Obsession

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.”