by Cindy Gerard
Sophie, however, looked like the most brilliant jewel in the middle of a marquee full of dazzling lights.
“Master artisan Carlos Canas painted the cupola above us in 1977 with the magnificent fresco El Mestazaja cultural. It reminds one of the great hall of Palais Garnier, decorated with Chagall, does it not?” Gutierrez continued.
Again, while Wyatt did have a certain appreciation for fine art, he’d be hard pressed to tell a Chagall from a Cézanne. And at the moment, he had absolutely no appreciation for the starched collar of his white dress shirt and neatly tied tie. Both felt like they were about to choke him, but he nodded and smiled along with the rest of the potential donors, who seemed to hang on Gutierrez’s every word, Sophie among them.
She looked stunning. Knockout, gorgeous, stunning. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he’d said as much when she joined him in the living room before they left for the big doings.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she’d said with a smile as she walked over to him and set her pearl-encrusted clutch on the kitchen island. “Looks like you could use a little help with this tie, though.”
“Thank God. Humanitarian aid. I won’t turn it down. I’m all thumbs,” he added with a helpless shrug, then fought a valiant fight not to look down the deep V of her gown while she took her time fussing with his tie.
Jesus God. The dress was floor-length and blue. A saturated, deep-water-blue silk that shimmered in the light and shifted to shades of jade and aquamarine in the shadows. It was also sleeveless and body-hugging and showed off slim hips, a narrow waist, and an amazing pair of breasts that he’d defy any straight male to ignore or fail to appreciate.
She’d done some female magic to her hair and piled it up on top of her head in what he suspected was a very intricate process. The shiny mass of it looked elegant and sophisticated with wispy little tendrils drifting around her face and trailing down her long, sleek neck. All he could think about was pulling out the pins and raking his fingers through all that sable silk until it tumbled to her shoulders, all bed-mussed and inviting.
“… and so I urge you, distinguished ladies and gentlemen, open your hearts and your checkbooks, and help us continue our vigorous restoration of this magnificent theater for the benefit of all the people of El Salvador.”
Yeah, Wyatt thought as Gutierrez wound down and polite applause broke out, Sophie looked stunning. As he stood beside her in the midst of a throng of custom-tailored tuxedos, designer gowns, and glittering jewels, he realized that while he felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop, she was utterly at home.
Seeing her so comfortable in this urbane setting forced him to see her for the high-powered member of the community that she was. She had status, prestige. Her accomplished elegance and natural poise also made him realize she might just be in her niche here with these people, many of whom he’d pegged for pompous blowhards whose desire to be seen in the right social circles far outweighed their philanthropic impulses.
He realized something else, too, tonight. The woman was out of his league. So far out of his league that even with Hugh out of the picture and his own guilt aside, Wyatt didn’t have a chance in hell with her.
Someone else apparently thought he did, though. A darkly attractive man approached her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her once on each cheek. He kissed her as if he’d done it many times before and was confident that he’d do it many times in the future.
“Mi amor.” The man’s smile was full of intimacy as he met her eyes, folded both of her hands in his, and brought them to his lips. “Your beauty eclipses all of the diamonds in the room.”
Wyatt reined in a sharp twist of jealousy. Only years of practice in covert ops kept him from showing the slightest reaction while he contemplated the pain he could inflict by driving his knee full force into the Latin Casanova’s cojones.
Sophie smiled for the bastard. “Diego, it’s lovely to see you, as always.”
“Always? If only that were so. Her definition of always,” Diego said with a man-to-man glance at Wyatt, “is to always be busy when I call. To always have an excuse not to let me take her to dinner.”
“You exaggerated about the diamonds, too,” Sophie admonished him with a playful smile. “We had dinner just last week. And the week before that.”
Dinner. Last week. And the week before.
Wyatt fought a jealousy he had no right to feel at the reminder that she had a life that didn’t involve him.
“I never exaggerate when it comes to you, cara,” Diego said, pouring it on.
“And I’m not usually this rude,” Sophie segued with an apologetic smile for Wyatt. “Diego Montoya, this is Wyatt Savage. Wyatt’s a very dear friend visiting from the States.”
Wyatt couldn’t help but wonder if Montoya’s reaction to Sophie’s choice of the word friend was as strong as his own. Friend could imply many things. Unfortunately, Wyatt knew the implication between him and Sophie. Friends. Buddies. What he didn’t know was what kind of a “friend” she was to Montoya.
“Montoya.” Wyatt extended his hand and forced himself to make nice. “I believe Sophie served Montoya coffee this afternoon. Any connection?”
Montoya returned Wyatt’s handshake with a little too much enthusiasm.
Ah, Wyatt thought. So he wants to play.
The man was primed for a show of strength, which told Wyatt that he felt the right to demonstrate a claim on Sophie. He shouldn’t, but Wyatt returned the favor with a squeeze just tight enough and just long enough to put the hurt on him.
Montoya’s magazine-perfect smile transitioned to a pained grimace before Wyatt released his hand.
“I trust you enjoyed it,” Montoya said through gritted teeth. He was talking about the coffee.
“I did. Very much.” Wyatt was talking about the fact that he’d won their little power play.
“Diego is CEO of Montoya Coffee,” Sophie broke in, apparently picking up on the undercurrents of the pissing match going on between them.
“Right.” Wyatt manufactured a congenial smile. “El Salvador has a healthy and lucrative coffee-export industry.”
“We do. And Montoya Coffee claims more than its fair share of the market,” Montoya stated as he sized up Wyatt’s rented tux in a subtle but pointed appraisal that implied he found both it and Wyatt lacking.
He was an elitist bastard, Wyatt decided then and there. It was also clear by the familiar way he looped an arm around Sophie’s waist and by the possessive look in his eye that Montoya felt he had certain rights where she was concerned.
Hell, for all Wyatt knew, he did. Sophie had been divorced for two years. She was a beautiful, desirable woman. She had a life here. It made sense that she’d want to live it.
Apparently, she wasn’t opposed to living it without him. That had been stinging ever since she’d told him about the divorce. If she’d wanted to contact him, she’d had plenty of time and opportunity. And yet she hadn’t gone looking for him until she’d run into a situation that required his special skills.
Maybe Montoya was the reason. Maybe Montoya satisfied her … other needs. And maybe Wyatt would feel better if he could wipe that smug-ass smile off the coffee baron’s face.
“How are you holding up, mi amor?” Montoya drew Sophie close to his side. “Have you received any word? Any progress finding the child?”
“I’m fine,” she said, “but sadly, there’s been no word on Lola.”
“I am so sorry, querida. I know how painful this is for you.” Montoya glanced from Sophie to Wyatt. “Please excuse us for a moment.” Then he drew Sophie aside and out of earshot.
Sonofabitch was grandstanding. Didn’t want to miss an opportunity to play the concerned suitor. Wyatt couldn’t do anything but stand back and scowl as Diego had an intimate little moment with Sophie.
Montoya should have been an actor, Wyatt thought grimly. Not just because of his dark good looks and camera-ready smile but because he had the sincere, earnest look down pat as
he brushed his fingertips along Sophie’s cheek and gazed deeply into her eyes while he spoke to her.
Yeah, I’d really feel better if I could bring this bastard to his knees with a howl of pain.
Her life, her choice, he told himself again, and since plowing his fist into Montoya’s pretty face wasn’t an option, he stood by quietly and tolerated the man’s intrusion. Reluctantly, he thought about everything Montoya could give Sophie that he couldn’t. Social standing, money, a life she was suited for and deserved.
Wyatt could never give her those things. He could never be that man. So maybe coming here tonight and meeting Montoya was a good thing. As he stood there, on the outside looking in on a picture of a life he could never offer, he told himself that he was lucky to have gotten this glimpse into Sophie’s world. Without it, he might have started thinking that he had a chance with her now and done something stupid. Like confess that he still loved her, that he’d always loved her.
“It’s unfortunate that you picked such a difficult time in Sophie’s life to visit San Salvador,” Montoya said as he walked Sophie back to Wyatt’s side, effectively reminding Wyatt of his outsider position.
“Wyatt’s here because I asked him to come,” Sophie explained, which told Wyatt that none of their private conversation had been about him. “He’s helping me search for Lola.”
That’s right, asshole, Wyatt thought when a knowing look crawled across Montoya’s face. I’m the lowly hired muscle ready to take the heat so nancy boys like you don’t have to worry about getting their hair messed up.
“Señora.”
A uniformed waiter appeared at Sophie’s side, surprising her. “Sí?”
He gave an apologetic bow of his head and extended a silver tray holding a sealed envelope bearing Sophie’s name. “I am sorry to intrude, but my manager directed me to deliver this to you.”
Puzzled, Sophie reached for the envelope. “Gracias.”
“Wait.” Wyatt stopped the waiter when he started to walk away. “Who sent this?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I do not know. Apparently, it was left on the reception table. As I told you, the manager asked that I deliver it to Señora Weber. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests I must attend to.”
Wyatt decided the waiter was either in the dark, as he stated, or a damn fine actor. Either way, he couldn’t question him further without making a scene, so he let him go as Sophie unfolded the note and scanned it. She shot Wyatt a quick glance and slipped it back into the envelope.
“From an admirer?” Montoya suggested with a teasing tone. “Tell me, cara, do I have competition?”
Wyatt had seen the swift flash of alarm in Sophie’s eyes. She recovered quickly with a smile that answered Montoya’s playful look as she tucked the envelope into her small purse.
“As if anyone could compete with you. Someone found a bracelet and recognized it as mine,” she said.
Wyatt knew she was lying through her perfect white teeth. She hadn’t been wearing a bracelet when they’d left the house. He would have noticed, because he had noticed every minute detail of her appearance.
He found it interesting that she felt the necessity of hiding the contents of the note from Montoya.
“The clasp must have broken,” she continued smoothly. “I can’t believe I didn’t miss it. Anyway, they’re holding it for me at the reception desk. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for a moment, Diego.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Montoya said.
“Thank you, but there’s no need. I know you have many hands to shake tonight. Wyatt will go with me.”
Just try and stop me, Wyatt thought, directing a hard look Montoya’s way.
Montoya got the message and conceded with a forced smile. “Save a dance for me, querida. I will find you later.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “Count on it.”
“What?” Wyatt asked when they were out of earshot.
She glanced around, then pulled him into an empty alcove. “Looks like you were right about coming tonight.”
Her eyes were wide with excitement as she dug the note out of her purse and handed it to him.
South side of the rear terrace. 10:45. Tell no one. Come alone. Make certain you’re not followed.
“This has to be about Lola,” she said, clutching his arm.
Wyatt figured it was, or there wouldn’t be a need for all the cloak-and-dagger crap. It also explained why she hadn’t wanted Montoya to know. The instructions were explicit that she tell no one.
He checked his watch. It was ten sixteen. “Come on, let’s walk toward reception in case Montoya’s tracking you. Tell me about the layout of the terrace.”
“Let me think. It’s … it’s a big open area. No roof. Surrounded by palms and, I don’t know, flowering shrubs and vines, if I remember right. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, let alone wandered around the grounds. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that I don’t like the ‘Come alone’ part of this invitation.”
She stopped walking. “What choice do we have? I can’t take a chance that whoever sent this will bolt if you come with me.”
“And I can’t take a chance that it’s a setup and you end up with a hood over your head, carried off, and thrown into the back of a van.”
“So what do we do?”
“Hedge our bets,” he said, and told her how it was going to go down.
11
It was ten forty-two by the time Sophie felt she could slip outside to the terrace without being noticed. She waited several beats to make sure no one had followed her, then set off across the empty expanse of marble tile. Her heels made clipped clicking sounds as she walked across the polished stone toward the far end of the walled terrace.
The night was warm and dark. A heavy cloud cover hung over the city. Bach’s Suite No. 2 in B minor, performed by a string quartet, wafted through the open doors of the theater and blended incongruously with the distant roar and grind of traffic in a city that seemed to run on wheels twenty-four/seven.
She made a conscious effort not to glance toward the tall, lush foliage that surrounded the perimeter of the terrace and provided a privacy fence of sorts. Wyatt was out there somewhere in the dark. He’d insisted that she could not go out there alone, so he’d quickly left her and gotten into place outside.
At least, she hoped he was close by, because right about now, as hopeful as she was that this secret meeting was about Lola, she was scared half out of her mind by all the possibilities she could be facing out here in the dark. She knew basic self-defense. Hugh had insisted she take classes. She knew how to fire several types of pistols and rifles, also at Hugh’s insistence. She’d agreed because she wasn’t stupid, and she’d never been one to bury her head in the sand. El Salvador was not a safe place under the best of circumstances. She needed to know how to defend herself.
But she carried no weapon tonight. Security for this function was tight. She’d never have made it inside if she’d been armed. With any luck, that meant no one else would be carrying a concealed weapon, either. That expectation gave her only a marginal sense of safety. Alone in the dark, away from the crowd gathered inside the theater, was not a safe place to be, no matter what.
And if, for some reason, Wyatt hadn’t had time to get out ahead of her, she was totally on her own.
No one could see her. No one could hear her scream. She swallowed back the fear as she neared the designated meeting place.
She saw no one. Heard nothing.
So she waited and listened.
Night sounds.
Crickets.
Laughter and music drifted softly from inside the theater.
Traffic sounds were like white noise in the distance.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She gasped and whirled around, clutching a fist to her racing heart.
“My apologies. It was not my intention to frighten you.”
It took a moment for her to catch he
r lost breath. Another to find her voice and the wherewithal not to point out exactly what he could do with his intentions.
Her heart was still pounding as she squinted into the dark. He was a small man, shorter than she was by a few inches. It was difficult to see his face in the shadows, but she could make out thick, dark eyebrows, a high forehead, a nose that appeared to have been broken.
“Señor Vega?” She couldn’t hide her shock when she finally recognized the assistant to the director of San Salvador’s Primary Education Board. She’d known Jorge Vega for years, had appreciated his levelheadedness whenever he had participated in board meetings. “You sent the note?”
“We must talk quickly,” Vega said. “I know you are looking at the Guerrilleros Nacionales for the child’s abduction.”
Lola. This was about Lola!
“We are not responsible,” he stated.
“We?” She couldn’t hide her shock. “You’re GN?”
“Not all of us are as radical as the extremist members of the organization, you must believe that. And we are trying desperately to get a handle on their activities and curtail the violence.”
“Yet you say the GN is not involved in Lola Ramirez’s abduction?” She could have told him that the GN wasn’t at the top of her suspect list, but she wanted to hear what he had to say.
“I do not want to believe so, no,” he insisted. “Because of that belief, I am risking a great deal tonight. I have come by some information.’
“Come by how?”
“It does not matter how I received it. What matters is that it strongly suggests members of MS-13 are involved.”
If it was true, then he wasn’t exaggerating about the risk. No one crossed MS-13 and lived to tell about it.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “There is a viable report that the Ramirez child is being held in an MS-13 stronghold.”
She gripped Vega’s arm, her heart jumping with the first flutter of hope since Lola had been taken. “Lola’s alive?”