Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke
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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