Obsession

“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 sca

“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 di

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 i

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.