“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?”
“It varies from day to day.”
“On?”
“On a lot of things. The markets the day before, the movement of the other currencies being traded, the local economy…”
He leaned his elbows on the table, and at the same time Emma felt a hot gaze on her back. Raul Santos was still staring at them, she could tell.
“Do you know the rate ahead of time?”
She looked at him in surprise. “The rate is examined by a government committee. If there is a change, it’s secret until it’s announced a few days later. For obvious reasons.”
“But if you did know the figure in advance, you’d make more money for your clients, right?”
His question was unsettling, but Emma tried to make light of it. “Only until I got caught—which would probably be immediately. If I knew the information in advance and acted on it, that would be insider trading. It’s as illegal here as it is in the United States.”
He paused, and for some reason, her uneasiness grew. “And you don’t break the law, do you, Ms. Toussaint?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t.”
He nodded slowly, but she had the feeling he didn’t believe her. “Not for anything?”
She opened her mouth to answer the same way, then she hesitated. She’d make a deal with the devil if it meant getting her kids back. She’d do anything for them, wouldn’t she? Even break the law?
Over the middle of the table, she lifted her eyes and their gazes locked. Then he smiled.
RAUL WATCHED William Kelman and Emma depart the restaurant. He’d thought Kelman was going to come over and speak to him, but he hadn’t, and Raul had felt a flash of disappointment. He’d almost welcome a direct confrontation, to settle things as he’d done when he was younger and knew less—with fists and bloodied noses. It was a more honest way, but Kelman didn’t operate like that. He was sneaky and underhanded, and when this was all over, bloody noses would not be the end result.
Rising from the table, Raul motioned to Wendy to do the same. “Let’s go,” he said roughly. “I want to follow them. I want to know where she lives.”
Wendy stood up, grabbing her purse and coat, while she protested, “This is crazy, Raul. You’re heading for disaster.”
Taking her elbow, he led her away from the table and shook his head. “Disaster was losing five years of my life to that son of a bitch. What’s going to happen next is not disaster.”
“And the woman? What do you think she’ll call it?”
Ignoring Wendy’s question, Raul stopped at the front door and motioned to the valet to bring his car, handing the man a wad of bills. He’d already arranged to have the car nearby, and within seconds they were in it and driving off. Ahead of them, along the boulevard, he could just make out the taillights of the car Emma was in. Kelman had departed in a different one.
As if the conversation had never been interrupted, Wendy spoke again, her voice insistent. “Emma Toussaint is going to get hurt, Raul. And she doesn’t deserve it. She’ll be an innocent victim, caught up in your scheme for revenge. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Raul swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a small crater. They were heading to the First Ring, in the central part of town, an older area shunned by most of the expatriates. “There’s no other way,” he said grimly. “And she’s not that innocent, anyway. I checked her out.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head impatiently. “It’s not important, but believe me, she’s had her share of trouble. And she caused most it herself.”
“Well, that might be true, but she didn’t cause yours. And it’s not fair to drag her into this.”
“Who said life is fair?”
Wendy shook her head at his cynical reply. “You should walk away and forget about him, Raul.”
“Is that what you would do?”
“Yes, I would, because this isn’t worth it. William Kelman is a dangerous man, and you’re going to get hurt, maybe killed. To make matters even worse, you’re going to take that poor woman with you.”
“No one’s going to die.” He paused. “I just want to make Kelman wish he was dead, and the key to that is taking his money. I can’t do that without her help.”
“And if she doesn’t offer it?”
“She
