He climbed into the limo.
“Audrey, you still there?” Bryson asked as the driver slid behind the wheel and put up the privacy partition. A moment later, the limo started with a purr and pulled away from the curb.
So maybe Jacinto would do just fine as a replacement. Professional, friendly, and discreet—all excellent qualities in a driver. If his background check came up clean, it wouldn’t hurt to keep him in mind for the future in case another emergency cropped up with Armando’s family.
Bryson made a mental note to find out which hospital Armando’s son was at and send a get well gift. Or money if the family needed it.
“I’m here,” Audrey said and reappeared on the screen. “Ran for a coffee refill. Are you busy?”
“On my way to a meeting.”
“I won’t keep you then. I just wanted to make sure you remembered my opening next weekend at Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. You said you’d come.”
Uh-oh. Her art show in San José, Costa Rica. He’d forgotten all about it. He checked the schedule on his phone. Could possibly move a couple meetings around, but that would take a lot of shuffling just to indulge her and her silly hobbies. “I’m sorry, Audrey, but—”
She set her coffee mug on the table in front of her with a hard thunk. “Brys, you promised!”
“Sweetie, I have some very important business deals happening that weekend, none of which I can shove back, and I have to be in L.A. on Sunday morning for…” He shook his head as his train of thought slid away. What was he saying?
Audrey. Paintings. Work.
It was an old argument, one he could have while gagged and blindfolded, and he settled on one of his pat responses since his mind was suddenly, strangely blurry. “If you want to stay in that condo, I need to work and that means meetings.”
“Well, guess what?”
No, he really didn’t want to guess. She had that petulant look on her face—drawn brows, a poked out lower lip. The same look that had gotten her anything she wanted as a child. The one that told him he would not like the next words out of her mouth.
“Audrey—”
“I don’t live in the condo. Never did. I sold it the week after you left and gave the money to a charity. I gave your accountant the receipt for your taxes.”
“You what?” Oh God, then where was she living? Hopefully not in another beach shack with no indoor plumbing. His parents would roll over in their graves if they knew their precious baby girl enjoyed living one minuscule step up above a homeless person.
“I told you I didn’t want it in the first place,” she continued. “I was happy in Quepos. I was happy in my little hut. Don’t you get that?”
“No, I—” His vision blurred. He blinked a couple times and when that didn’t clear away the fuzziness, he pressed his fingers into his eyelids. Boy, was he tired. All of his time zone hopping was catching up to him. Maybe he should ask Jacinto to stop somewhere for a cup of hot, bold Colombian coffee.
On second thought, if he drank some, he wouldn’t be able to sleep on the short plane ride to Barranquilla. A nap hadn’t been in his original plan—he intended to review contracts on the plane like he always did—but with the way he felt now, a nap was probably the best idea. Last thing he needed was to be sluggish around the people he was meeting this afternoon.
“Are you even listening to me?” Audrey said, and he blinked her blurry face into focus. Had—had she been talking? He opened his mouth to answer, but his tongue wouldn’t wrap itself around her name.
Something was wrong. He tried again and only managed to croak out, “Aw-ree.”
“Bryson?” Her tone sharpened with worry, but he could no longer make out her features on the little screen. “Are you okay?”
No. No, he was not okay, but when he tried to tell her, the words slurred off his lips and barely made sense to his own ears. Was he having a stroke? He was only forty-three, but it wasn’t unheard of. Or an aneurysm? His head pounded and the inside of the limo spun around him. He’d had that scare last summer, a mini heart attack, and his doctors had warned him to slow it down a little. They said if a clot broke off, it could travel to his brain and—
Oh, Christ.
“Bryson!”
“Aw-ree,” he gasped and fumbled the phone in hands that felt as clumsy as catchers’ mitts. It landed hard on the floor. He scrambled after it, clutched it like a lifeline. “Eh nee…elp.”
Jacinto. He had to get the driver’s attention.
Gasping, dizzy, Bryson crawled across the soft leather seat and pounded a weak fist on the partition. The tinted window slid down, and at first, he thought he was hallucinating. Huge bug eyes stared back at him. Some sort of insect now drove the car and—no, not an insect. Jacinto was wearing a gas mask.