Obsession

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.