A second later, Emma hung up the phone, then ran to her closet, tearing off the robe she had on and grabbing the first dress her hand fell on. In five minutes, she was flying down the stairs and in another ten, after a wild taxi ride, she was opening the door to her office.
William Kelman rose when he saw her, his blue eyes flicking over her in a silent appraisal.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.” Trying to appear calmer than she was, Emma crossed the room and held out her hand, smiling.
“I had no idea you were coming in.”
“I didn’t, either,” he said. “But I’ve decided to open my account, and I want to do it now.”
“Great.” Emma tilted her head toward her inner office. “Come in and we’ll get started.”
She was dying to find out if Felicity had contacted Raul, but Emma didn’t stop to ask the secretary. She led Kelman into her office and sat down behind her desk.
Before Emma could even catch her breath, Kelman lifted a black leather briefcase and placed it directly in the center of her desk. Popping it open, then turning it around, he revealed the contents. It was packed with bundled currency—one-hundred-dollar bills—and the case was full.
Dumbfounded, Emma sat in her chair and said nothing. She was accustomed to large deposits, but not in cash, and immediately she wondered if the money was legitimate. Anyone who transported more than ten thousand dollars in or out of the U.S. had to file a report with the customs service. A 4790—a Currency Monetary Instrument Report. Unless Kelman had filed one, which somehow she doubted, he’d smuggled the money in.
Without saying a word, he reached down to the side of his chair and picked up a second case Emma hadn’t noticed before. This one held a jumble of paper. Each piece had a different design on it. Ornate with spidery lines and official-looking print, she recognized them immediately. They were stock certificates.
The number of shares, printed on the front of each certificate, ranged from one hundred to one thousand, and she knew the companies that had issued them. Anyone would. They were blue chip all the way. With fingers she had to consciously steady, she picked one up, flipping it over to read the back. It had been endorsed and was perfectly negotiable. She let it flutter back into the case.
Millions. Many millions.
The bonus she’d make from this deposit would be enough to cover an attorney and start proceedings against Todd. Her children’s voices rang in her head, the clear sweet sound so real she wanted to weep.
Emma raised her gaze to Kelman’s face and prayed she looked more composed than she felt. “Is this your deposit?”
“Yes, it is.” He met her look with an open expression. “And before you even ask, I can assure you this money is clean, Ms. Toussaint. There’s not a thing wrong with it. I’ve traveled back and forth to this country for many years, and I’ve brought some cash with me each time I’ve entered. I declared this every time I left the States, and you can check on that, if you like. The CMIRs are on record.”
Emma nodded slowly as he spoke. “Then I’m sure there’s no problem. Deposits of foreign currency are perfectly legitimate in Bolivia. We’ll apply it directly to the account, and it will be immediately accessible. My secretary will handle it and give you a receipt for the total.”
With a pounding heart, she reached for her phone to ring Felicity, but Kelman’s hand snaked out and stopped her. Her eyes shot to his. His touch was as cold as his stare.
“We have something to discuss first.”
He released her and her heart took an extra beat as she moved her hand away from the phone. It was hard to resist the urge to rub the spot on her wrist where his touch still lingered.
“I’m not sure exactly what I’ll be doing with these funds,” he said slowly. “I may not want to trade them right away.”
“That’s fine.” She spoke confidently, but inside a million questions assaulted her. William Kelman unsure of what he wanted to do? Men like him were never unsure, especially when it came to money. She didn’t know where the conversation was going, but calmly knitting her fingers together on the top of her desk, she said, “We can put it in an holding account where it can be available to trade—”
“I don’t want to deposit all of it that way.” His blue eyes glowed in the late-morning sun streaming through her windows. “At least not at first.”
His implication wasn’t entirely clear, but she moved to reassure him, assuming the worst. “Mr. Kelman, our accounts are very secure. Impenetrable, in fact. No one can—”
“Security’s not my concern.” He shook his head. “I have something else in mind.”
She sensed the trap a second too late and spoke without thinking. “And that would be?”
“It’s my understanding the government committee meets very soon—the committee that reviews the rate for the boliviano against the dollar. On the day the rate is announced, I want to be holding the appropriate currency—dollars or bolivianos.” He stopped, his words suspended between them.
Emma looked across the desk at him, holding her breath, and remembered their earlier conversation, the one at Candelabra where she’d explained currency trading. If the Bolivian government devalued its currency, everything was suddenly worth less. Except dollars. You would want to own them and plenty of them. But if the government raised the value of the boliviano, the reverse would happen; the boliviano would be more valuable than the dollar. Either way, if you knew the direction in advance, you could make money. A lot of it.
But you had to know which way to trade.
Was he proposing she tell him in advance? His voice held no clue, no hint, of his intentions. It was calm and level, even friendly. It matched his expression, and she wondered if she was being paranoid.
“I don’t believe I understand,” she answered slowly. “The rate isn’t published in advance. No one knows what it will be.”
“Yes, that’s correct, but not technically accurate, now is it?” He smiled.
Her heart thumped wildly as she mentally completed what she thought he was saying: The bank knows the rate in advance. And you work for the bank.
“There’s a lot of profit there, waiting to be realized.” He was speaking in such a convivial manner now that the tightness inside her eased. Surely she was imagining things. Then he spoke again.
“And you know how it works…If I make money, you make money…”
Their eyes met again, and without warning, the week after her divorce flashed into Emma’s mind. She had stood in the middle of her rented apartment, a drink in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other. At that very moment, she’d wanted nothing as much as she’d wanted to end the pain. It wouldn’t have been the right thing to do—she knew that now—but the feeling bombarding her at this very minute held the same kind of temptation.
All her problems could be solved in an instant. She’d have enough money to buy and sell Todd Toussaint to hell and back. Her kids could be hers once more. She could almost feel her arms around their bodies.
“What do you say?” Kelman patted the briefcases, sensing her hesitation. “Can we work a deal that would benefit us both?”
She wasn’t sure of her answer until she opened her mouth and spoke. “I don’t believe I can help you with something like that.”
He didn’t look surprised. He merely regarded her with his hooded blue gaze. After several seconds, he spoke. “I intend on doing a lot of trading with this money. I would think your bank—and your boss—might appreciate that fact. Perhaps you haven’t given this opportunity as much thought as it deserves.”
Did he emphasize the word opportunity, or was she the one giving it more significance? She couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“I’m sure you are,” he answered. She watched his expression turn thoughtful. “I’ll tell you what, though. Why don’t you put the cases in the vault for me? Keep them for a while and think about my offer.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a busines
s card and dropped it on her desk. “Here’s all the information from me that you need. You think about it a bit…then call me.”
There was nothing else she could do but give him a receipt and watch him walk out the door. Stunned and confused, Emma dropped into her office chair, her thoughts swirling in her head with the force of a tornado. Should she talk to Chris? If she was wrong and she accused Kelman of something he wasn’t doing, she could kiss his account—and probably her job—goodbye.
Before she could decide, Felicity stuck her head in the open office door and delivered her message in a breathless voice. “Mr. Santos will meet you tonight at nine. At Michelangelo’s.”
The secretary closed the door as Emma nodded blankly, her eyes going automatically to the two briefcases. She stared at them for a moment, then she reached for the middle drawer of her desk. Pulling it open, she gazed down at the photograph she kept hidden there.
Jake and Sarah looked back.
RAUL DIDN’T BOTHER to ask the young secretary what the problem was. When she reached him on his cell phone as he sat outside the bank, he simply agreed to see Emma later that evening. Then, putting the SUV into gear, he headed downtown to the American Consulate. Whatever was wrong, Wendy could fix it.
She met him in the parking lot and climbed into the Range Rover, pulling at the skirt of her business suit. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you? And where’s your truck? Why are you driving this?”
“It’s a long story and I don’t have time to explain. But I need your help.”
She answered dryly. “That’s what I’m here for.”
He ignored her tone. “I think there’s a problem with the money. Emma had her secretary call me and set up an appointment. I have a feeling the account in El Paso is screwed up. I could call and fix it, but you can do it faster.”
“There’s no problem with that money.” Her words were matter-of-fact and assured. “It’s a slush fund and illegal as hell. There’s always cash in it, more than anyone can keep track of. Our agents draw from it night and day, whenever they need it.” She paused for a second. “I could get fired just for telling you about it, much less allowing you to actually use the money. Not to mention everything else I’ve done…”
“Well, you have told me, and it’s too late to stop things now. I want you to call and find out what’s wrong, so I’ll know before I see Emma tonight.”
“I’m not getting any more involved in this, Raul. I was crazy to think it’d work.”
“You weren’t crazy. You were trying to help me. Now I need more help. If it makes you feel better, this’ll be the last thing I’ll ask you to do.”
Without another word, he passed the mobile phone to her. She held it for a moment, then with a sigh, punched in a series of numbers. Expecting her to speak, he was surprised when she tapped in a few more numbers, listened, then handed the phone back to him.
“The account is fine,” she said tightly. “An agent down on the border drained it unexpectedly, so your check didn’t clear. The replacement money was slow getting there, but it’ll be available for transfer later tonight. Twice what you need. Maybe three times. Your secret is safe. But I can’t guarantee for how long.”
“It won’t take forever. Kelman knows who I am and he’s already made his first move. He’ll start to put his plan into action soon.”
She shook her head. “You’re making a big mistake, Raul. The guy screwed you, yeah, but this…this is gonna get you hurt.”
“He didn’t just screw me.” The words were cold and clipped. “He stole five years of my life, and then he took away my livelihood.”
“You’re smart. Find something else you can—”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It could be.”
“You don’t understand,” he said tightly. “It wasn’t just the years and it wasn’t just being disbarred.”
“I do understand. I knew you before you went in, Raul. And I see you now.” She leaned across the seat, closer to him. “You’re a changed man. You don’t care what happens as long as you get him, and that’s not the Raul I used to know.”
He stared out the windshield. On the street by the consulate parking lot was a tiny kiosk selling cold drinks and cigarettes. He watched the proprietor go to the side of the minuscule metal building, open a three-foot-high door and climb inside. He appeared a second later inside the opening, ready for business, as he sat down on a stool and looked patiently down the street.
Turning to Wendy, Raul spoke. “You’re right. And that’s why I can’t let this guy keep doing what he does, Wendy. He uses people, then he throws them away. One way or the other, I’m going to destroy him. If I do get hurt in the process, that’s not good, but that won’t stop me.”
“So you’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done?” She stared at him and shook her head.
“Tell me how that’s different from what he does.”
“I can’t,” he answered. “But he set the play in motion. All I’m going to do is finish it.”
EMMA GAVE HERSELF plenty of time to get to Michelangelo’s, but two streets away from her house and four miles from the Italian bar, an impromptu parade broke out, and her taxi got caught in the middle of it. With a mariachi band playing in front of them and a decorated pickup truck behind them, she and the hapless cabdriver could only inch forward with the rest of the revelers.
She was accustomed to these spontaneous displays of exuberance. Bolivians loved parades and they occurred frequently, some more thought out than others. A wedding, a birthday, any kind of holiday, and the streets filled with vehicles sporting crepe-paper flowers and hand-lettered signs. Music—as loud as possible—was de rigueur for each of these processions, and costumes were always welcomed, too. The brighter and more colorful, the better. As the marchers spilled over the sidewalks and swept up people in the cafés, everyone was encouraged to join. Emma looked at the window with dismay, but there was no way out. They were stuck.
She leaned against the cab’s dusty upholstery and tried not to panic. She’d been trying all day not to panic, and so far, she was failing.
Every time she thought of William Kelman’s leather briefcases sitting in the now-darkened vault of the bank, she wanted to throw up. Had she read him correctly or not?
She wished once more she could ask Christopher, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew she couldn’t. Already upset about Raul’s money, he’d think she couldn’t do her job. A fact she herself was starting to wonder about. She’d checked again just before leaving the office, and the funds still weren’t there. She was on her own with this one. That was nothing new, but another roil of nausea hit her as she considered the impact. Just once, she thought, just once…couldn’t it be easy?
The taxi lurched ten more feet, and by the time they reached the bar, an hour late, she was almost beside herself.
Pushing her way in, she was sure Raul must have left. She edged into the crowd, anyway, searching the low-lit room anxiously. Like all the bars in Santa Cruz at 10 p.m., this one was packed, a smog of smoke hanging over the heads of the drinkers, a deafening flood of noise pouring from several speakers hanging from the ceiling. Instead of the beautiful local music, played on flutes and drums, it was American rock. Her anxiety ratcheted up another notch.
She had just made her way to the center of the bar when she felt someone grab her elbow. Swinging around in surprise, she found Raul. He wore black slacks and a dark shirt, his skin a burnished copper as he leaned close and spoke in her ear. “Let’s get out of here. We can’t possibly talk with all this going on.”
His words were warm against her skin, and something equally heated curled in her stomach. Telling herself she was crazy, she nodded, and he took her hand as they fought their way through the crowd. Leading them to the front door, he pushed it open and they tumbled outside, the humid night air immediately surrounding them. He didn’t release her fingers as she began to apologize.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, but the t
axi got caught in a parade. I didn’t think we’d ever get here.”
The street was shadowy and quiet, and after the noise of the club, the silence felt as thick as the darkness. She could see his eyes, though. They were wary. Through the point of contact at their hands, she felt a kind of humming energy, an almost electric tingle.
“It’s not important.” Under his voice’s usual smoothness, she heard the same tension she saw in his gaze. Tilting his head, he indicated the street.
“Let’s walk. You can tell me what’s going on.”
She hesitated. He was making her nervous, more nervous than she was already, and suddenly she wasn’t sure that going anywhere with him was such a good idea. She turned and studied his profile, then in a flash of intuition, she realized what was going on. He already knew what she was about to say.
He knew there was no money in the account.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMA SEEMED perfectly at ease, her voice steady, her words well chosen as she began to explain the problem. If he hadn’t been touching her, Raul would never have known how nervous she was. Through the fabric of her jacket, though, he could feel a distinct tautness, a dead giveaway to her true level of discomposure. Anxious and agitated, she was wound up as tightly as the watch on his wrist.
As tightly as he was.
With his visit to her office today, Kelman must have somehow brought the net closer; Raul read the signs when he looked at Emma. Dark circles of worry underneath her eyes. The frown etched into her forehead. The tension in every line of her face.
“I know it’s a simple mix-up with the account, and I hate to even bring it to your attention.” Speaking calmly, almost apologetically, she continued, “We have to figure out what’s going on, though. I’m sure we can rectify the problem with a phone call.” Obviously feeling his gaze, she said, “Do you have any idea what the problem might be?”
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