"Nick," Carlos said, "I have been told by one source that he has heard that the Americans have a dossier on the sister. According to this, she is heavily involved as the one who handles the money. According to another source who cannot verify such an allegation, the Americans wanted her out of the country, but when she refused, they washed their hands of her. They will let Vargas and the Rangers take her because they believe her as guilty as her brother."
Mary Beth was expendable. Had he been wrong about her? Had he been fooled by an attraction he didn't understand?
"Nick, do you want me to ask more questions?"
"Sí, por favor, find what you can on this Elliot Smith. Don't ask more about the brother, but let me know about anything you hear. I will take care of the rest of it," Nick replied, and hung up the telephone.
Now, to see if he'd been right about Mary Beth Williams.
Because if Antonio Vargas was manipulating the situation, the pretty woman so determined to save her brother could be nothing more than the general's pawn—or guilty as sin.
Or both.
Mary Beth stood uncertainly against one of the living room walls. The Romeros were still dancing, even though the older aunts were sitting down. She'd walked in just in time to see one of Nick's aunts open the door to the library. Through the slightly open door she'd seen Nick, his expression at first surprised, then tense. Something was up and it wasn't good.
She didn't know what to say to him. Should she ask what was wrong first? Or should she tell him that the kiss had been nothing more than the result of too much wine and a beautiful night?
She'd let herself be tempted by a man when she knew better. The kind of man she would never understand, nor trust, who moved in a world she'd deliberately left behind. One she could never deal with again.
Looking around at the Romeros, she reminded herself that Nick's world was also made up of family. And he demonstrated a deep-rooted sense of responsibility to that family. He'd fathered a child and he'd given that child his name and his love. She knew of several men who had refused to take on such responsibility. Based on what did she think she could claim any of that caring for herself? A kiss under a dark, star-spangled sky? She was being as childish as she'd been before. Worse, because she couldn't excuse herself with a claim of innocence anymore. She knew the realities of the world, knew how people used others. If he saw no need for explanations for a brief kiss, she wouldn't bring up her foolishness.
He came out of the library, paused to speak with one of his male cousins, then moved around the dancers. He scanned the room, finally settling his gaze on her.
Mary Beth's breath caught. This was not the man who'd touched her so sweetly. Here was a man who did the expedient, like her parents. Like Paul Martens.
Angered at how easily she had succumbed to his charm, how impressed she'd been with his accomplishments, she put on her best cosmopolitan smile, joined her hands behind her back to steady a slight tremor and faced the stranger Nick Romero had once again become.
"What did Carlos have to say?" she asked, hoping he hadn't heard the tiny quiver in her voice.
"When was the last time you saw your brother?" He nodded absently at Maria, who passed by, then grasped Mary Beth's elbow and led her into the library.
"Three years ago," she replied, knowing now that the telephone call had dealt with Mark.
He closed the door behind them. "Where?"
The room felt small, stuffy, the sounds of the party still clear through the closed door. She turned to look at him. "At my father's, in Washington."
"When was the last time you spoke?" The question was smooth, the bite behind it sharp.
"We haven't. He writes." As she struggled for patience, she clenched her fists so tightly she felt her nails bite into her palms. "Has something happened to Mark? Do you know something?"
"What does he say to you?"
Gnashing her teeth, perilously close to tears, Mary Beth replied, "That he's okay, that he might be home in a few months."
"When did he give you Daniel's name?"
"A little over two years ago. He told me he'd be in touch, on and off, told me not to worry. He said not to contact the engineering company he works for."
"So you didn't."
"No."
"Did you call and tell them about the ransom demand?"
"No, of course not! The kidnappers told me not to."
"You came straight to San Mateo?"
"I called the number Mark gave me. I told you that. Remember? Then I called you." Mary Beth's hands felt frozen from clasping them so tightly.
"Why me?"
"I'm a librarian. I started researching the Primero de Mayo and I read that you had negotiated the release of some Argentinian oil field workers. I thought you would be able to make sure that Mark got out of this alive."
"What if I hadn't been home? What would you have done?"
"I would have hired someone."
"Who do you know in the country? Who would you have asked?"
"My college roommate's husband is Enrique Norton."
He paused, surprise evident on his face. "The OAS chairman?"
"Yes."
He rolled his shoulders back, then asked. "Does he know about this?"
"No. I found you. There was no need to say anything further to him."
"Anything further?"
"I asked him if he knew you. He said he did, that you are a close friend."
Nick looked down at her. She could see nothing of the man who'd kissed her so sweetly.
"You're doing all of this for a brother you haven't seen in three years." It was more statement than question.
"Wouldn't you do anything for your brother?" she asked more sharply than she'd intended.
His response, completely unexpected after their exchange, almost broke her heart with its sincerity.
"Yes."
Mary Beth obviously knew nothing about her brother's activities. All Carlos had learned about her was hearsay. Misinformation. There probably was no dossier, certainly not one that proved her guilty of anything. She would never have considered contacting anyone else on behalf of her brother if she knew he was running guns, certainly not Enrique Norton, who was above reproach. She couldn't know Vargas. Nick had been insane to think it, even for a moment.
Insane because he'd let the general's admission push him into reaching for something fine, just to prove that they weren't as alike as he knew they were.
But they were. The proof lay in the fact that he would use Mary Beth to get to the general. Use her and her brother to get the answers he needed about his, to avenge his.
Williams and Daniel knew each other—well. The gunrunner and the Ranger captain. Nick could not allow Daniel's name to be dragged through the mud. It would destroy his mother.
They drove back to Daniel's house in silence, Mary Beth stiff and staring out the window into the dark of night. Nick composed a hundred different ways to tell her what he'd learned, but discarded each one.
She would be devastated when she learned of her brother's actions.
And he could offer no consolation. He couldn't touch her again. Wouldn't. Because he liked her. Admired her courage. Yes, he wanted her, but hearing about her family and knowing she'd been used by Martens reinforced the knowledge that she would be cautious with anyone, especially a man. She would expect loyalty and honesty after that nightmare.
His loyalty to family precluded honesty to anyone else.
Arriving at the silent house, he led the way into the kitchen and offered Mary Beth a cup of coffee. He was stalling, trying to think of the right words to tell her about her brother. He fumbled with the coffeepot.
"You did an excellent job of lulling me into compliance. I'm surprised you're trusted by anyone, let alone governments." Her quietly spoken words carried the force of her repressed anger.
"I'm sorry—"
"What did you expect to gain from that little show in the courtyard? Butter me up, then trick me somehow? Why? I'v
e told you all I know."
"I'm not trying to trick you." Nick turned, forgetting the coffee. He wished he could call back the tone of his questions. Wished he didn't have to tell this woman her brother was in deep trouble, if he wasn't already dead. "Carlos had some information about your brother."
She spun toward him, her hair swinging around her face. But behind the eagerness lurked fear.
"He's involved in some criminal activities."
"Not Mark" came the instant reply.
"San Matean Rangers are after him for gunrunning."
"Not Mark," she repeated, her eyes angry.
"The CIA and the Secret Service are investigating him."
"Not Mark." Shaking her head, she drew in a quick breath. "Why are you saying this?"
"I'm not making this up, Mary Beth," he said quietly.
"You don't understand. Mark is … good."
She turned away from him. But what he saw in her eyes before she retreated would remain with him for a long time. There had been a tiny instant when she'd doubted her own defense.
"Maybe there's been a mistake." That sounded lame. Except when dealing with family, Nick had never tried to soften any news. That he was trying to do so now should tell him to back away from her.
Spinning around to him, she said, "Yes, that's it. Mark would never do anything illegal." She paused, staring beyond him. "You just don't know him."
Nick could think of nothing to say in response.
"Your cousin—" she rushed to say. "Your cousin knew him. Mark trusted him. If Mark was this gunrunner, this criminal, why would he tell me to contact your cousin?"
Why indeed? Nick wondered. "The only way to know is to find Mark," he said.
"How long will it take from here?"
"We're one day's drive, two if the weather turns ugly."
"Then we should be there the day after tomorrow. That still gives me five days to get the ransom to the kidnappers."
There probably weren't any kidnappers, but Nick didn't say anything. "There are San Matean Rangers, American CIA and Secret Service agents all looking for Mark, and now for you, because they believe you're conspiring with your brother. It's too dangerous for you to go."
"I have to go. You agreed to take me," she said.
"It's rough country. I'll have to stay away from the main roads. It will be difficult—"
"You agreed to take me. That was our deal. I stick with mine. Do you stick with yours?"
He wanted to shout at her, had to force himself to speak softly. "Remember the men who ransacked your hotel?" He watched for her grudging nod. "They weren't common thieves. They were Rangers. They won't ask you politely for anything. They play for keeps. According to Carlos, not even the Americans will give you a chance."
She bit her bottom lip and stared back at him. Finally, she let out a sigh and said firmly, "We haven't seen them again."
"Just because we haven't seen them doesn't mean they haven't followed you," he shot back. "It doesn't mean they aren't behind us somewhere or ahead, in Los Desamparados or in the Rio Hermoso Valley."
"You don't understand. I can't let Mark die."
"It's dangerous for you."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're trying to get out of our deal," she accused. "That's typical, isn't it."
"Typical? What are you talking about?" A hot tide of anger threatened to engulf him. He never lost his temper.
"You're just as big a double-dealing, double-talker as—" She cut herself off so quickly, Nick barely had time to react.
"As who?" He bit back his own answer. Paul Martens.
"Nobody. Nothing." Anger flushed her cheeks. "Bear this in mind—if you leave without me, there will be no ransom and my brother will die. You'll never know what he had to do with your cousin. You'll always wonder if he was a criminal."
He watched her walk away, regal in her bearing. He found his gaze drawn to the angry sway of her hips beneath the blue jeans. He hoped she'd given Paul Martens a real good dose of her cool-as-ice act, because the thought of that son of a—
When had he started swearing in English?
Oh, Mark, what have you done?
Mary Beth believed in her brother with every ounce of her being. Mark was good—there was no argument there. But she remembered how frightened Paul Martens had been when faced with Mark. She hadn't thought about that in ten years except in terms of how lucky she'd been to learn the truth. She had deliberately pushed aside the menacing, dangerous Mark who'd forced the truth from Paul with a single look.
Eighteen-year-olds should not be allowed out of their rooms, Mary Beth concluded as she recalled the past. That was how old she'd been when Paul had swept her off her feet. They had met at an embassy party. Older, sophisticated, elegant, Paul was at home in his surroundings. Mary Beth had been awed by him. The awe lasted until the moment he'd been confronted by Mark and two Marine embassy guards. Mark had been the one who'd saved her.
As she stripped and stepped into the shower, she was determined to remember everything he'd said to her in his letters. It was her turn to save him.
Frantic pounding on his bedroom door made Nick stop undressing. He'd been about to take a shower. Instead, he pulled his jeans back on and opened the door. Mary Beth walked in, clad in jeans and a bulky T-shirt, her hair wrapped turban-style in a towel.
"When we see his safety deposit box, you'll believe me. Mark hasn't done anything wrong." She flashed him a grin, then held up the bankbook he'd seen at the hotel. "Otherwise, why would he tell me about it?"
"Mary Beth—"
"Don't you understand?" Her brown eyes were alive with excitement. "Mark must have left something there that he wanted me to see."
"Mary Beth," he said patiently, afraid she was getting her hopes up. "What do you hope to find?"
The excitement drained from her. "Something. Anything." The words left her lips on a whisper. "My brother?" With a small shaky voice, she added, "Alive?"
It was that questioning inflection that got to him. He opened his arms, inviting her to take what comfort he could provide.
With a quick breath, her golden eyes locked to his, and he took the few steps necessary to bring her within reach.
Her arms wrapped around his waist. Her head, still in the towel, rested on his shoulder. She didn't make a sound, but he could feel the wetness of her tears rolling down his bare chest and the soft strength of her woman's body, so warm against him.
He wished he didn't remember how well she'd fit before, didn't know how well she fit now. He wanted to relish the feel of her, but her quiet sobs stopped him. He recognized the pain. They had no idea whether her brother was dead or alive. He knew the finality of a death. Because of that, he couldn't give in to his need.
The towel tumbled off her head. Her hair, wet and tangled, felt cool against his neck. She allowed a single sob to escape, her cheek still resting on his shoulder. When she pulled away, just enough to swipe at the tears that had wet his skin, Nick came perilously close to groaning.
"I'm sorry," she sniffed, still wiping wet droplets from his collarbone and chest. Her lashes were spiked, her nose a little red.
How he ever managed to get any words past the lump in his throat, Nick would never know. Empathy and passion warred inside him. "You can cry on my shoulder anytime," he said gently, feeling the lopsidedness of his own smile. He'd never had a smile hurt.
Mary Beth realized what she was doing when she felt the springy hair beneath her fingers.
She'd walked—stormed—into his room and hadn't noticed the way he was dressed. Half dressed. Too stunned to move, she looked at him, knowing she had never seen anything quite like Nicholas Romero. Broad shoulders tapered to lean hips. The jeans he wore hugged his thighs gently, emphasizing his maleness. And his chest—it was perfect. Not overdeveloped, just firmly muscled with a perfect sprinkling of dark hair.
Dark hair that arrowed down to a lean waist and disappeared beneath unfastened jeans.
"I'm so sorry." The words rushed f
rom her lips. But she couldn't quit looking at him. Her palms still tingled from the feel of resilient, well-muscled flesh.
He blinked several times, then opened heavy-lidded eyes to stare back at her. She sensed more than felt the movement of his right hand leaving her waist and moving up to cradle the back of her head. The room was suddenly small, lacking in oxygen. She licked dry lips moments before she saw his face descend toward her.
Time stood still. It seemed as if they were again on that patio, before Maria had interrupted them. But where that had been an experiment, one not carried to fruition, this was the promise kept. A sensual feast of taste and sensation, the only contact their lips, and his hand gripping her hair. Her own hands, hanging at her sides, were useless to her.
He was heat and male and solidity. She was waking up slowly. Waking up to the sensuality radiating from the hunger of his mouth on hers. Suddenly, her hands were no longer useless. Beneath her fingertips she felt the long, solid muscles of his back, the belt loops on his jeans and the gap between the waistband and the indentation of his backbone.
But his mouth was her undoing. Her thumbs caught the material of his jeans at the waist for support and she leaned into him. Want spun out of control, into eroticism and need. Feeding the sensations were his hands, cupping her bottom, pulling her against his wonderfully aroused body.
Nick was going to lose what little control he still had. Right here, right now. He couldn't stop clutching her to him, wanting to meld their bodies. The kiss wasn't enough, fiery as it was. Her heat beckoned him with a promise he had never thought possible. A promise he couldn't imagine. Even now, with the soft delectable feel of her unbound breasts beneath the worn cotton of the shirt she wore, the emotion of that promise was just out of reach.
But she'd come into his room to talk about her missing brother. He couldn't—shouldn't—do this. Because he cared about her. About the regal grace she used to handle situations she didn't like. About that hidden vulnerability. Because she loved her brother and would do anything for him.
He released his grip on her hips, moving with great care to cup her face, and slowly withdrew from the heat of her mouth. Staring down at her closed eyes, her lashes dark fans against the smoothness of her cheeks, her lips slightly damp and still parted from his kiss, he felt a sensation that was so close to an electric current running down the length of his body that he groaned.
To the Limit Page 7
