He is my only child,” Baltasar continued. “I love him greatly and can’t stand to see him suffer.”

The pain widening his eyes gave Emily’s heart an uncomfortable squeeze. Against her will, she softened toward the man. But only a little.

“I will make it worth your while,” he said with a great deal of sincerity.

Emily couldn’t help wondering how much of it was real. He was obviously a man who knew what he wanted and exactly how to get it. “Of course we can help your son,” she responded, trying to maintain a professional distance. “That’s why Dr. Fletcher and I came here, to help the children.”

He gave her a warm smile.

“But,” she added, and couldn’t help cringing as his smile stiffened. “As beautiful as your estate is, we’d prefer to help your son at the clinic in Santa Maria de Flores.”

“I’m afraid Marcos can’t be moved,” Baltasar said, standing. “Now, please, come and meet my son.”

His gaze slid over her, sizing her up. She couldn’t say she liked it.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Escalante,” Robert said without making a move to join him at the door. “What exactly is your son’s illness?”

“Marcos was born HIV-positive, which has been further complicated by his hemophilia. I’m afraid his illness has progressed to AIDS. It’s been very difficult for all of us and after he lost his last doctor…well, you can see why I’d view a pediatric hematologist with Dr. Armstrong’s impeccable credentials as a blessing, and her arrival here in Venezuela as a gift from God Himself. What better doctors could He have sent than the two of you to look after my son?”

Emily blinked. She understood the pain parents of terminally ill children suffered, but hoped he wasn’t reading more into their presence than there was. They were doctors, not miracle workers. “Dr. Fletcher and I will do whatever we can to help Marcos. I’m truly sorry for what you’ve had to go through, and for the difficult road that lies ahead for your family.”

Baltasar smiled, took her arm, and wrapped it around his own. “You, Dr. Armstrong, are an angel.”

Either that or a tremendous fool, she thought. She set her mind to focusing on the child as they walked down the hall, and not on their predicament. As they entered the room, Emily was surprised to see it rivaled any at Vance Memorial back in Colorado Springs. Mr. Escalante had provided his son with the best medical equipment available.

“Will you have everything here that you need?” he asked.

“More than enough,” Emily said, looking around. A side door opened and a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform walked in pushing a little boy in a wheelchair. His emaciated body didn’t detract from the love and laughter in his large brown eyes. “Papa!” he greeted.

“Hello, Marcos.” Baltasar knelt down to be at eye level with his son. “I’d like you to meet your new doctors. This is Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Fletcher.”

“Buenas tardes,” Marcos said.

Emily smiled. “Good afternoon to you, Marcos.”

Baltasar stood. “And this is Marcos’s nurse, Marguerite.”

The nurse smiled pleasantly then walked over to Marcos’s hospital bed and turned down the covers.

“Mr. Escalante—”

“Baltasar, please.”

Emily gave a slight nod. “Baltasar, do you have Marcos’s medical records for us to look at?”

He looked pleased at her question. “Absolutely, right over here.” He opened up a drawer and removed a thick file. Emily took it from him. “Please read it over, visit with my son, and then let me know your findings at dinner this evening.”

Emily got the feeling his offer wasn’t a request.

He kissed Marcos on the head and left the room. After the nurse settled Marcos into his bed, Emily stepped forward. “How are you feeling?” she asked the boy.

“Okay,” he said, then started to cough.

As his coughing persisted, she asked the nurse for a stethoscope and thermometer. She took his temperature, frowned as she read the elevated reading, then listened to his chest. His little face filled with fatigue. Emily’s gaze met Robert’s across the bed. “Lay back and get some rest,” she said softly to the child, gently brushing his forehead with her fingertips.

He nodded and gave her a sleepy smile that tugged at her heart. Of all the terminally ill children she’d had to help, she’d never gotten used to the pain and heartache that came with each one she lost. She knew she should distance herself from them, but then she’d look into their sweet, innocent, scared eyes and she’d be lost, her heart sunk. Each time, she’d hoped God in His infinite wisdom and mercy would spare them. Maybe this time He would. She gave Marcos a warm smile, then joined Robert and the nurse in the outer room.

“How long has he been coughing?” Emily asked the nurse.

“He just started this morning.”

“There’s moisture and rattling in his chest. He’s in the beginning stages of pneumonia.” Emily had seen it many times before, and as the illness progressed, the child would grow weaker and weaker.

“Mr. Escalante will need to be told,” Marguerite said while reaching into an overhead cabinet.

“What happened to Marcos’s last doctor?” Robert asked casually. Emily had wondered the same thing. She recalled Baltasar’s earlier reference to losing Marcos’s doctor, but couldn’t imagine a doctor leaving his patient at this stage in his illness. And Baltasar didn’t seem like the sort of man who would just let him go.

The nurse mumbled something without turning.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Emily asked.

Marguerite pulled out a syringe and bottle of antibiotics, then said, “Snakebite,” and quickly left the room.

Emily turned to Robert. Uneasiness tweaked her stomach as she held his gaze. “There is way too much talk about snakes around here.”



Peter Vance took in his surroundings and hoped his years of hard work had paid off and he’d finally been granted access into the heart of La Mano Oscura, also known as The Dark Hand. The manicured grounds were a stark contrast to the untamed jungle pushing at the compound’s tall stone walls. The bungalow he’d been led to was large and gracious, with ceiling fans, plantation shutters and yards of mosquito netting. It sure beat the shack he’d been living in—he could barely call it a shack—since he’d left Colorado Springs three years ago.

He knew when the CIA asked him to upgrade his status and go deep undercover as an operations officer, life as he knew it would be over. But he hadn’t expected how much the isolation would bother him, or how much he’d miss his family.

How much he’d miss Emily.

He shook off the thought as he had numerous times before. He’d hoped the long nights alone would have purged her from his mind. Unfortunately they hadn’t. Even here deep in the jungles of Venezuela, where nary the sight of a long wheat-colored blonde could be found, he’d see something that would remind him of the exact shade of hazel in her eyes and there she’d be, at the forefront of his mind.

Somehow, some way, he had to forget her and move on. By now she’d probably found herself a nice doctor husband, one who’d come home to her safe and sound every night and given her lots of drooling babies to take care of. He could see it perfectly in his mind, the type of life she’d longed for, the type of life he could never give her.

He took out his secured satellite phone and dialed Maxwell Vance, his father and case handler.

“You at the compound?” Max asked as he picked up the line.

“Affirmative.”

“Good. We’ve had a major break on this end. It won’t be long now.”

Peter sighed and allowed himself a second to hope. Three years without a break, a vacation or a meal from his mother’s diner, The Stagecoach Café. How he wished he could go home and see everyone even if it was only for a day.

“We’ve uncovered an air force connection to Diablo.”

He raised his eyebrows. The air force is connected with Colorado Springs’ major crime syndicate? No wonder they had such a hard time tackling their problems. “Is La Mano Oscura Diablo’s main supplier?”

“Affirmative. If everything goes according to plan, the sting we’ve set in motion should bring the Venezuelan cartel to its knees. All your hard work is finally going to pay off. You’re in the perfect position to help us bring La Mano Oscura down.”

“It’s all I think about, believe me.”

“If you can, get the names of any operatives still set up here in Colorado that we may have missed. We can’t afford for Escalante to get wind of our plans.”

“Got it.”

“Also, Barclay has taken a tumble.”

Peter shouldn’t have been surprised. They had suspected that hotel tycoon Alistair Barclay was the kingpin of the Diablo organization credited with the increase of drug trafficking to hit Colorado Springs, but they hadn’t been able to get the goods on him. Things were looking up.

“Has he confirmed Escalante is El Patrón?” Peter asked. They’d been hoping for something to pinpoint Escalante as the head of La Mano Oscura, but they hadn’t had much luck. “I know in my gut he’s our guy, but he’s kept himself clean and surrounded with well-established, legitimate connections. Has he found out about Barclay’s arrest?”

“Negative, as far as we know. He’s expecting a shipment through General Hadley of cash and high-definition Keyhole Satellite images of his lab on the Colombian border. Expect company in place of the shipment. The operation will go down on the thirteenth at zero-hundred hours. Make sure you’re there. We’ll need you to help tie up any loose ends. This could be it.”

Peter took a deep breath and tried not to let himself hope. He wanted to leave, but wasn’t sure what he’d do next. The jungle and his cover as Pietro Presti had been a part of him for so long, he wasn’t sure how he could ever go back to just being Peter Vance. He glanced out the window and saw Escalante heading toward the bungalow down the main path. “Escalante’s coming, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait…there’s one more thing you should know.”

Peter heard the trepidation in his father’s voice, a voice he knew well enough to know this wasn’t something he wanted to hear. This was something personal. His gut tightened.

“It’s about Emily….”

Emily.

“Mr. Presti?” Baltasar Escalante said as he walked through the opened door.

Peter disconnected the line and turned, the name of his ex-wife ringing in his ear.




Chapter Two


Determination overrode emotion. For three years, Peter had worked hard to establish his cover as small-time drug trafficker Pietro Presti hoping to gain the attention of El Patrón, kingpin of La Mano Oscura. Now was his chance. He was in the perfect position to find out the truth about Baltasar Escalante and his connection to La Mano Oscura. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t afford to let himself wonder about Emily and what his father wanted to tell him about her.

“Mr. Presti, how do you like your quarters?” Baltasar asked as he strolled into the room.

“Very much,” Peter responded. “Thank you for your hospitality and please, my friends call me Pietro.”

“Pietro it is,” Baltasar said, and sat in a teal-and-salmon chair. He rested his long arms against the bamboo trim and watched Peter for a disquieting second. His lips curved into a small, predatory smile. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call?”

Peter forced a casual air. “Not at all, just checking on a few business deals.”

As Baltasar continued to stare at him, Peter hoped the invitation to the compound would turn out to be a friendly one.

“I understand you’ve been having some run-ins with our mutual acquaintance, Domingo,” Baltasar finally said.

Peter held up his hands, palms out, then gave a gentle shake of his head. “I’m just a small-time guy trying to eke out a living in a big-time jungle. Domingo has taken issue with some of my methods.”

Baltasar nodded, his dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I understand perfectly. Let’s take a walk,” he said, rising. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Peter followed him out the door, knowing full well when he received Baltasar’s summons it could mean trouble. He’d taken a chance stirring up the pot with Domingo, but he needed to gain Baltasar’s notice. The few days he’d taken to scope out the perimeter of the compound and stash a motorcycle in a strategic location outside the wall could pay off sooner than he’d thought.

In silence, they walked through the gardens on a cobblestone path moving far away from the main house.

“Your estate is incredible,” Peter said truthfully, trying to gauge Baltasar’s mood.

“I enjoy nice things. I work hard to achieve them. You can, too, if you play according to the rules.” Baltasar looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

His gamble with Domingo had been the right one. Now they were getting somewhere. “Rules have never been my strong suit,” Peter said casually, but laced his tone with an edge of steel.

“I’ve noticed. But to succeed in La Mano Oscura, one must never tread too far off the beaten path.”

Peter contemplated his response, but stopped as the snarl of a wild cat pricked the hairs on the nape of his neck. Slowly, he turned toward the tree closest to the path. A midnight-black jaguar with yellow-green eyes watching his every move sat on a low tree branch, its tail twitching, a low growl resonating deep in its chest. Peter’s breath knotted in his throat. He’d seen firsthand what a cat that size could do to a man, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Baltasar approached the cat, reached up and rubbed its head. “Hello, Akisha,” he cooed. He took a napkin out of his pocket, then carefully removed a large piece of raw meat and fed it to the cat. He turned back to Peter. “As I was saying, veering too far off the path might not be a healthy choice.”

Stunned, Peter could only nod as he watched the cat devour his treat. He expelled a relieved breath as they turned and headed back down the path toward the main house. He was still groping to get a handle on whether this visit would be agreeable to him when Baltasar said, “I love Venezuela. My enterprises have taken me many places, Pietro, and yet I always come back home where the colors are vibrant and the smell of the jungle heightens your senses.”

“I believe you have the makings of a poet, Mr. Escalante,” Peter said after a moment’s hesitation.

Baltasar let loose a deep, barrel-chested laugh. “My dear late wife used to say the same thing.” He shook his head. “How I miss her. You married?”

“Once,” Peter answered. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.”

“It takes a special kind of woman to be married to men like us.” Baltasar patted him on the back and as they approached the main house he led him through a set of French doors into a comfortable yet masculine office.

Peter casually scanned the room, taking in the deep brown leather sofa flanked by two overstuffed chairs. Against the far wall, but still maintaining the focal point of the room, was a large cherrywood desk and credenza. Everything he would need to unearth Baltasar’s nefarious activities would probably be found in that monstrous desk.

“We can talk privately here,” Baltasar said, and took a seat behind the desk.

Peter viewed this as a good sign. If Baltasar had wanted bloodshed, he wouldn’t have brought him into a room sporting a plush Turkish carpet. And they wouldn’t be alone. Baltasar opened a small humidor sitting atop his desk, pulled out a rich brown cigar, and gestured to Peter.

Peter didn’t care for cigars, but he knew it would be bad form to refuse. He nodded and watched as Baltasar used a stainless steel cutter to neatly snip off the cigar’s end before passing it to him. Peter accepted Baltasar’s offer and held it under his nose, breathing deep its strong aroma, and then waited for the business to begin.

“Along with your aversion to rules,” Baltasar said after lighting and inhaling deeply off his cigar. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling and finishing his thought. “Your reputation as an innovator and a man of action precedes you. I can use someone like that in my organization. You interested?”

Peter took a deep drag off the cigar and let Baltasar stew a moment, then said, “Perhaps. Depends on what you have in mind.”

Baltasar held his gaze. “Right now I’m in a position to expand my operations and I need someone in the States to head it up for me. You are an American, sí?”

Peter nodded and gestured with the cigar. “But you already knew that. You see, your reputation precedes you, too, Mr. Escalante, and I know you wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t already know everything there was to know about me.”

Baltasar smiled, his expression moving from benign indulgence to sharp respect. “Good, then we can drop the pretenses?”

“Please do.” Peter leaned back in the chair.

“I know you’re good at what you do. I know you’re considered a bit of a hothead. I also know you’re American, and a trip back home might not be such a bad idea, since our mutual friend Domingo isn’t too enamored with you at the moment.”

“Domingo is a fool,” Peter countered. “He doesn’t have the foresight, the imagination, or the guts to run an organization that will have the success and the reputation of La Mano Oscura.”

Baltasar nodded, his fingers coming together to steeple beneath his chin. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Bingo. Baltasar was indeed El Patrón, leader of La Mano Oscura.

“But I didn’t bring you here to hear compliments, Pietro. Personally, I could care less if Domingo hacks you up and feeds you to his beloved crocodiles. But I believe you can help me and if you turn out to be worth my trouble, then you’ll get a free ticket back to Chicago and a piece of the La Mano Oscura pie. You interested?”

“Perhaps. How big a piece?” Peter asked, and couldn’t help flashing a predatory smile of his own.

Baltasar laughed. “I think I could like you, Pietro.” He was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping out a simple beat on his desk. “I know you have a small but well-run organization in Chicago. How would you feel about expanding that operation?”

“Depends if the returns are as big as the risk. I like to stay small because it keeps me under the authority’s radar.”

“It also keeps you living in shacks in the jungle.”

Peter snuffed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “You got me there.”

“I’m expecting a large payment soon that will cover all the expenses necessary to set you up properly. I have one thousand kilos of pure powder processed and ready. I can have half that shipment sent to Chicago. Can you handle it?”

“I can, but I’ll have to increase my base.”

“Think you can have it done by the thirteenth?”

Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Good. I’m cutting back on my organization in Colorado. I want to transfer operations to Chicago consecutively.”

Peter schooled his features not to show too much excitement. This was a bigger break than any of them had anticipated. Baltasar must be very unhappy with Barclay to be cutting him out. Either that or he was on to Barclay’s arrest. And if that was the case, this whole conversation could be a setup and Baltasar could have wind of the sting operation the CIA had planned.

Peter’s stomach turned, and it wasn’t just from the cigar.

“All communications will be directly between you and I. You won’t use my name, but will always refer to me as El Patrón. Each month I will send an e-mail communication of when you can expect the next shipment of kilos and where—”

The door burst open and a woman rushed in, her long, flowing wheat-gold hair, bouncing across her shoulders.

Baltasar stood.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her arms frozen in midswing, her large hazel eyes staring in widened shock. At him.

Emily.

Peter’s heart slammed into the side of his chest.

A man dressed in the tan uniform of Baltasar’s guards came running up behind her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back.

Peter stood, and had to stop himself from rushing forward and ripping the man’s arm off. He must be dreaming. It couldn’t possibly be his Emily standing in Baltasar Escalante’s office being manhandled by a guard.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Escalante,” the guard said. “The señorita is faster than she looks.” His lips quivered in disgust. “I won’t let her get by me again.”

Emily’s shocked gaze hadn’t left Peter’s.

It was her. And if he didn’t do something fast, she would say or do something, and the jig would be up, his cover blown.

“It’s all right, Esteban,” Baltasar said, and walked toward them. “You may leave us.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. The guard nodded and backed out the door. Peter took advantage of Baltasar’s diverted attention and held a forefinger to his lips. For a brief second, Emily’s eyes widened.

Once the door clicked shut, Baltasar turned back to Emily. His Emily. What was she doing there? Why wasn’t she back home in Colorado Springs working at Vance Memorial and raising babies? His mind felt wrapped in several layers of cotton. He forced out three quick breaths, then took a deep one and tried not to think about how fast his heart was beating. He had to calm down. He had to make sure neither one of them gave the game away.

Baltasar turned back to his desk and snuffed out his cigar. “Dr. Armstrong, is everything all right with Marcos?” he asked.

Emily still hadn’t spoken. She just stood there staring, her emotions playing across her face—shock, pain, regret.

Peter held his breath. Come on, Emily. Pull it together. Don’t give me away.

“Dr. Armstrong?” Baltasar said again.

Peter didn’t like the way Baltasar’s gaze kept shifting from her to him then back to her again.

“Is everything all right?” he asked again.

She took a step toward Peter, her mouth opening to speak. He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch, gave a slight shake of his head, and hoped she could still read him as easily as he could still read her.

“Sorry,” she said, regaining her voice, though it was obvious how much of a struggle it was for her.

“Is everything all right with Marcos?” Speculation ran high in Baltasar’s tone.

Peter turned toward the window, breaking their connection before Baltasar’s speculation turned to suspicion.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Emily said, seeming to pull it together. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Marcos is coming down with a cough that we’ll need to keep a close watch on. It seems he’s develoved pneumonia. But he’s been given antibiotics. His spirits are high and he’s resting comfortably.”

Peter sat back in his chair and acted uninterested while watching them out of the corner of his eye. He knew Baltasar’s son was dying of AIDS, which explained why Emily, a pediatric hematologist, would be there, but it certainly didn’t explain how she got there.

“He’s a wonderful little boy,” Emily added.

“Thank you,” Baltasar said softly. “I think so, too.”

She fell silent, her large hazel eyes once again seeking out Peter’s, once again causing a painful lurch in his chest. He tried not to look at her, tried to look back out the window, or at the desk, anywhere, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t pull him away. How he missed her, the sharp pain of it sliced through him.

“Was there something you needed, Dr. Armstrong?”

The abrupt edge to Baltasar’s tone sent a twinge of anxiety rushing through him. They’d have to be careful around this man. From everything Peter had heard and seen, he could play Mr. Charm, but underneath he was a diabolical and ruthless killer.

“Yes,” Emily said, and turned slightly, giving Baltasar her full attention.

That’s it, babe. Don’t let him see you sweat.

“The phones in our wing aren’t working and we need to call the clinic and let them know we’ve arrived safely. It’s been several hours since we were due and we don’t want them to worry.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dr. Armstrong, but I’ve already contacted the clinic and let them know you’ve been delayed.”

As she hesitated, the pieces clicked into place. Baltasar needed a doctor for his son and he took one, regardless of what she wanted or needed, or who might need her. Come on, baby. Play it cool. This isn’t Mr. Altruistic; this is a monster in disguise.

“And then there’s the matter of Dr. Fletcher’s wife and children. They were expecting to hear from him. They must be worried sick.”

Dr. Fletcher. Peter vaguely recalled that name from Vance Memorial’s Christmas parties.

Baltasar smiled warmly. “Of course they are. We must alleviate their worry. Tell Dr. Fletcher to post a letter and I’ll see it’s mailed immediately. I’m sorry, but our phone service is sporadic at best, and it isn’t working right now. I’ll make sure you and Dr. Fletcher know the minute it comes back on.”

Emily’s shoulders fell with her relief. “Thank you, Mr. Escalante. We really appreciate it.”

“Please, my name is Baltasar. And thank you. There’s no way I could ever express the appreciation I feel toward you and the good Dr. Fletcher. This is the least I can do.” Baltasar turned toward the door and called for Esteban.

The guard stuck his head in the room. “Sí?”

“Please see Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital wing.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped into the room and took Emily’s arm.

Frustrated by his inability to intercede, Peter opened his mouth to protest, then forced himself to close it again as the guard led her out of the room. A fist of dread grabbed hold of Peter’s solar plexus and gave a firm squeeze. She was a giant monkey wrench that could totally screw up his operation. But didn’t she look good? Better than he remembered. And if he closed his eyes, he was sure he could recall what she smelled like, and how her skin would feel as soft as silk beneath his touch.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Baltasar said, shaking his head and sitting back down behind his desk. “My son’s new doctor. I don’t think she heard much, but I do think she’s going to give me trouble.”

Peter raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, hoping the man would continue, but not wanting to appear too interested.

Baltasar leaned back in his chair and stared at him. “I manage to stay one step ahead of the game by not allowing mistakes or mishaps of any kind. There’s too much at stake here for us to take unnecessary chances or risks.”

Was he talking about Emily or him? Either way wasn’t good. With a modicum of indifference in his tone, Peter asked, “Is the doctor a risk?”

“She has too much backbone for a woman. She’s trouble. I can feel it right here.” With a tight fist, he punched his gut.

The cold ferocity in his gaze sent a sliver of fear arcing through Peter’s mind. He wished he could jump out of his chair, find Emily and get her out of Venezuela. But he couldn’t jeopardize his mission—too much was at stake. Peter forced himself to concentrate on the man, and on his job.

“My associates and I have a network of hotels in Chicago on the river,” Baltasar said, leaning back in his chair and replacing the snubbed out cigar in his mouth. “I will have a shipment of say two hundred kilos divided up and delivered to four hotels at noon tomorrow.” He took out a pad of paper and wrote down the names and addresses of the hotels. “Have your people in place to pick up the shipments. If there’s a problem, or a leak of any kind, I will know it came from your end. Make sure that doesn’t happen, or our relationship will come to an abrupt end and I can assure you it won’t be pretty.”

Peter sucked up a breath and squared his shoulders. “No problem, Mr. Escalante. I don’t do pretty. My people know what’s at stake.”

And so did he. Only now there was a lot more at stake than nailing a drug lord. Now he had to rescue his ex-wife and if he knew Emily, she wouldn’t make it easy.



After leaving Baltasar’s office, Emily tried to walk down the hall as if she didn’t have a thing on her mind other than Marcos, but she was having trouble feeling her legs. Peter was alive and well right there in Venezuela. And looking like a vision out of an action movie.

She wasn’t sure how she’d recognized him with that long, shaggy, dark hair and scruffy morning—no, make that afternoon shadow. Who was she kidding? She would have known those ice-blue eyes anywhere. With one look, they pierced her soul and set her heart on fire.

Peter. His name whispered across her mind. She smiled, her heart filling with hope and anticipation even though Esteban was furiously hissing who-knew-what in Spanish behind her. Suddenly he grabbed her arm. She bit her lip as his long bony fingers dug into her flesh, then cried out as he slammed her against the wall.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, chiquita, or you will be one sorry little lady doctor.” He was too close to her, his raspy, garlic breath fanning her cheek. “Such soft, tender skin, white and fine as porcelain,” he breathed. “The kind of skin that bruises easily.” He ran a calloused finger down her cheek. “Even in places that can’t be seen, eh?”

Nausea turned her stomach, yet she stared him down, wide-eyed and boldly refusing to let him see her fear. He was nothing more than a bully, a low-man-on-the-totem-pole bully who wanted to make her feel afraid. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Without flinching she held his gaze and lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, Esteban, I need to get back to Marcos. Unless you want me to inform Mr. Escalante how you’ve detained me when I meet him for dinner tonight.”

Esteban’s eyes narrowed, quickening the blood coursing through her body. “Don’t push me, chiquita.”

“What’s going on here?” Snake asked as he rounded the corner.

Emily had never been more relieved to see a thug in her life. “I’m afraid I’ve upset Esteban,” she said, and casually stepped out from the wall and beyond his touch. The look crossing Snake’s face had her clamping down on her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling. Lord, if he wasn’t the scariest man she’d ever met.

“Dr. Armstrong interrupted Mr. Baltasar,” Esteban explained. “She needs to understand she will be punished if she does it again.”

“I’ll walk Dr. Armstrong back to her wing,” Snake said, looking at his watch. “I’m sure she won’t need you again until morning.”

Esteban glared at her, muttered a few more words in Spanish, then disappeared down the hall.

Emily turned to Snake. “Thank you. I’m afraid that man has control issues.”

“Is something wrong with Marcos?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in speculation.

“I wanted to use the phone,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself and not liking it.

He looked at her like she had the brains of a snail. “Make sure you don’t pop in on Mr. Escalante unannounced again. It wouldn’t be healthy,” Snake said evenly. Something in his tone, in his expression, scared her more than the quivering, unhinged Esteban.

“Do you think it’s possible to get someone else to ‘serve’ us other than Esteban?”

“No,” he said, then gestured her forward.

“Great,” she muttered, and let him lead her back down the hall to the hospital wing. Where was she and who exactly was Mr. Baltasar Escalante? And what did he have to do with Peter?

They had been talking quite seriously when she’d walked in, something about kilos. Emily stiffened as the word ran through her mind. She could no longer ignore the trepidation skittering down her spine. There was only one thing she knew of that came in kilos. Drugs.

She stole a glance behind her at Snake. Why hadn’t she seen it before? They weren’t the guests of an eccentric millionaire worried about his son; they were the prisoners of a drug lord. A cold sweat washed over her. What did that say about Peter?

When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.

She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?

She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.

She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.

She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.

“Emily?”

She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.

“Is everything all right?”

She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”

“What?”

“I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”

“I agree, but how?”

“I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.

Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”

“I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.




Chapter Three


At that moment, a bout of coughing had Emily rushing into Marcos’s room, driving home her point more. If God was there for people, if He listened to their prayers, her prayers, how could He let such suffering happen to those the least deserving—the young and innocent? She checked the boy’s chart and saw that he’d already been given his medicine. There wasn’t much she could do for him. She took his temperature then had him sit up as she handed him a glass of water.

“Thank you, Dr. Señorita,” the boy said.

“You’re welcome.” She watched him finish the water then took the glass from him.

His coughing abated and he gave her a big toothy grin. “I have a loose tooth.”

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. See?” He stuck his finger in his mouth and wiggled an incisor.

“Look at that,” she said with a big smile. “You have a loose tooth.”

He nodded in happy agreement. “Do you have children?” he asked with eagerness lighting his big brown eyes.

His question poked a wound that would never heal. “No, pequeño. No children. If I did, then I wouldn’t have time for all my children patients.”

“Then it is good, no?”

She smiled at him. “It is good. Now close your eyes and try to get some rest.”

He nodded. “I am extra tired today,” he said as his eyes drifted closed.

The poor boy was getting worse by the hour. Emily sat by his bedside and held his hand, thinking how unfair it was that he should have to spend his day in bed. Children should be running and playing and driving their parents crazy with their unrelenting energy.

She gave herself a mental shake. She was being absurd. Seeing Peter had brought back all the painful feelings of fear and loss and wanting a child more than she wanted her next breath. She sighed. It wasn’t meant to be. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t live with a man who put danger and his work before her. Never again. She had loved him too much to watch him die. And he hadn’t loved her enough to try something different, something new.

She pulled the sheet up to Marcos’s chest. It didn’t matter now. She was over Peter and had been for a long time. The wallop her heart had taken when she saw him earlier was only her feeling of relief that he was still alive, nothing more. She should be thankful and put him out of her mind.

She brushed the hair back from Marcos’s forehead. The poor boy was so thin and pale. Each breath was a struggle for him to take. He was in the beginning stages of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, an opportunistic infection that had stolen in to take advantage of his shattered immune system.

“Dr Señorita?” He opened his sleepy eyes.

She smiled at him. “I thought you were going to rest.”

“Will you pray with me?”

She hesitated.

“My mama used to pray with me. Every day we’d pray together and ask God to watch over us. And every night before I went to sleep, but ever since she died—” His words broke off and pain filled his eyes.

“Of course, I’ll pray with you,” she said. She couldn’t stand to see the heartache filling his little face.

“Papa doesn’t pray anymore,” he said. “He’s mad at God for my disease, he doesn’t understand it’s not God’s fault.”

Emily squeezed his hand. “Your papa loves you so much, it hurts him to see you sick. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to see him sad.”

Marcos’s lips trembled as he smiled. “You must be a very smart lady.”

“I like to think so.”

“My mama would have liked you.”

His words tugged at her heart and tightened her throat. “She must have been a wonderful lady to have such a special boy.”

He smiled with all the sweetness and optimism that eight-year-olds hold close to their hearts, then pushed his hands together.

“Do you have a favorite prayer?” she asked, hoping he didn’t want her to come up with one. It had been so long since she’d prayed, she wasn’t sure she could remember the words.

He nodded.

“Okay, then, let’s hear it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that his cheeks compressed and his small mouth straightened into a thin, serious line. As Emily watched him, pure joy filled her heart. He was such a treasure. His little voice, weak and tired, sounded crystal clear like the first drops of rain on a cool fall morning. She sat up straighter to listen.

“Dear Lord, now it’s time for me to rest, today I tried to do my best. Watch over me as I lie in sleep, help me to have faith in Thee. Care for all the world’s little children, the sick and the poor, give them Your blessing. Care for Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Fletcher and Papa the same, this I pray in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

His big brown eyes opened, capturing hers, and from that moment on her heart was lost.

“You’re supposed to say ‘Amen,’” he whispered.

“Amen,” she said quickly.

He gave a triumphant smile and she rustled his hair. “Are you ready to go to sleep now, young man?”

He nodded.

Emily leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

“You, too, Dr. Señorita,” Marcos said with a sleepy smile and fell back to sleep, as only children can do, the instant he closed his eyes.

Emily sat staring at him. She had just prayed. It was as simple as that—as simple as closing her eyes and talking to someone who loved her. She sighed. Nothing was ever that simple. She rose, straightened his covers, and then turned toward the small connecting room that held his medication and other supplies.

“You’re very good with him,” Baltasar said, startling her as she entered the room.

Surprised, Emily wondered how long he’d been standing there watching her. “Thank you,” she responded and cringed as her voice broke. The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect she’d figured out the truth about him. “He’s a special boy.” Too special to deserve a drug lord for a father.

His eyes softened, and he dropped onto a stool next to the long blue counter. “He’s all I have left in the world that matters to me.”

As much as she didn’t want to, Emily believed him. She’d had to deal with parents of terminally ill children before. She knew only too well the heartache that lay ahead for him. She wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy. Not even her kidnapper.

“Are the phones up and working yet?” she asked, though she knew it was futile, knew if he had any intention of being aboveboard, he would have asked for her assistance, not demanded it.

“Why do you want to contact the outside world so badly? Are you not happy here? Not treated well? Is the food okay? Your quarters?”

“Yes, everything is fine, that’s not the point. There are people at the clinic waiting for Dr. Fletcher and myself, other people, other children, who need us.”

“I have talked to Dr. Haynes, the Doctors Without Borders representative, and have assured him that you both are fine, and that you are assisting me with my son on an extremely sensitive issue. He understands completely and has asked me to tell you not to worry about the clinic, things are fine. They have sent for other doctors who will be arriving within the next few days.”

“That sounds convenient,” she said, the words coming out more bitter than she’d expected.

Baltasar stood. “I love my son and will do whatever I have to do to ensure his last days are comfortable. You can either have a pleasant stay here at my estate, or you can be treated like a prisoner. The choice is entirely yours.”

The gloves had just come off.

Emily stiffened and was thankful when he turned and abruptly left the room. She walked into the kitchen and with trembling fingers poured herself a cup of iced tea. As nice as the estate was, she was still a prisoner being held against her will and unable to communicate with anyone. Anyone except for Peter. She had to convince him to help her, and right now was as good a time as any.

She downed her iced tea then made sure Esteban wasn’t lurking around before heading out the front door. As soon as she stepped outside an invisible barrier of heat, hot and clinging, hit her. She pushed through it, hugging the side of the house, hoping no one had seen her. She kept to the cobblestone path that led through the tall bushes. Their branches reached for the sky, fighting for the sparse rays of sunlight that made it through the thick canopy of trees.

As she traveled deeper into the grounds, the trees became denser, the sounds more foreign to her. What was she thinking? How could she ever find Peter out here? She didn’t even know if he was still at the estate. She would do better to try and find a way to escape on her own. The truth, whether or not she cared to admit it, was that she didn’t know who Peter Vance was anymore. He certainly wasn’t that long-haired ruffian she’d seen talking about kilos in Baltasar’s study.

A loud squawking sounded above her. Her gaze snapped up onto the beady black eyes of a multi-colored bird. The raptor-looking thing was more menacing than an object of beauty, with its clawlike beak that could easily tear into her flesh and rip it to shreds. She rubbed her arms. The birds in her travel brochures certainly hadn’t looked like this one.

Even the thick tangle of flowering vines appeared to be slowly squeezing the life out of the trees, rather than draping down their trunks like the bridal veils the brochures described. Ha! It was more like suffocation, slow and Machiavellian. She gulped a deep breath, finding it harder and harder to breathe. There was no air here, not even the slightest breeze.

In some places she thought she could see steam rising from the soft earth buried under a thick layer of dead leaves. She grimaced, not even wanting to think about what she could be stepping on. “I’m slowly being cooked alive,” she muttered. And, for a second, wondered when she’d veered off the cobblestone path.

A giant insect buzzed past her head. She ducked, then dragged her forearm across her damp forehead. She’d better go back. This wasn’t such a good idea. Even if she could find her way off this compound, she’d never find her way out of the jungle. She was trapped.

Something crunched beneath her canvas tennis shoe and her face contorted in disgust. She stared down at the giant cockroaches scurrying around her feet. They were as long as her hand! A hoarse cry erupted from her chest, then caught in her throat and choked her. She turned and ran, unsure of where she was going, just heading back in the direction she’d come, hoping to find her way back to the estate.

She’d been such a fool to come to South America! “An adventure,” she muttered. She had seen brochures of incredible beaches, water so blue it made you think you’d found heaven on earth—tropical flowers, waterfalls, beautifully colored birds, paradise on earth.

Paradise? Ha! She was a fool and an idiot. A sharp pain stitched her side, making her stop and double over. “Lord, please help me,” she begged, then realized she’d just prayed, again. Twice in one day! A twinge of guilt jabbed her. She stared at the ground waiting for it to open up and swallow her.

She was such a hypocrite, only asking for help when she was desperate and then not living up to her promises, not giving Him the respect He deserved. And this place was her punishment, she thought as she walked down the path carefully watching each strategically placed step. Perhaps if I ask God to forgive me, if I tried harder to be good….

Something shifted in the corner of her eye. She stopped and turned, her eyes widening painfully as she stared into the diamond-shaped slits of a hissing reptile. A snake! Not a common garden snake that kids scurry about to catch, but a giant snake with a body the thickness of her thigh. She stood frozen, her heart pounding, unable to move, to scream, to breathe.

Then it began to move. She stood horrified as its sinewy thickness slid up the vine-laden tree beside her. Involuntarily, her mouth snapped open and she gasped a breath of air, allowing the adrenaline to slam into her chest and give her control of her body once more.

Her loud, piercing scream fractured the jungle air, sending flocks of birds fluttering up through the trees and into the sky. Squawking erupted, filling the air, and before she could make her legs move, or let loose another sound, a large, sweaty hand covered her mouth. Her eyes bulged as she was pulled roughly against a hard, masculine chest. A strong arm locked around her waist, lifted her off her feet, and pulled her into the thicket.

She struggled, but it was futile. Dear Lord, help me. Peter. Where was Peter? The man stopped moving and dropped her back down onto her feet. He lifted his hand from her face and she could finally draw a deep breath. And she did, lots of them, so many she started to hyperventilate and grow dizzy. She bent over, her hands braced on her knees.

“Stop panicking,” the voice snapped.

“Panicking? I’m not panicking. I’ve passed panicking, I’m bordering on hysterical,” she babbled, and then it hit her. She knew this voice. She knew this smell, strong as it was. She knew this touch. She swiveled. The beast who had stuck his hot, sweaty palm across her mouth was Peter. A haze of red fury seized her, clouding her vision. “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking grabbing me like that, scaring me half to death?”

“Be quiet!” he demanded.

“No, I won’t be quiet. Don’t you even tell me to be quiet—”

Once again he picked her up, this time swinging her over his shoulder. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she found she couldn’t say another word as he marched off the path and through the bushes.

How dare he? Who did he think he was? And what on earth was wrong with the man? Did he not think she could walk? Something swatted her face. Abruptly she brought up her hands, covering her eyes, not only to protect them from an occasional branch, but also from what she thought she caught sight of scurrying in the bushes. Some things she just didn’t want to know about, especially at such close range.

“Ugh!” she groaned as his shoulder dug into her stomach. Her anger intensified and she realized that she was doomed, because there was no way God was going to forgive her for what she was planning on doing to this man once he finally set her down. Before she could contemplate the many ways of primitive medieval torture devices, he unceremoniously plopped her onto the ground.

The blood must have rushed to her head, because she’d barely managed to find her footing, or get a handle on her surroundings through the stars swimming in front of her eyes before he was dragging her in through the back door of a small bungalow.

She opened her mouth to let loose on the cretin, then suddenly the cool air hit her. Abandoning the colorful curses teetering on the tip of her tongue, she immediately rushed to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet and drowned herself in the icy cold water. Relief. She’d finally found sweet relief, she thought as the water cascaded across her hot sticky skin and rolled around in her mouth.

A rough grip on her shoulder pulled her head out of the sink.

“What did you do that for?” she demanded.

“You were drowning.”

“And it felt good, too.”

“Suit yourself.” He gestured toward the sink.

She promptly stuck her head back under the faucet, relishing the cool water and trying to get hold of her temper. When she finally came up for air, he pushed a towel in her face. “Thank you,” she blurted harshly, then kicked off her canvas shoes and promptly deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then and only then did she turn off the water and turn to face him, the only man she’d ever loved, and the only man she’d ever wanted to do severe harm to.

“Was that little display of Neanderthal He-Manship really necessary or have you been living in this cesspool for too long?”

“You were making too much noise,” he said evenly.

“Oh, excuse me for disturbing…what? The mutant, diabolical reptiles?”

A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. She raised her fist. “Don’t even think about it.”

He took a step back, his hand raised in an “I surrender” position. “Don’t worry, babe. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Don’t call me babe,” she growled. “I’m not your babe! I’m not anyone’s babe. Got that?” She poked a finger in his chest.

“Okay, okay. No babes, not even a dollface.” He leaned against the counter, his face contorting as he visibly tried to get himself under control. Losing the battle, he burst out laughing.

She narrowed her eyes and said the first words that came to her lips. “You are going to have to die.”

His bright blue eyes sparkled with laughter, eyes that used to have the ability to turn her to butter. Well, she must be cured of that now; she was sprung way too tight to remotely resemble anything like butter.

“Sorry, love, but I have other plans in mind.”

She didn’t know whether to pound on his chest in frustration, or throw her arms around his neck and never let go.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/cynthia-cooke/peter-s-return-42475423/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.