Page 1 of Brazilian Surrender
Chapter One
“Mr. Bauer’s ready for you,” the fifty-something assistant said then pressed her lips into a closed smile.
Camila Duarte nodded and swallowed the lump of uneasiness forming in her throat. Besides one unsavory experience, most of her life she had taken her freedom and her sense of security for granted, because her brothers always protected her. That was one of the reasons why she’d come to intern in a psychiatric hospital in New York City after she finished her studies in Rio. She wanted to have her own experiences, make her own mistakes, far from Brazil and her brothers where they constantly smothered her with their well-meaning intentions.
She squared her shoulders and walked across the hardwood floor like she didn’t feel nervous about the whole thing. At the end of the day, she was a woman living alone—well, living with a roommate who was always out—in the Big Apple where she didn’t know many people. Her brothers were thousands of miles away and couldn’t save her this time, nor did she want them to. She’d have to save herself.
Nothing will happen.
She glanced at the last office in the hallway while she passed by other glass wall suites where mostly men and a couple of women worked quietly at their desks. The office at the end of the hall had Jaeger Bauer’s name on the plaque beside the open door.
Sucking in a breath, she entered. The office had an industrial atmosphere with exposed brick walls and metal light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The collection of black leather chairs and the oak table in the center added a contemporary flair.
The man she was supposed to meet, Jaeger Bauer, stood in front of the desk, gesturing for her to sit. She expected him to shake hands or do some type of greeting, but it never happened.
Without taking her eyes off him, she sat on the chair, and only then did he do the same. He studied her with eyes so blue they reminded her of exotic islands surrounded by clear ocean waters; her shoulders dropped a notch and her pulse ridiculously quickened. Why hadn’t she looked for a picture of him online? Maybe then she’d been prepared for this blond, oversize Viking god in a casual suit.
“How can I help you?” he asked, in a deep, cultured voice that sent little thrills of awareness down her spine.
She had provided his secretary with the basic information. “I’m Camila Duarte,” she said, and then realized how stupid she sounded. Of course he already knew her name. He lifted his eyebrow in acknowledgment, but didn’t say anything. Every move of his was calculated, and that only worsened her nerves. “Nice to meet you, and thanks for seeing me. Your aunt Gesa recommended you, but she didn’t say exactly what you do.”
“I’m a fixer. I help people fix problems when they’re in danger. I work with my team.”
Camila had confided in her hairdresser, his aunt, about the threats she’d received. Gesa had insisted Camila see her nephew as soon as possible, and Gesa had made an appointment for her before she could think twice about the idea.
He didn’t move a muscle. He watched her, and she shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. Good-looking as this fixer-whatever was, he didn’t say much.
Might as well get started.
“I’ve been receiving scary letters for the past three weeks. I didn’t care at first, but they’re becoming more threatening, and they’re arriving more often,” she said and reached into her bag to draw out the envelopes she’d kept. She handed him the pile, her fingers brushing his. A small, electrifying sensation shot up her arm. Shaking her head, she scooted to the back of her chair.
He glanced at her hand for an instant, then cleared his throat and studied the letters. His long fingers glided down the texture of the construction paper. They had started out with cutout magazine letters, though the last few letters were typed in a bold font. Get out of New York, stupid bitch. Go back to Brazil or you’ll pay. “They were mailed in New Jersey. Interesting.”
A couple of minutes went by, and he continued studying the envelopes in silence. His mind was clearly working, his hands moving, and his eyes on the printed matter. “Your stalker started cutting and gluing pieces of magazines, then used a computer.”
“Yes. Maybe he or she went green. A stalker with an environmental cause.” She waved her hands in the air. “You never know, right?” Her attempt at humor did nothing to soften the contours of his face.
“Whoever did this is an amateur. He started with the cut letters. Thought they would scare you away, but you didn’t leave town. Now he’s just typing his threats, which means he’s lazy.”
“Are we assuming it’s a he?”
“For now. If I take the case, I’ll exhaust every possibility. It’s just easier and less confusing to stick with one pronoun.” He gave her back the pile and took a pen from the pen holder.
“Of course.”
He grabbed a small notepad from the first drawer and glanced at her. “Have you lived in New York for long?”
“Er, no. I moved here over two years ago. I’m an intern at Hatch Psychiatric Center.” Her mother had died because of lack of medical care and severe lupus, but she’d also experienced depression. Back then no one really knew much about the disease, and as a child, Camila had vowed to help and treat others with mental illnesses. Never had she known, as a poor Brazilian girl who suffered from dyslexia, that she’d actually conquer that dream. And hell, she wasn’t about to give it up.
“The new hospital?”
“Yes.”
“And you come from a rich Brazilian family,” he said, more of a statement than a question.
She shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. Discussing her family’s wealth was never a comfortable subject. She opened her mouth to say the Duartes had very humble beginnings and lived a modest life with no medical care and days of poverty until her oldest brother, Bruno, left the Northeast of Brazil and, after much hard work, became one of the world’s top software developers in the United States before settling in Rio, but she resisted the urge to babble. Most likely Jaeger already knew all the important pieces of her life. “Yes,” she simply said. “What did you mean by ‘if I take the case?’ I thought you would.”
He scribbled on his notepad then scratched his chin. “Don’t worry. Everything we discuss is confidential.”
