by Ginny Aiken
“You haven’t fallen under Colombia’s charm?”
Her sarcasm doesn’t escape me. “What charm? The guy at customs didn’t speak a word of the English he was supposed to be fluent in. A petty thief takes off with my purse when I’m minding my business, sitting in a restaurant, eating my dinner. I’m forced to go up and down and around the worst roads on earth just to get my business done. And then, when I’m heading back out of here, you have us accosted by machine-gun-topped jerks. You tell me where the charm might be hiding, ’cause I sure haven’t seen it so far.”
She smiles.
Great. I amused her. Not exactly what I wanted to do.
With a leopard’s sleekness, she steps away from the desk and strolls to one of the bookshelves. There, she runs a finger across a series of tall, slim, leather-bound books with gold writing I can’t make out on the spines. The tomes look like a set of those some people buy to make them look more educated than not, like something you’ve seen on the set of a TV show or movie, familiar and yet not.
The emerald catches the light and winks at me.
Our hostess sighs. “Let’s take care of, as you say, business, shall we? Then I’ll be happy to show you the charms of my country.”
I cross my arms and tap my foot. “I’m waiting. What is it you want from me?”
“Why . . . the emeralds, of course.”
900
Remember that snarky feeling I mentioned? Well, I shoulda paid more attention to it. Way more attention.
I don’t need to fake shock. Mine’s real, all right. “What emeralds?”
Now it’s her turn to cross her arms. “I’ll do you the favor not to consider you stupid if you do the same for me. You know what emeralds I’m talking about.”
I have a sneaking suspicion, but do I know? For sure? Nuh-uh. “I really don’t. You’ll have to enlighten me.”
My answer achieves a crack in her demeanor. She tightens her lips and taps the elegant open toe of her Louboutin pump. “You came to Colombia to buy emeralds, Andrea, not for a vacation. Rodolfo has emeralds—good ones too. I want the stones.”
I blink and give a small shake of the head. Nothing. It’s still pea-soup clear. She seems to know Mr. Cruz. Why doesn’t she hit him up for whatever emeralds she wants?
I take a step closer to our hostess—whose secret identity is beginning to bug me. Why doesn’t she tell us who she is? A plain ol’ name would help.
But noooooo.
She couldn’t really have meant what I’m afraid she did, could she? “Let me get this straight—”
“What is there to, as you put it, ‘get straight’?” She turns both hands palms up. “I want the emeralds.”
My next step brings me within sniffing distance. I catch the familiar scent of Joy and recoil. That’s Aunt Weeby’s signature fragrance. A woman who’d pull a stunt like this . . . well, she shouldn’t smell like my sweet auntie. Illogical, I know.
She wrinkles her nose—Tang of Trash Truck isn’t much better than Eau de Dead Dog.
I smirk and come closer. “I told you you should’ve skipped the stinky truck.”
She steps back but holds her hand out. “The emeralds.”
“Okay. Back to the emeralds. You’re telling me the deal is, Miss Mona buys emeralds, but you get them? What part of ‘the customer’s always right’ do you not get? Miss Mona’s the customer, she writes the check, she gets the emeralds. She’s right. Again: she gets the stones, not you.”
Two red blotches mar the beautiful olive skin over her high cheekbones. “Those stones belong to me. They weren’t for sale.”
“Tell Mr. Cruz that. Not me.”
“Ahem.” Max says. “I have to agree with Andie. This would seem a problem between you and Mr. Cruz. Why don’t you let us get back to the capital, and then you can take it up with the man himself?”
Her eyes blaze. “I want the emeralds, not another argument with Rodolfo.”
My frustration grows; she has a one-track mind. And a history with the vendor. So . . . “If you wanted them in the first place, why didn’t you just buy them?”
“Sometimes things aren’t as simple as they would seem.” She heads back behind her desk. “Give me the emeralds, and I’ll send you on your way.”
Somehow, I don’t think she means that send-you-on-your-way part. I mean, get real. What self-respecting world-class gem thief is going to face her victim, take the loot, then send said victim off to tell the cops who did the stealing?
I stare at the outstretched hand, the one with the honker emerald. I point. “You’ve got that one. Why would anyone want another stone with that one on her hand?”
She turns her hand so she can better admire her ring. “Yes, it is the finest stone Colombia’s produced in many years.” She looks me in the eye, and I see the ghosts of flames in her searing gaze again. “But this one’s mine.”
Call me Dumbo here, but I’m not getting what she’s getting at. “And the others aren’t.”
“Yes.”
“Right. But you want them, even though they’re not yours.”
“Of course.”
“Let me repeat that: you admit they’re not yours.”
“Yes.” A thread of impatience runs through the brief word.
I shake my head again. “But you have no right to them.” “That’s an arguable point.”
“Nope. Miss Mona paid, so they’re hers. You’re fast outta luck.”
The eyebrow arches again, but this time it’s accompanied by an ugly smile. “That’s why you’re here. To persuade you as to the rightness of my point of view before the emeralds travel to the U.S.”
Max laughs. “Andie’s a tough nut to crack.”
I shrug. “So far, the lady’s batting zero with me.”
“See?” he says.
Her eyes narrow. “Well, then. I suppose I’m going to have to use less pleasant methods to persuade you. It’s your choice.” “No, ma’am.” I try for a last stab at politeness. “The choice is yours. You can choose to do what’s right and let us go, or you can choose to break the law. You know what they say. Crime doesn’t pay.”
“Ah . . . but you’re in Colombia now.”
I get her drift. It’s not hard. I gulp.
“I see we understand each other. So, Andrea. What will it be? Will you give me the emeralds or will I have to take them from you?”
A momentary zing of panic shoots from the depths of my soles right through the pit of my gut, to the middle of my heart, and straight to my head. I can’t believe this is happening.
But I do believe God’s still in control. Even now. And I can’t just cave in to this madwoman’s demands. So I’m going to have to go for it.
Lord, I’m about to fib—a big one too, but you know my heart’s in the right place on this, don’t you?
I take a deep breath. “You took a gamble, and you just lost. I don’t have the stones.”
Max sucks in a rough lungful of air.
The woman in brown goes pale. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. I don’t have the stones.”
Her nostrils flare and her eyes blaze again, but the tight line of her lips develops a white rim. She comes right up to me, toe-to-toe. “Of course you have the stones. You bought them from Rodolfo. Don’t waste any more of my time. Give them to me.”
The “or else” doesn’t have to be said out loud. My heart whomps harder’n a drummer in a thundering marching band.
But as chicken as I am, that’s how stubborn I also am. “Read my lips: I don’t have them. And Rodolfo has plenty more where those came from. Go get ’em, lady!”
She scoffs. “I don’t care for anyone’s leftovers. I only want the best of the best.” She shrugs. “This is so disappointing, Andrea. I truly had hoped to avoid such unpleasantness, but you’ve made the choice.” She whirls around and goes back behind her desk, pushes a button, speaks when she gets a response, then faces me again. “As I said, I didn’t want to have to do this. You’ve left
me no alternative. I’m going to have to search you for the gems.”
Now I’m the one I’m sure has turned whiter than the polar caps. “You don’t mean . . . ?”
Steely determination freezes the older woman’s face into a hideous distortion of her natural beauty. “That’s precisely what I mean.”
At my side, I can feel Max practically quiver with rage.
My stomach dives. Lord, I’m trusting you, even in this.
A strip search is no picnic.
Even if Doña Rosario, as the housekeeper called our hostess, refrained from touching me. Especially since she’d had the outraged Max taken away before he could intervene.
Still, being forced to bare my body to the hateful stare of such an evil person was more than I could stand. I broke down. Tears rolled down my face.
But I clenched my fists and refused to let a sob escape. I might not have been able to stop my tear ducts from going hyper on me, but I could sure stuff down any sob that even tried to give Creepella the satisfaction.
I roll over on my side into a tighter ball in the middle of the bed.
After she’d demeaned me to her satisfaction, and ripped out every hem in my pants, blouse, and jacket, Doña Rosario had the housekeeper, Milagros, lead me to a room. To her credit, Milagros had seemed as horrified by what had taken place as I was—still am.
The quiet servant had been gentle, and she’d plumped up the pillows on the large, hand-carved mahogany bed, clearly giving me a moment to regain some composure. Then she’d walked into the attached bathroom, drawn a hot tub, handed me a towel, and then left. The only sound she’d made was the tumbling of the lock on the door as she closed it from the other side.
I’d torn off my trashed clothes and soaked until my skin pruned. Then I’d scrubbed until I’d turned fuchsia all over. Still, even now, after all that, I feel filthy. Humiliation does that to a person.
The tears flow again. “Lord? This really hurt. Please pour your healing love, the balm of your mercy, all over me. I need it. I need you.”
As I struggle with my ravaged emotions, I miss my Bible most of all. Right now, when I could really use a mega measure of his Word, I have to remember the Scriptures I’ve learned over the years. As distraught as I am, I find they come more easily than I expected.
“Thank you, Father. Even in this mess I can give you
BANG, BANG, BANG!
I leap upright, my heart racing, my head spinning. Hard to believe, I’d fallen asleep. God had been merciful, for sure. I couldn’t have stood to lie there and remember the search— No! I’m not going to go back there. Not while someone’s pounding on my door.
“Who’s there?”
“Señorita Andrea. La cena está lista.”
The housekeeper! What’s she saying? Come on, Spanish 1. Don’t desert me now. La . . . la . . . the. Okay, the what? Cena. What’s cena? Está—that one I remember. The something-or-other is . . . Oh! Okay. Got it.
As if on cue, my stomach gurgles. I’m hungry. Dinner’s ready. “I’m coming.”
I look down at myself with a grimace. I’m still wearing the filthy, ragged clothes Doña Rosario searched to the max. And speaking of Max, I hope I see him at the table. Last I’d seen of him, he was being dragged out of Doña Rosario’s office by two of her goons.
I grab the century-old door latch, and go to open the door, but find it still locked. “Sure,” I mutter. “Come tease a girl with the promise of food, and then leave her behind locked doors.”
Hysteria gooses the edges of my consciousness, but I fight it off. I have to keep it together if I’m to have any hope of getting out of the madwoman’s clutches. And poor Max. Ever since he came to work for the S.T.U.D. he’s been chased by Burmese . . . was it soldiers or just crooks? Then he was arrested in Kashmir. With me. Oh, and there was that time the maybe-maybe-not Taliban guys followed us down the side of a Himalayan peak. Not to mention, the times he’s been suspected of heinous crimes.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even by me. Mostly by me.
Now he’s in the clutches of a Colombian nutcase in jetset-ter’s clothing. Oh, and that faboo emerald of hers . . . Can’t forget that bauble.
The key clicks in the lock, and I don’t waste a second. I open up, and nearly crash into Milagros, the housekeeper. “Oooops!”
She gives me a tentative smile, then gestures for me to head down the corridor to the left side of the beautiful courtyard, now shaded in the muted light of dusk. If my situation weren’t so . . . so insane, I’d be loving every second of my time in this gorgeous place.
Too bad.
A handful of seconds later, we enter a huge room dominated by an equally vast table. A pristine white tablecloth lays over its top, and fine china, cut crystal, candelabra, and silver are unexpected niceties. Again, I feel disoriented. I mean, Doña Rosario is a criminal—she’s a wannabe thief and successful hijacker-slash-kidnapper. But she’s also living this deluded life of luxury. In the State of Denial, I’d say.
Tall white tapers rise from the candelabra in the middle of the table, and the scent of Latin spiced food sends my empty stomach off into a set of cartwheels.
A large, warm hand covers my shoulder. “Are you okay?” I place my own hand over Max’s. “Slightly worse for the wear, but by the grace of God, I’ll be fine—I’m trusting he’ll make it fine.”
He squeezes. “Amen.”
When I lean back against him, needing and welcoming the reassurance, he slips his other arm around my waist. “Andie—”
“I see you’re both here,” Doña Rosario says as she sweeps in. She’s taken the time while I slept to dress for dinner. Her russet silk dress fits her like a caress, and her high heels tap against the aged and gleaming brick floor tiles. Her hair, while still upswept, is no longer in the coronet but rather in a loose knot. She looks about a decade younger than I suspect she must be.
How someone as outwardly lovely as she is, with all the advantages of wealth—inherited from a noble family, from the looks of this place—could possibly be so hideous inside, I’ll never know. Other than it’s the result of rejecting the Lord and his will for her life. I wonder if she’s ever met the Savior?
But she doesn’t give me long to ponder much of anything.
“Please take a seat,” she says with a grand gesture. “I hope you’ll enjoy your meal.”
By now, my curiosity is about to kill me—meow. “Have you lived here long?” I take my seat.
“My whole life.” She rings a small silver bell beside her place setting.
Milagros hurries in.
They speak in fiery Spanish, of which I catch little. Actually, I don’t catch any of it. Before long, though, I figure out what they’d discussed. Milagros returns with a carafe full of dark, red wine.
She pours a tall goblet of the rich-hued liquid for her boss and turns to me, the decanter lifted in silent query.
I shake my head. “I don’t drink—but thanks.”
Max covers his glass.
Doña Rosario studies first Max, then me. After a moment, she shrugs and takes a long drink. “Excellent. Chilean wines are actually better than those from France or Italy, but you know how it is. The European ones have the long history and fame.”
Dandy. She’s acting as though she’s at some high-powered soirée here, not playing cat to our mouse—mice. I take a sip from my water glass. Max shifts in his chair.
Doña Rosario sighs. She puts her wineglass back on the table, picks up her bell, and rings for Milagros. The housekeeper enters the room, holds the door open with her body, and eases a serving cart over the threshold. Silver domes cover a number of platters. The fragrance makes my mouth water.
In no time, I have a slab of roast pork, a mound of golden browned potatoes, crisp salad, a roll, marinated tomatoes and cucumbers, an ear of corn, and a tiny dish of butter in front of me. I catch Max’s gaze; we swap smiles.
He knows I enjoy eating. And he also knows my concern for the size of my hips.
“Wh
at hips?” he asks, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.
I pause. First I knew what he’d been thinking a bit earlier; now he’s just read my mind. Lord, is this for real?
Oh, Andie, Andie, Andie. This isn’t the time to think about Max, his blue eyes, or how he’s begun to do some kind of mind-meld on you.
I bow my head, breathe a quick prayer, pick up my fork. As I bring bright green salad to my mouth, it occurs to me to wonder why this woman, so intent in robbing us, would go to so much trouble to entertain us with such a lavish meal. A kidnapper’s hardly the queen of hospitality or anything.
Does the meal hide an ulterior motive?
Has she poisoned our food?
I shoot her a look, and watch her slice a piece of pork from her generous serving. She slips it in her mouth without pause, her eyes narrowed in pleasure, her shoulders at ease. I look down at the plate before me, fear suddenly stealing my appetite.
Across from me, Max is about to dig in. I clear my throat. He meets my gaze. I mouth the word, “Poison.”
His fork clatters back down to his plate.
I wince.
Doña Rosario looks from one to the other of us, then stuns me by bursting into heavy-duty laughter. “Oh my!” she says. “You are something, aren’t you? Go ahead. Eat. Your food is fine. What earthly good would you be to me dead?”
Okay. So maybe Max isn’t doing any kind of romantic mind-meld with me. Maybe I’m just one of those people who blare their last puny little secret on their faces.
I look back at our maniacal hostess, at Max, and finally at my food again. It’s time for the rubber to hit the road. Am I going to trust God? Really trust him?
Fine, fine. If it’s his will for me to zip on upstairs to get face-to-face with him for eternity, then I’m going to have to be ready. I am ready. I guess. I do love him—that I know for sure.
The salad is cool and the dressing tangy. The pork is seasoned with herbs, a whisper of garlic. The potatoes were cooked in super-rich olive oil; the roll is cloud light; the butter creamy and very lightly salted. I’m in foodie heaven.
