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She took a step toward Peter, her mouth opening to speak. He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch, gave a slight shake of his head, and hoped she could still read him as easily as he could still read her.
“Sorry,” she said, regaining her voice, though it was obvious how much of a struggle it was for her.
“Is everything all right with Marcos?” Speculation ran high in Baltasar’s tone.
Peter turned toward the window, breaking their connection before Baltasar’s speculation turned to suspicion.
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Emily said, seeming to pull it together. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Marcos is coming down with a cough that we’ll need to keep a close watch on. It seems he’s develoved pneumonia. But he’s been given antibiotics. His spirits are high and he’s resting comfortably.”
Peter sat back in his chair and acted uninterested while watching them out of the corner of his eye. He knew Baltasar’s son was dying of AIDS, which explained why Emily, a pediatric hematologist, would be there, but it certainly didn’t explain how she got there.
“He’s a wonderful little boy,” Emily added.
“Thank you,” Baltasar said softly. “I think so, too.”
She fell silent, her large hazel eyes once again seeking out Peter’s, once again causing a painful lurch in his chest. He tried not to look at her, tried to look back out the window, or at the desk, anywhere, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t pull him away. How he missed her, the sharp pain of it sliced through him.
“Was there something you needed, Dr. Armstrong?”
The abrupt edge to Baltasar’s tone sent a twinge of anxiety rushing through him. They’d have to be careful around this man. From everything Peter had heard and seen, he could play Mr. Charm, but underneath he was a diabolical and ruthless killer.
“Yes,” Emily said, and turned slightly, giving Baltasar her full attention.
That’s it, babe. Don’t let him see you sweat.
“The phones in our wing aren’t working and we need to call the clinic and let them know we’ve arrived safely. It’s been several hours since we were due and we don’t want them to worry.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dr. Armstrong, but I’ve already contacted the clinic and let them know you’ve been delayed.”
As she hesitated, the pieces clicked into place. Baltasar needed a doctor for his son and he took one, regardless of what she wanted or needed, or who might need her. Come on, baby. Play it cool. This isn’t Mr. Altruistic; this is a monster in disguise.
“And then there’s the matter of Dr. Fletcher’s wife and children. They were expecting to hear from him. They must be worried sick.”
Dr. Fletcher. Peter vaguely recalled that name from Vance Memorial’s Christmas parties.
Baltasar smiled warmly. “Of course they are. We must alleviate their worry. Tell Dr. Fletcher to post a letter and I’ll see it’s mailed immediately. I’m sorry, but our phone service is sporadic at best, and it isn’t working right now. I’ll make sure you and Dr. Fletcher know the minute it comes back on.”
Emily’s shoulders fell with her relief. “Thank you, Mr. Escalante. We really appreciate it.”
“Please, my name is Baltasar. And thank you. There’s no way I could ever express the appreciation I feel toward you and the good Dr. Fletcher. This is the least I can do.” Baltasar turned toward the door and called for Esteban.
The guard stuck his head in the room. “Sí?”
“Please see Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital wing.”
“Yes, sir.” He stepped into the room and took Emily’s arm.
Frustrated by his inability to intercede, Peter opened his mouth to protest, then forced himself to close it again as the guard led her out of the room. A fist of dread grabbed hold of Peter’s solar plexus and gave a firm squeeze. She was a giant monkey wrench that could totally screw up his operation. But didn’t she look good? Better than he remembered. And if he closed his eyes, he was sure he could recall what she smelled like, and how her skin would feel as soft as silk beneath his touch.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Baltasar said, shaking his head and sitting back down behind his desk. “My son’s new doctor. I don’t think she heard much, but I do think she’s going to give me trouble.”
Peter raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, hoping the man would continue, but not wanting to appear too interested.
Baltasar leaned back in his chair and stared at him. “I manage to stay one step ahead of the game by not allowing mistakes or mishaps of any kind. There’s too much at stake here for us to take unnecessary chances or risks.”
Was he talking about Emily or him? Either way wasn’t good. With a modicum of indifference in his tone, Peter asked, “Is the doctor a risk?”
“She has too much backbone for a woman. She’s trouble. I can feel it right here.” With a tight fist, he punched his gut.
The cold ferocity in his gaze sent a sliver of fear arcing through Peter’s mind. He wished he could jump out of his chair, find Emily and get her out of Venezuela. But he couldn’t jeopardize his mission—too much was at stake. Peter forced himself to concentrate on the man, and on his job.
“My associates and I have a network of hotels in Chicago on the river,” Baltasar said, leaning back in his chair and replacing the snubbed out cigar in his mouth. “I will have a shipment of say two hundred kilos divided up and delivered to four hotels at noon tomorrow.” He took out a pad of paper and wrote down the names and addresses of the hotels. “Have your people in place to pick up the shipments. If there’s a problem, or a leak of any kind, I will know it came from your end. Make sure that doesn’t happen, or our relationship will come to an abrupt end and I can assure you it won’t be pretty.”
Peter sucked up a breath and squared his shoulders. “No problem, Mr. Escalante. I don’t do pretty. My people know what’s at stake.”
And so did he. Only now there was a lot more at stake than nailing a drug lord. Now he had to rescue his ex-wife and if he knew Emily, she wouldn’t make it easy.
After leaving Baltasar’s office, Emily tried to walk down the hall as if she didn’t have a thing on her mind other than Marcos, but she was having trouble feeling her legs. Peter was alive and well right there in Venezuela. And looking like a vision out of an action movie.
She wasn’t sure how she’d recognized him with that long, shaggy, dark hair and scruffy morning—no, make that afternoon shadow. Who was she kidding? She would have known those ice-blue eyes anywhere. With one look, they pierced her soul and set her heart on fire.
Peter. His name whispered across her mind. She smiled, her heart filling with hope and anticipation even though Esteban was furiously hissing who-knew-what in Spanish behind her. Suddenly he grabbed her arm. She bit her lip as his long bony fingers dug into her flesh, then cried out as he slammed her against the wall.
“Don’t ever do that to me again, chiquita, or you will be one sorry little lady doctor.” He was too close to her, his raspy, garlic breath fanning her cheek. “Such soft, tender skin, white and fine as porcelain,” he breathed. “The kind of skin that bruises easily.” He ran a calloused finger down her cheek. “Even in places that can’t be seen, eh?”
Nausea turned her stomach, yet she stared him down, wide-eyed and boldly refusing to let him see her fear. He was nothing more than a bully, a low-man-on-the-totem-pole bully who wanted to make her feel afraid. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Without flinching she held his gaze and lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, Esteban, I need to get back to Marcos. Unless you want me to inform Mr. Escalante how you’ve detained me when I meet him for dinner tonight.”
Esteban’s eyes narrowed, quickening the blood coursing through her body. “Don’t push me, chiquita.”
“What’s going on here?” Snake asked as he rounded the corner.
Emily had never been more relieved to see a thug in her life. “I’m afraid I’ve upset Esteban,” she said, and casually stepped out from the wall and beyond his touch. The look crossing Snake’s face had her clamping down on her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling. Lord, if he wasn’t the scariest man she’d ever met.
“Dr. Armstrong interrupted Mr. Baltasar,” Esteban explained. “She needs to understand she will be punished if she does it again.”
“I’ll walk Dr. Armstrong back to her wing,” Snake said, looking at his watch. “I’m sure she won’t need you again until morning.”
Esteban glared at her, muttered a few more words in Spanish, then disappeared down the hall.
Emily turned to Snake. “Thank you. I’m afraid that man has control issues.”
“Is something wrong with Marcos?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in speculation.
“I wanted to use the phone,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself and not liking it.
He looked at her like she had the brains of a snail. “Make sure you don’t pop in on Mr. Escalante unannounced again. It wouldn’t be healthy,” Snake said evenly. Something in his tone, in his expression, scared her more than the quivering, unhinged Esteban.
“Do you think it’s possible to get someone else to ‘serve’ us other than Esteban?”
“No,” he said, then gestured her forward.
“Great,” she muttered, and let him lead her back down the hall to the hospital wing. Where was she and who exactly was Mr. Baltasar Escalante? And what did he have to do with Peter?
They had been talking quite seriously when she’d walked in, something about kilos. Emily stiffened as the word ran through her mind. She could no longer ignore the trepidation skittering down her spine. There was only one thing she knew of that came in kilos. Drugs.
She stole a glance behind her at Snake. Why hadn’t she seen it before? They weren’t the guests of an eccentric millionaire worried about his son; they were the prisoners of a drug lord. A cold sweat washed over her. What did that say about Peter?
When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.
She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?
She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.
She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.
She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.
“Emily?”
She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.
“Is everything all right?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”
“What?”
“I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”
“I agree, but how?”
“I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.
Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”
“I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.
Chapter Three
At that moment, a bout of coughing had Emily rushing into Marcos’s room, driving home her point more. If God was there for people, if He listened to their prayers, her prayers, how could He let such suffering happen to those the least deserving—the young and innocent? She checked the boy’s chart and saw that he’d already been given his medicine. There wasn’t much she could do for him. She took his temperature then had him sit up as she handed him a glass of water.
“Thank you, Dr. Señorita,” the boy said.
“You’re welcome.” She watched him finish the water then took the glass from him.
His coughing abated and he gave her a big toothy grin. “I have a loose tooth.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh. See?” He stuck his finger in his mouth and wiggled an incisor.
“Look at that,” she said with a big smile. “You have a loose tooth.”
He nodded in happy agreement. “Do you have children?” he asked with eagerness lighting his big brown eyes.
His question poked a wound that would never heal. “No, pequeño. No children. If I did, then I wouldn’t have time for all my children patients.”
“Then it is good, no?”
She smiled at him. “It is good. Now close your eyes and try to get some rest.”
He nodded. “I am extra tired today,” he said as his eyes drifted closed.
The poor boy was getting worse by the hour. Emily sat by his bedside and held his hand, thinking how unfair it was that he should have to spend his day in bed. Children should be running and playing and driving their parents crazy with their unrelenting energy.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was being absurd. Seeing Peter had brought back all the painful feelings of fear and loss and wanting a child more than she wanted her next breath. She sighed. It wasn’t meant to be. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t live with a man who put danger and his work before her. Never again. She had loved him too much to watch him die. And he hadn’t loved her enough to try something different, something new.
She pulled the sheet up to Marcos’s chest. It didn’t matter now. She was over Peter and had been for a long time. The wallop her heart had taken when she saw him earlier was only her feeling of relief that he was still alive, nothing more. She should be thankful and put him out of her mind.
She brushed the hair back from Marcos’s forehead. The poor boy was so thin and pale. Each breath was a struggle for him to take. He was in the beginning stages of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, an opportunistic infection that had stolen in to take advantage of his shattered immune system.
“Dr Señorita?” He opened his sleepy eyes.
She smiled at him. “I thought you were going to rest.”
“Will you pray with me?”
She hesitated.
“My mama used to pray with me. Every day we’d pray together and ask God to watch over us. And every night before I went to sleep, but ever since she died—” His words broke off and pain filled his eyes.
“Of course, I’ll pray with you,” she said. She couldn’t stand to see the heartache filling his little face.
“Papa doesn’t pray anymore,” he said. “He’s mad at God for my disease, he doesn’t understand it’s not God’s fault.”
Emily squeezed his hand. “Your papa loves you so much, it hurts him to see you sick. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to see him sad.”
Marcos’s lips trembled as he smiled. “You must be a very smart lady.”
“I like to think so.”
“My mama would have liked you.”
His words tugged at her heart and tightened her throat. “She must have been a wonderful lady to have such a special boy.”
He smiled with all the sweetness and optimism that eight-year-olds hold close to their hearts, then pushed his hands together.
