A King's ransom

insurance. If I had to guess who the rat was right now, I’d guess Guillermo.”

“Then you should definitely ask him to front the ransom money. Play on his sense of guilt.”

“I’m not following you.”

“If Guillermo is behind this scheme, I firmly believe that he went into it thinking that the insurance company would simply cough up the money. Guillermo would take his cut, the kidnappers would get theirs, and your dad would come home safe and sound. It probably never occurred to him that the insurer would refuse to pay and that your father might be harmed.”

“Then why wouldn’t he just call the whole thing off and tell the kidnappers to let my father go?”

“Because he didn’t team up with Moe, Larry, and Curly. I can tell from talking to this Joaquin that he’s for real. One of his men even got killed pulling off the abduction in Cartagena. I hate to say it, but if somebody doesn’t pay him. . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be good for your dad.”

I appreciated her discretion, but I knew what she was saying. “So let’s say I tell Guillermo that there’s no insurance money and that Joaquin’s going to kill my father. What really makes you think he’d suddenly develop a conscience and pay the ransom himself?”

“I don’t know. Some people call it instinct. Others call it the hostage negotiator’s time-honored WAG method.”

“What’s the WAG method?”

“Wild-Ass Guess.”

Even as stressed as I was, I had to crack a little smile. “Got to respect your honesty, lady.”

She returned the smile, though hers was even weaker than mine. She seemed to sense that I didn’t really want to talk about it anymore.

We sat in the dim glow of the city lights, saying nothing. Her feet were up on a coffee table, long bare legs bent at the knee. She’d probably considered her sleepwear more comfortable than sexy, but from my perspective it appeared to be both. Not that I intended to do anything about it.

Suddenly the street filled with the sound of an acoustic guitar. Alex rose and walked to the window. I joined her.

“He’s back,” I said. “It’s that same guy who was arguing with his girlfriend.”

He was sitting on the curb outside the woman’s apartment, strumming his guitar beneath a streetlamp.

“He’s serenading her,” said Alex. “Men still do that here. I think that’s so romantic.”

Together we listened as he wailed about his broken corazon and la mujer with the dark brown eyes who was the lost love of his life. It was unusual by American standards, but when la mujer actually came to the window to listen, I found myself pulling for him.

“He plays a very good guitar,” I said.

The beat picked up. He made a skillful transition from the sappy love song to a more vibrant Spanish guitar that reminded me of the Gipsy Kings, though the sound was less full with a one-man show. Still, he was giving it his all.

Alex started to move her hips to the music, then took my hand. “Here. I’ll teach you to dance Colombian style.”

“I really don’t feel like dancing.”

“No better reason to dance.”

I thought for a moment. “Good point.”

She pressed the palm of her right hand against the palm of my left. She took my other hand and placed it on her hip. I could feel the warmth of her skin and the rhythm of her movement. Instantly I was more connected to the music.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

“How do you do that without even moving your feet?”

“Listen for the counterrhythm.”

“What’s a counterrhythm?”

She smirked. “You’d be pathetic if you weren’t so cute. Follow my lead.”

The guitar was booming in my head, I was trying so hard to concentrate. She moved one way, I moved opposite.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

We tried again, and this time I was with her. She counted the steps for me aloud, then pushed my hand more firmly into her hip, as if to help me feel the motion.

“You got it,” she said, smiling.

We moved back and forth, side to side, hips moving, face-to-face. I crushed her foot once, but she just smiled and kept counting. After a full minute of no squished toes, her counting stopped.

“Look at you, you’re dancing!”

“I think I do have it,” I said.

Our guitar-playing friend was singing again, his voice stronger. The pace quickened, but I kept right up with it. Alex moved closer, shrinking the space between our bodies.

“You’re pretty good for a gringo.”

“Why do you say ‘for a gringo’?”

“Because a Colombian man would never let me lead.”

“I think you’d lead if you were dancing with Fred Astaire.”

“Fred who?”

“He’s a famous-”

She pinched my ribs, smiling. “I know who he is. No se puede dar papaya,” she added, her favorite expression.

“Don’t be so naive,” I said, translating.

“That’s right,” she said softly. “I might just walk all over you.”

The music stopped, but we didn’t pull apart. We remained in our dance pose, her right hand in my left. Slowly her left hand slid from my hip toward my back, then up gently toward my shoulder blades. Instinctively I did the same to her, my fingers traveling from the gentle curve of her hip to the small of her back. Our bodies drew closer, so close that the space between us was almost gone. I tingled with the imagined feeling of her breasts pressed against me. Her breath caressed my neck as she looked up at me, la mujer with the dark brown eyes.

She moved her hand across my back, caressing me. Almost involuntarily I duplicated the light swirling motion across the warm, bare skin of her back. It was firm and very smooth, until the tips of my fingers found a slight ridge in the skin, then another ridge below it. Faded scars that I hadn’t noticed before. Now that my touch had discovered them, I could actually see them as I looked past her shoulder at the reflection of her back in the window behind her.

She stiffened in my arms, seeming to have sensed my discovery. “Do they frighten you?”

“What?” I said, playing dumb.

“You found my scars, no?”

“They’re nothing, really.”

“You’re lying.”

I counted five of them, each an inch long and about a quarter inch wide. They appeared to be the remnants of old wounds that had never been treated properly. “It looks like. . you were stabbed.”

“That’s because I was.”

She pulled away and stepped back, as if suddenly self-conscious.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right. It was a very long time ago. I was a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to quit FARC.”

“They stab you for that?”

“It’s a lifelong commitment. They don’t like quitters.”