He glanced toward Felicity. The young woman was facing her computer screen with a look of such studied involvement, it was obvious she wasn’t missing a word. He turned back to Emma with an amused expression. “Perhaps we could go into your office and I could explain further?”
It wouldn’t be the first time a good client had walked in off the street. Never one to turn down an opportunity, Emma nodded, then led the stranger into her office, stopping beside Felicity to order coffee for them both. A moment later Emma was sitting behind her desk and Raul Santos was seated in front of her.
He wasn’t really her type, but he was an attractive man. Bronzed skin, dark eyes, black hair that gleamed. He was over six feet and clearly not a local. Emma found herself intrigued. Other available men had been in her office since her divorce, but something about this one was different. Maybe it was his intensity. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her with his dark gaze. One way or the other, despite her attraction to him, or maybe because of it, he made her uneasy. She shivered once before she could stop herself and spoke quickly to cover her interest.
“What brings you to Banco Nacional, Mr. Santos?”
He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her. “Everyone knows about El Banco,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the only game in town, isn’t it?”
“Well, there’s a Lloyd’s down the street and El Centro, too, but we’re the best.”
“In your opinion.”
She smiled. “In the opinion of all our customers, I’m sure. We are the most successful.”
“Doesn’t that depend on how you define success?”
“I define it as do most of our clients—by a large return on their investments.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he conceded. “And what I’d like, as well.”
“So we were recommended, then?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She waited for more—a name, a hint of some sort—but he wasn’t going to give it to her. Felicity brought in the coffee, and when she left, he spoke again.
“It doesn’t really matter why I chose your bank. What’s important is the account I’d like to open.” Ignoring the coffee, he pulled a long black wallet from the inside pocket of his suit. The leather looked smooth and expensive; it matched the rest of him. He withdrew what appeared to be a printed check and pushed it across Emma’s desk, along with a business card showing his addresses and phone numbers. “I’ll be doing some trading. I think that should cover it.”
Emma made no move to pick up the check, but she looked down at it. Drawn from a bank in El Paso, Texas, it gave an amount of seven figures. Before the decimal point. She reached for her phone and hit one button. The door to the office opened immediately, Felicity on the threshold.
Emma motioned her inside, then handed the secretary the check and the card. “Please take care of the paperwork for this.” She glanced at the man across the desk. “Will you wait or shall I messenger the documents to you later?”
“How long will it take?”
The bigger the check, the shorter the time. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” she said.
“I’ll wait.”
Felicity nodded and hurried away, a tight grasp on the check as she disappeared out the door. Emma turned back to the man in front of her. Usually she had no trouble visiting with her clients, but for some reason, Raul Santos left her not quite knowing what to say. It felt strange. She hadn’t been tongue-tied in years, especially without knowing why.
“What brings you to the area, Mr. Santos? Are you from Bolivia?” Lame, Emma, really lame.
“I grew up in Texas, but I’ve been living in Washington until recently. I moved here to do business. I’m an importer.”
Shocked into silence, Emma kept a mask of polite interest on her face. Importer? The answer was a standard reply in some circles, but the last one she’d expected from this man. He’d definitely not struck her as being involved in the drug trade, but that was the euphemism everyone in Santa Cruz used for the narcotraficantes. “I see,” she finally said. “An importer…”
“That’s right. I import money.” He paused.
“And export goods.”
“You must be good at it.”
He smiled for the first time and something—a quick unexpected reaction—tumbled around inside her chest. “I’m good at what I do, Ms. Toussaint. Very good.”
She nodded, uncertain what to say next. Surprisingly he kept the moment from being awkward by turning the conversation to her. “What about you? What brought you to Santa Cruz?”
She hadn’t expected the question from him, but Emma had dodged it so many times she had a pat answer ready. “International banking is my specialty. I wanted an opportunity to see the system work.”
“Why here? Couldn’t you have done that in the States?”
“I would have spent too many years back home working my way up. I came into Nacional and was quickly promoted to the vice presidency of expatriate accounts. That wouldn’t have happened in the States.”
“So you’re good at what you do, as well.”
His gaze was dark and unrevealing, but had a pull she couldn’t deny. “Yes, I’m good at it,” she replied, mimicking what he’d said about himself.
“Very good.”
“Then we’ll be a great team.”
His words held an undercurrent of something that only increased her uneasiness, but she smiled. “Undoubtedly.”
A few minutes later, Felicity returned with the papers. He scanned them quickly, then signed them without questions, obviously familiar with the legal terms. When he finished and rose, Emma escorted him to the door of her office. He stood closer to her than she would have liked, but people did that in South America. She’d learned to live with it. However, being this near to Raul Santos made her all too aware of the custom.
“I’ll be traveling a lot, but my base will be here, in Santa Cruz.” He smoothed a hand down his tie, his fingers strong-looking. No ring. “I’d like to get to know the city. I know it’s not part of your job, but could I entice you to dinner this evening to learn more about it?”
He’d managed to surprise her again. “I—I have an engagement already,” she said.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “Perhaps another time?”
Her pulse quickened even though she instinctively knew she should stay away from this man. Something told her he was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to upset him, though. She inclined her head and repeated his words. “Another time…”
He acknowledged her answer with a smile, but she wondered if the expression conveyed his true feelings. “I’ll be in touch.”
She watched him leave, then went back into her office. A second later, a movement outside her window caught her eye, and she walked over to the tinted glass. Raul Santos stood on the corner beside the Quechua woman. He was smiling at her and her child, holding out his hand. The Indian woman snatched at what he offered and ducked her head. A moment after that, he headed down the sidewalk.
Fascinated, Emma looked on as the beggar opened her palm and counted the bills the man had given her. It took her quite a while.
THE ENTRANCE to the restaurant was hidden behind a brick wall and iron gate. When Emma climbed from the car William Kelman had sent her, a valet ran out to the street, unlocked the gate and escorted her into the inner garden. By necessity, Bolivians had tight security, especially in the wealthier neighborhoods such as this one. In fact, Candelabra didn’t even look like a dining establishment, so perfectly did it blend in with the surrounding homes. The first time Emma visited, she’d thought the cabdriver had made a mistake and dropped her off at someone’s house.
She followed the valet over a small rock-lined walkway bordered by tropical plants. The largest, a beautiful bird-of-paradise, trembled in the night breeze, its red and yellow blooms striking even in the dim lamps near the door. When she stepped into the entrance to the restaurant, she could hear the muted sound of diners.
The maître d’ greeted her by name.
“Señorita Toussaint, how beautiful you look tonight!”
Emma smiled at the dark-haired man and replied in Spanish, “Estefan, you flatter me, as always. How are the grandchildren?”
He beamed. “Very well, as always, señorita. Thank you for asking.”
Leading her to the table, he continued his chatter until she was seated. “Señor Kelman called and said he would be a few minutes late. He begs your pardon and has ordered champagne for the table.”
Emma seriously doubted that William Kelman had ever begged for anything. Her attention focused, however, on the waiter who had appeared at the maître d’s side and was already opening a bottle of champagne. “None for me,” she said, putting her hand over her glass.
She hadn’t noticed until now, but Estefan already had a flute in his hand. He brought it around and placed it in front of her. It was full of a shimmering gold liquid. Bending closer to her, he rotated the glass to line it up with her plate. “Ginger ale,” he pronounced. “¿Está bien?”
She looked up at him with a grateful expression.
“Muchísimas gracias,” she said quietly.
“De nada.”
The two men left the table after that, and Emma waited, her fingers wrapped around the thin crystal stem of the glass. She hadn’t had a drink since she’d come to Bolivia, and in her business, that wasn’t always an easy thing to avoid. The constant parties, the luncheon meetings—everything in Latin American either started or ended with alcohol. She’d been tempted, and always would be, but she hadn’t given in. Knowing what she did now, she couldn’t risk it, even though she’d already lost all that meant anything to her. One day she’d get her children back, and when she did, no one would be able to point a finger at her.
Sipping the soft drink, she concentrated, instead, on the men and women at the tables around her. In a country where the average daily income was eight dollars, very few locals could afford a meal that easily cost five times as much. Therefore, the people around her were either expatriates or criminals, sometimes both. She greeted a few with a nod of her head. Some were clients, as well.
And Raul Santos? What was he?
He certainly didn’t fit the profile of the local drug kings, but in Bolivia, you never knew. The largest homes and the luxury cars couldn’t be bought by anyone except those in the trade. Or by Americans, which he claimed to be. She touched the heavy silver knife beside her plate and argued with herself. He really could be a legitimate businessman. The country exported tin and jewelry and had a thriving natural-gas business. A huge sect of Mennonites farmed soybeans in the nearby valley, as well. They had U.S. agents who handled their sales. For all she knew, perhaps he was helping them. She should have set aside her usual reticence and just asked, but she suspected the answer would have been, most likely, not completely truthful.
Raul Santos had the look of a man who kept his secrets. She knew because she had her own.
The arrival of William Kelman a few minutes later put the other man out of her mind. He shook her hand and took the seat beside her. Scurrying over quickly, a waiter filled his champagne glass from the chilling bottle, and before Emma could say anything the man filled her flute with champagne, as well. She looked at the glass in dismay, then adjusted her features immediately.
William lifted his drink for a toast and waited expectantly. “To new beginnings,” he said. “And successful ventures.”
Emma brought the glass to her lips and held it there for a second. Kelman didn’t notice that was all she did. He launched into conversation, bombarding her with questions. By the time their food arrived, she’d explained Bolivian currency, the U.S. market and the future of trading in both. He was a quick study and asked probing questions. Almost too probing. She was being paranoid, but something about his cross-examination disturbed her, and she couldn’t pinpoint the reason.
She told herself it might have something to do with his background. He’d told Reina he’d lived in Santa Cruz early in his career with the U.S. government. Outside of Washington, D.C., Santa Cruz had the largest DEA office in existence. Reina hadn’t known for sure, but he must have been an agent; he definitely had the look of a man who’d been in law enforcement. He’d loved the town, he said, and now that he’d retired, without a wife or family to object, he’d returned to enjoy the warm weather and laid-back atmosphere. Regardless of his explanation, Santa Cruz seemed like a strange choice to Emma. The city was not a place most people would want to spend their golden years.
When they finished their dinner, he waved to the waiter, then without consulting Emma, ordered dessert and brandy. Rising from the table, he looked down at her.
“I have a phone call to make. Would you mind if I excused myself for a moment?”
Under the dim lights of the dining room, his blue eyes looked frostier than they had on Saturday.
“No, of course not,” she answered.
He took out a cigar and pointed it at her champagne glass. “You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”
She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed, but obviously he had. Emma watched him disappear toward the rear of the restaurant, then she picked up the flute of champagne and stared at the bubbling wine. She had one goal in life right now: to make as much money as she possibly could so she could hire the best lawyer she could find. That was the only way she’d ever see her children again. And making money meant keeping William Kelman happy.
But she couldn’t drink this wine. Alcohol had ruined her life already, stolen from her the very things she valued the most. If Kelman was insulted by her refusal to drink, then he’d just have to be insulted. She needed the money, but she couldn’t risk the progress she’d made so far. Nothing was worth that.
Reaching over to a nearby plant, she dumped the glass of expensive champagne into the container. At the very same time, a shadow fell over the table. She looked up to see Raul Santos.
SHE WAS WEARING a sleeveless black dress with a rounded collar. It was as simple and plain as the dress she’d worn on Saturday night, but she’d added pearl earrings and a necklace. In the candlelight, they gleamed almost as richly as her hair. She looked startled to see him.
“Mr. Santos!”
“Please call me Raul,” he said. He tilted his head toward the glass in her hand. “Bad wine?”
She glanced down at the empty glass, then back up at him. Her look was steady. “Yes,” she lied. “I didn’t want to embarrass Estefan.”
“Of course.” He didn’t question her further. It was none of his business, anyway.
“Are you here for dinner?”
“Yes, thanks to your secretary. She recommended this place, you know.” After I read the note in your calendar…
“I didn’t realize that. I’ll tell her you approved.” Her gaze went to the woman standing beside him, and he knew immediately what she was thinking. Had he already made plans with her when he’d asked Emma out, or had he asked her after Emma had turned him down?
The truth was much simpler. Wendy Fortune was an old friend, and they’d worked together in Washington on several different cases. To everyone else in Bolivia, she was an assistant to the local consul, but her real job was to keep an eye on people who needed watching. She and Raul went back a long way, and part of the path had been personal, too.
He explained none of this, but simply gave Emma her name. The two women shook hands.
“Are you alone?” he asked. “Would you like to join us?”
“I’m with someone,” she answered. “But thank you.”
They talked a bit more, then the maître d’ took them to their own table, a secluded one on the other side of the luxurious dining area, just visible from Emma’s own table. Two minutes later, her dining companion returned, pulled out his chair and sat down. This time when William Kelman’s eyes met Raul’s, instant recognition filled their depths.
From across the room, Raul smiled.
CHAPTER THREE
“
DO YOU KNOW HIM?”
William Kelman’s voice was cold as he tilted his head to the other side of the room. Without even looking, Emma knew instantly whom he meant.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. “His name is Raul Santos.”
“Is he a client of yours?”
It wasn’t a question she could answer; the people whose money she handled valued their privacy.
“My client list is confidential, Mr. Kelman. Surely you appreciate that fact as much as anyone.”
He grunted his reply and sipped his brandy, his eyes boring a tunnel across the dimly lit dining room.
After a second, she sneaked a look, too. Raul was meeting William Kelman’s stare, and he wasn’t blinking. She could almost feel the tension crackling between the two men. Raul’s friend Wendy seemed as aware of the silent confrontation as Emma. She reached out and put her hand on his arm and said something quietly. He leaned over to listen, but he didn’t break eye contact.
William Kelman looked away first.
“Tell me more about this currency thing,” he commanded.
Relieved by his change of subject, Emma took a deep breath. “The local currency is called a boliviano and it’s equal to one hundred centavos.”
“What’s that in American money?”
“It changes, but on Friday, a boliviano was worth about fifty cents, give or take a bit.”
“And you make money for your clients by trading this currency, right?”
“That’s part of what I do.”
“How does that work, exactly?”
“The official exchange rate floats, but it’s reviewed periodically. The government has five to ten million dollars they handle every day. I sell bolivianos for dollars or vice versa, and if I do it right, I make money on the margin—the difference between the two amounts.”
“How do you know how many dollars they’ll offer?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “But that’s not really important. The rate is what counts.”
“How much do you make for your clients doing this?”
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