Obsession

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Usted tiene una visita.”

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

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

“Who is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In your opinion.”

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

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

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

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

“So we were recommended, then?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“How long will it take?”

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

“I’ll wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You must be good at it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’ll be a great team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The maître d’ greeted her by name.

“Señorita Toussaint, how beautiful you look tonight!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“De nada.”

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

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

And Raul Santos? What was he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, of course not,” she answered.

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

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

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