Smiling, he said, "You could sit next to me."
She stopped fiddling with the blanket and looked up.
"We could even share the blankets." He couldn't really see her face in the dimly lit barn, but he could feel her tension.
"It's cold, Mary Beth."
"It's not that cold."
Nick almost laughed at her quick retort. "Do you think I'm so desperate I'll assault you in your sleep?"
She shifted, as if uncomfortable with what he'd said.
"Look." He paused. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. We both have reasons to continue—obligations, promises, if you will. We are adults. There is an attraction, but you set the limits."
"That's rather generous of you."
"Not really. I know what I want. The real question is what do you want?" He could tell he had her undivided attention. He did know what he wanted, that was true. It was something he couldn't have.
"I want to find my brother."
"That's not what we're talking about."
"That's what's important, what matters."
He felt compelled to make her acknowledge the passion that had flared between them. He refused to be alone in his wants. He stepped toward her, squatted down close enough to touch her and gently traced her cheek with his fingers.
"Is that all?"
Confusion seethed in her eyes. And yearning. He could see it as clearly as he felt the same pull in himself.
She took a deep shaky breath and pulled away. "I won't let anything interfere with finding Mark."
Mary Beth woke to the sound of a cow mooing. Heat encompassed her back from her neck to her legs. A heavy weight curled beneath her arm and against her breast. She revelled in the heat, then suddenly remembered where she was. And with whom.
Pushing the hair away from her face, she looked down to see Nick's strong arm curved around her. A stab of desire, so quick it startled her, speared her senses. He was wrapped around her, spoon fashion. The picture she conjured at the single sight of his arm would have made her blush if she'd thought he was awake. But she felt his steady breath against her neck and calmed herself.
He'd given her the power to decide where their "attraction," as he called it, would go. Nothing about him, nothing he'd said indicated any interest in permanence. He was simply being a gentleman and letting her decide. Or was he? As a diplomat, he knew better than most what it would take to get what he wanted. Even Dona Elena said he knew how to be persuasive. She didn't kid herself that he was here only to help her and Mark. He was here because his cousin was somehow involved. Practically, he was using her as much as she was using him.
But what did it really matter? She knew what kind of life he led. The kind of life she'd left behind ten years ago because she could not deal with half-truths and secrets. If she had the misfortune to find Nicholas Romero a lure too great to withstand, why worry where it went? She wouldn't get hurt as long as she didn't let herself expect anything from him. He'd do only what served his purposes. As long as he saw a need to save Mark, she'd get what she came for. She had to remain in control of her emotions.
She should kick herself for coming to such a simple conclusion. Nothing about this was simple.
She tried to move away. His arm tightened around her and his breathing altered.
"Did you sleep well?" His voice rumbled against her neck, sending shivers to her toes.
With gentle pressure he turned her onto her back so that she gazed directly into his eyes. He had no right to look so good. A shadow of beard roughened his features. Those blue eyes, so deep, pulled at her.
"Yes," she managed to say, and felt him stretch against her.
"Warm enough?"
Hot enough to sizzle. "Oh, yes." Was that her voice?
"Chabuca should be here shortly," he said softly. "We should get up." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
And then she knew he was doing just that, and not doing a very good job. Because he lowered his face to hers and, eyes fastened to her mouth, kissed her.
The contact, so soft and fiery, made her gasp. He caught the soft sound in his mouth and settled one strong thigh across her hips. She was melting against the blankets rumpled on the hay. His mouth, fierce and enticing, feasted on hers. The scratchy feel of his unshaven chin added texture to the fires of passion and woke her to what she was doing.
He was too complicated a man for her. She wished, desperately, that she could separate the physical from the emotional.
He pulled away, still close enough for her to see the curl of his lashes.
"Stop me now." His words reverberated against her tingling nerves.
She nodded slowly, unable to utter a word with the delicious feel of his body crushing her to the hay.
"Don't look at me that way," he ordered, then moved a hand to touch her lips. Suddenly, he sprang from their coarse bed.
When she'd composed herself enough to look at him, she saw arousal in the taut lines of his body.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. She was, but she wasn't sure if it was because she hadn't made up her mind or because he'd stopped so easily.
He looked down at her, the lips that had scalded her turned up slightly. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, his body sleek and perfect and enticing. With something akin to regret, he said, "So am I."
Chabuca was a pretty woman of around thirty. She did recognize Mark's picture. After looking at it, she stepped close to Mary Beth and examined her face.
"You are his sister, no?"
Mary Beth stood quietly, afraid to ask her million questions, afraid not to.
Nick asked his. "This is the man your uncle spoke of?"
"Sí, por cierto. Hair the color of honey. Is he well?"
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"He came looking for Capitán Daniel. I told Juan—that is his name, Juan Marco—the news. That he had been taken by the terrorists."
"What did he do?"
Chabuca blushed. "He stayed only a few hours, not for the night."
"Why was he looking for Capitán Daniel?"
"He did not say. But he…"
"What?" Nick prompted.
"It is a feeling only, señor, but I thought he would go after el Capitán."
"What made you think that?" Nick's voice sounded oddly tight.
"He asked for a radio and listened to the news about the Primero de Mayo. The reports spoke of ransom demands. He was very quiet. Very intense. Not the same."
Mary Beth remembered that same Mark, the Mark who had intimidated Paul Martens all those years ago.
"Did you hear from him again?" Nick asked.
"No. He said I probably would not."
"Gracias, Chabuca," Nick said.
Chabuca turned to walk away, then swung back quickly. "Señorita, the cross you wear—it is a family thing?"
"My brother sent it to me." Mary Beth touched the warm gold.
"Juan had one like it, but in silver. For luck, he said. He wore it always."
Mary Beth prayed he still wore it and that his luck would hold out.
Nick closed the barn door after Chabuca left.
"So Mark and your cousin met here. Often." Mary Beth sat on a bale of hay.
He shook the blanket they had slept on and put it in the back of the Rover. "Twice a month."
"Twice a month," she repeated.
He turned to meet her gaze, the sudden knowledge clear.
"That's it, isn't it?" she asked, grabbing her bag off the floor and rummaging until she pulled the papers they'd taken from Mark's safety deposit box. She unfolded the will, turning the document toward what little light came through the small window. "Every two weeks," she said, handing it to him.
Nick took the papers. Next to some dates were check marks. The last entry was dated a week before Daniel was captured.
"They're the dates of their meetings," she said.
He turned the will over, and a small piece of paper fluttered , to the grou
nd. "What's that?"
Grabbing it off the scattered hay, she held it up. "More numbers," she said quietly. "Different numbers."
Nick took the paper, an off-white carbon, from her fingers j and held it up to the light. "Anything you recognize? Telephone numbers?"
She examined it again. "No."
"They have letters and they're too long anyway," Nick said, wondering if the numbers were a code. He handed back the will. "Anything else in there? Any more notes in the margins of the pages?"
"No."
"Are the dates in Mark's handwriting?"
"Yes." She sounded sure.
He held the carbon for her to see. "What about these numbers—are these Mark's writing?"
She held the will up once again. "I don't… No. That's not his handwriting. Mark makes his eights upside down."
Nick touched her hand gently, angling the carbon so he could see it better. What he saw shook him. "That's Daniel's handwriting."
"If these dates are the dates of their meetings, then the numbers must mean something too." She took the carbon, studying the paper intently.
He agreed—but what? What could Daniel Vargas, special agent of the San Matean government, Ranger captain, have to do with Mark Williams, engineer, living in rural San Mateo pretending to be Juan Marco, carpenter? "Yes, they must."
The only explanation Nick could come up with was not a reassuring one: serial numbers. Guns.
"Where is this place Chabuca talked about? This mission?"
"It's about a two-hour drive, if we stay off the main road. North of here."
"On the way to the Rio Hermoso Valley?"
"Yes."
"We could stop there, see if it really was Mark, find the proof that will make everyone quit accusing him of things he didn't do. Otherwise, once I pay the terrorists the ransom, he'll be running from the Rangers and the Americans."
If he's still alive, Nick thought. If terrorists really were holding him. But he didn't voice this. He had to know what Daniel had been up to. There would be no way to protect him from this unless he did. No way to keep a childhood promise he'd broken once.
Nick stopped himself. Did he really have so little faith in Daniel that he'd already found him guilty of gunrunning? Was he projecting what he knew of the general onto his brother?
Nick stretched his neck, his hands steady on the steering wheel. How he'd managed to keep himself from taking what both he and Mary Beth wanted hours earlier made him wonder at the emotions he felt tangled deep inside. He knew exactly what to do to entice a woman. He'd done it countless times. But Mary Beth was different.
This woman was grace and polish and vulnerability. Something a man like him couldn't hope to touch because he could offer nothing but a life based on a lie. He cursed the fates for allowing him to see her, taste her, because he would go to his grave wanting her. He'd selfishly told her she had the final say in their relationship because he couldn't fight the want or the need. The only way to fight it was to empower her. She'd already been able to guess too much about him. He'd too easily admitted the truth about Alex. God help him if she somehow got any closer.
In that instant, driving across the flat, cold Andean plateau in search of her brother and his mysterious connection to Daniel, Nick realized the enormity of his mistake. Should she decide to take their relationship further, he wouldn't be able to walk away. Because if she took his body in passion, Mary Beth Williams would want more. And more was something he didn't have to give.
"What's this place like, this mission?" she asked.
"It's run by a priest. I suppose it's like your Peace Corps. He runs a sawmill and helps the people farm. There's a school, run by an order of nuns."
An hour later, they stopped beside a large lake. A small herd of llamas grazed in the distance while a local shepherd, dressed in typical Andean clothing, kept watch close by. Deep, dark, reflecting the blue of the sky, the lake was freezing cold, something Mary Beth learned when she washed her hands. But it felt so good that she washed her face, too, only to realize she didn't have a towel.
"Use this," Nick said, holding out a large white handkerchief.
She took it and dried her face, then her hands, and folded it again.
"You missed a spot." He took the kerchief from her and blotted at her temple.
Mary Beth felt a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, everything to do with Nick. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out his face. It did no good, only brought home how inept she was at handling the physical draw he represented.
The next thing she realized, she was encompassed in his warm embrace, a sob of frustration bursting for release.
"It's okay." Nick's soothing tone rumbled against her ear. "We'll find your brother. We'll do what it takes."
She looked up into eyes the color of the bright highlands sky and realized she was doing something she hadn't done in years.
She was risking her heart.
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Mary Beth adjusted the outback hat Nick had insisted she wear, saying her blond hair looked too out of place in this rural part of San Mateo. They'd left the lake and driven on. After about an hour, they stopped. He left the Rover in a thick grove of trees, positioned between boulders in an attempt to hide the vehicle before beginning their walk to the mission.
The temperature on this eastern descent of the Andes, at around six thousand feet, was warm and dry with a blazing sun and a nice breeze. All around were cattle and horse farms. As they approached the mission, Mary Beth could see a small market spread out in disorder from the church.
Dusty and tired from the long afternoon walk, she wanted a drink of water—and answers about Mark. A young nun, habit stiffly in place, directed them to the sawmill, down by a fast-flowing river no wider than twenty-five yards across. A priest, dressed in black, waved them over.
"Dios mío, Nicholas. ¿Qué haces aquí? Te están buscando." He looked at Mary Beth and nodded. "They are looking for you also, señorita."
Nick embraced the priest. "Who's looking for us?"
"Americans and a group of our Rangers. The Americans say they are here to save Miss Williams from danger."
"What about the Rangers?"
"Do you remember Francisco Arenales?"
"Yes. Why is he looking for us?"
"Nonsense about our great diplomat and the terrible mistake you have made by trusting a gringa gunrunner." He glanced apologetically at Mary Beth. "A million pardons, señorita."
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth, of course, Nick. That I have not seen you. Now I must think of another truth." He winked at Mary Beth. "The Americans are searching the area. Yesterday, the Rangers go to the Río Hermoso Valley."
"We are looking for someone. A man named Juan Marco."
"Oh?"
"We think he worked here as a carpenter."
"Would you remove your hat, señorita?"
The priest's polite words made Mary Beth glance quickly at Nick. When he nodded, she removed the hat.
"Ah, Juan Marco," the priest said. "A very good man. You look very much alike."
"Where is he?" Mary Beth interjected.
"He is gone. He left without a word … oh, a little more than two weeks ago. This is not like him at all. He always tells me he is going."
"You have no idea where he went?" Mary Beth jammed the hat back on her head.
"No. And the man who buys his work looks for him often."
"Man who buys his work?" Nick echoed.
"Sí, Nick. Juan carves animals. Beautiful animals. He sells them to a man who deals in artesanía, then he gives the money to the mission."
"He carves animals?" Mary Beth echoed.
Padre Franco nodded.
"Not my brother." She was sure of it. Mark couldn't sit still long enough to do anything like that.
"I will show you, yes?" He led them into the dark interior of the sawmill.
Mary Beth's shoes kicked up sawdust as they wound their
j way through machinery and lumber on their way to a small office. Inside, on a rough wooden table, stood three figures, j each no more than four inches long. One was a llama, one a vicuña and the last, a jaguar much like the one she'd bought.
She grabbed it and turned it over, looking for the artist's signature. And there it was, exactly like the one she'd seen on her jaguar. J.M. Juan Marco. John Mark.
Could Mark really have carved those exquisite figures?
"You recognize his work?"
Staggered by learning she knew her brother so little, Mary j Beth put down the jaguar and picked up the vicuña. "They're beautiful."
"Mary Beth," Nick said, "is this his work?"
"No." She looked from the vicuña to both men. "Yes. I mean, I don't—I didn't know he did work like this. I bought a jaguar the other day, in the city. It's a lot like this, with the same signature."
"Señorita," Padre Franco said, his voice kind, "Juan has many talents."
"Talents I didn't know about." Oh, Mark. What else do I not know about you?
"It is difficult to know one's brother, no?" He looked from Mary Beth to Nick. "You should be proud to be his sister." Padre Franco nodded. "You look very much alike."
"You said that before," Nick commented.
"Very much alike," the priest repeated.
Mary Beth started to explain, but Nick had picked up the figure of the llama.
"This is good work."
"I tell you, Nick, this man has a gift."
"How long have you known him?"
"He has come to the mission, on and off, for … oh, maybe two, three years."
"Is he politically involved?"
"Politically?"
"Any strong opinions?"
"No, not that I know. Juan is restless. Very capable, works very hard. Then he disappears. But he always tells me he is going."
"Was he here at the time Daniel died?"
Franco looked at him sharply. "No. He was not. He had been gone, maybe a week. He was here when I got back from Daniel's funeral."
"Did he say where he'd been?"
To the Limit Page 9
