"No."
"Did he stay?"
"Only one day. He said he had business. I did not see him until I went to Daniel's house to get his things for you."
"He was in the valley?"
"He was in Daniel's house," the priest answered.
Nick shook his head. "Did he say why?"
"He said he thought someone else lived there, then he helped me gather Daniel's things."
Mary Beth put her hand on Nick's arm. "We have to go there."
"You cannot go now. The rains. They are very strong. There are huaycos—how do you say, Nick?"
"Mud slides."
"Yes, mud slides. The only road to Los Desamparados is blocked. You cannot go until this is cleared. The Rangers, they are trapped on the other side."
"Can we stay here until the road opens?"
"We must hide you well, no?" He smiled at Mary Beth and clasped Nick's arm, leading them both out into the sunlight again. "You will stay in the small house, downriver. No one will look there. Where is your car?"
"I left it hidden. It's an hour's walk away."
"Good. Good. You must do something to look less like yourself, no? Perhaps do not shave?"
"What about Mary Beth? What do we do about her?"
Mary Beth had listened to the exchange in silence. Now, she felt compelled to talk. "I'll keep the hat on."
"Not good enough," Nick said. "They'll spot you in a minute." He pulled her hat off her head and looked up at the sun, shading his eyes. "Does Rosario still work for you?"
"Sí, yes, of course."
"Ask her for her hair coloring."
"What?" Mary Beth said, trying to stop such a crazy idea. "I'm not dying my hair."
"Would you rather the Rangers find you?"
She looked at him. His beard wouldn't take long to grow out. Not having shaved in two days he already looked like an outlaw, not like Nicholas Romero.
But he was right. She was too easily identifiable.
"Yes, ask her for the dye."
Black hair made Mary Beth look wanton.
It was the last look Nick wanted for her.
Against the black of her hair, her light brown eyes looked golden green. Rosario had also provided a long bright-blue skirt and a white peasant blouse that belonged to her daughter. When Mary Beth put those on, Nick wanted to groan.
He'd felt her breasts when he'd held her, seen their shape when he'd looked—a temptation he'd been unable to fight. But in the stark white of the simple peasant blouse, a single tie closure at her cleavage, Mary Beth's breasts were perfect. With the fabric too thick for him to see through, he caught himself thinking like a teenager. Did she wear a bra?
"No, I don't," she said, shaking her head.
"What?" He nearly jumped up from the chair where he sat.
"I don't want to wear the sandals."
"Oh." He'd asked if she wanted to wear the sandals Rosario had given him. Embarrassed by his juvenile thoughts, he struggled to clear his mind.
"Tennis shoes are more comfortable." She gave him a puzzled look. "Are you okay?"
Never better. "Fine, I'm fine." He had to control his mind. His body. Parts of his body.
"What can we do about your eyes?"
"My eyes?" That wasn't where the problem was.
"They're blue."
It took him two full beats to understand. To tamp down desires that were wreaking havoc with his mind. "Yes, they are."
She put her hands on her hips and looked up at him, a frown on her face. "You thought my hair was too light. Well, your eyes are too blue."
"I'll keep the sunglasses on."
"Better wear a hat, too."
"Why not a bag over my head?"
"Good thinking." She smiled, on the verge of laughter, until she saw his frown. "What is wrong with you?"
For one improbable moment he felt tempted to grab her hand and make her feel what was wrong, but Franco opened the door of his own kitchen and came inside.
"Very good, señorita," Franco said, admiring her hair.
"Mary Beth, please."
"Oh, that will not do. You must answer to Maria, now."
"It's too close to her own name." Nick's cross words surprised even him.
Franco frowned at him. "There are so many Marias, one more will not matter."
"What about Nick?" Mary Beth asked.
"He will be Manuel."
"Okay. So we're Maria and Manuel," Nick said.
"You are my new carpenter." Franco beamed.
Mary Beth looked at Franco. "But Nick can't—"
"You would be surprised at what Nick can do—no, Nick?" Franco laughed.
"You start now." Franco opened the door, letting in bright sunlight. "We are building another sawmill across the river."
"What about me?" Mary Beth asked.
"Maria, you are the new lavandera, the … washerwoman."
By six o'clock that afternoon, Mary Beth vowed to never wear blue jeans again. They were heavy and hard to wash by hand. Especially since she had to do the washing squatted down, ankle deep in the river.
She watched some of the local women wash, amazed at their ingenuity. They used low flat boulders as washboards and lay the clothes to dry on larger boulders. Of course, they only had to wash their own family's clothes, while she had to wash the clothes worn by the five men who worked at the sawmill. It was one of their perks.
On the other side of the river, the men were framing in the new sawmill. Padre Franco directed the effort from below, while two workmen, one of them Nick, hammered in huge cross beams. Men's laughter filled the air as they struggled under the weight of the lumber. Nick fit in as if he were born to the effort.
Mary Beth stood, rubbing her lower back, then bent down again to pull up the eighth pair of jeans she'd washed this afternoon. That's when she saw the Jeep.
It splashed across the shallowest part of the river. Inside were four men, three of them in camouflage fatigues. The fourth man looked vaguely familiar, but at this distance, Mary Beth couldn't see his features, only that he wore khaki slacks and a white shirt. When the driver pulled to a stop next to Padre Franco, the civilian got out of the Jeep to shake his hand. Nick and one other workman continued hammering at an upper beam while the priest and the man talked. The driver held a short rifle across his lap. Heart in her throat, she shielded her eyes from the sun and stared.
Then as suddenly as they'd come, they left, splashing back across the river, never even glancing her way. She'd grabbed the wet jeans she'd been washing, before the silt stirred up by the Jeep could reach her. Now she wrung them out and placed them alongside the other seven pairs to dry. She stretched her back muscles again.
"Need a back rub?" Nick's voice startled her. He'd waded across the river, boots in hand. From the knees down, his jeans were soaked. He raised his sunglasses to his head.
"I hope you don't expect me to wash those now. Clothes should be outlawed."
He laughed, his eyes flashing, his face shadowed by the stubble of his beard. "Lack of clothes would certainly change a lot of things."
He was teasing, of course, but a delicious vision crept into her head anyway. She knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. "That's not what I mean," she replied as primly as possible.
"Come here, niña.'"
He'd never used any term of endearment with her before. The use of "girl" didn't do much for her, until she realized the tone he'd used. That made her shiver. And made her gravitate toward him despite his teasing. He stepped behind her and rubbed her shoulders, gently massaging away the stiffness. Then he anchored her in place by putting one arm across her collarbone before his other hand slipped to her lower back.
His breath, warm against the back of her neck, the weight of his arm around her, his fingers working their magic on her overused muscles, made her want to lean against him.
Minutes later, he stopped, the hand on her back caressed instead of rubbed, and she felt more of his body heat as he seemed to get closer. Then he broke the co
ntact.
"Come on, let's go to the house." His voice sounded rougher than usual.
It took a moment for Mary Beth to come back to reality.
When she did, she remembered what she'd intended to ask. "Who were those men? What did they want?"
"That was your friend, Elliot Smith, from the American embassy."
"The one who wanted me to leave San Mateo?"
"One and the same."
"What did he want?"
"To find out if Juan Marco had come back. And to find you."
"What does he have to do with Mark?"
"He claims he's trying to stop a gunrunning operation."
"Does he have the authority to do that? I thought that was the San Matean government's job."
"Normally, yes. But the Americans are very involved in trying to stop the drug trafficking in South America. Part of your war on drugs. Smith is investigating what he calls an offshoot of that, with soldiers he says are part of a small advisory U.S. Army unit stationed here."
"When he asked about Mark he was really checking to see what I knew," she speculated.
"Franco said that my old Ranger friend Francisco Arenales is looking for both you and Mark. With Smith out here and Arenales in the Rio Hermoso, we are between the two interested groups."
She shivered at the use of "we," though they had been in this together for a while now. "Why aren't they working together?"
"That's what I'd like to know. Smith shouldn't be out here without a San Matean escort."
"They're both looking for Mark. Can they have such bad intelligence that they really don't know about the kidnapping?" What if, in their rush to capture Mark, they caused his death? They had to be stopped. Proof of Mark's innocence would force them to help her. "Since we can't go on until the rain lets up and they open the road, we could ask around. See if we can find some information that will clear Mark."
"Play investigator?"
"It's not a game," she argued.
"No, it's not," he agreed. "We'll start in the morning. Let's go eat."
"Wait—my clothes."
"It won't rain tonight. They'll be safe. You can get them tomorrow."
They walked away from the sawmill, past the market and into the woods. Nick seemed to know his way down the small trail that wound next to the river. The sound of rushing water echoed through the thick growth.
"You've lived here before, haven't you."
"My mother used to bring Daniel and me during school vacations. We lived with the laborers and did what they do."
"That must have been rough for two city boys," Mary Beth said, stepping over a huge tree root.
Nick held a branch away from her. "We hated it when we were sixteen. We wanted to go to parties—"
"Meet girls," she interjected, and immediately regretted her words.
He looked back at her with a smile. "Yes." He let go of the branch as she passed. "At the end of two weeks, we were exhausted. It was hard work. We swore we'd never come back, but we did, every year until we finished college."
"Where did you go to college?"
"Boston."
At her lifted eyebrow, he added, "Harvard."
She should have known. "What about Daniel?"
"Daniel stayed here." He stopped, looking up a straight, tall tree, and pointed. "We used to climb up trees like this to see who would get to the top first. I'm surprised we didn't break our necks." His gaze traced the length of the tree back down. "University made us grow apart." He started walking again. "No, it wasn't that. We made different choices, had different influences."
"The general."
"Yes, the general." He sounded tired.
"And the fact that Daniel became a soldier while you became a peacemaker."
"No, that didn't change anything. We both know—knew—the need for soldiers. Daniel knew how to negotiate. I was a Ranger, too, for a while. A long time ago."
Just how much had those news wire articles left out about Nick? Mary Beth wondered.
The tiny, wood-framed house—a bungalow—sat back about fifty yards from the river. Thick forest surrounded it, isolating it from any passersby. This was where they would spend the night. Inside, the unfinished wooden floor seemed clean and well cared for, as did the kitchen with its small table draped in red vinyl.
"Do you know how to light this thing?" she asked, walking toward the kerosene stove.
"Yes, but I'll have to go back for food. I don't think there's anything in the cabinets." He opened the cupboard above the sink, revealing cans of vegetables and tuna. "How's your tuna casserole?"
"Not too good. What else is there?"
He opened another cabinet. "Nothing. I'll go back and get some other things. I'll cook tonight."
"What's the rest of the house like?"
"There's a bedroom over here, with an adjoining bath."
There was. A single bedroom with one double bed. Mary Beth stood in the doorway, staring at the mosquito netting, wondering how she was going to survive this. "I'll sleep out here." She pointed to the rather disreputable-looking two-seater couch.
"I can—"
"I insist." She looked up at Nick. "It's too small for you."
"It's too small for anybody."
It was too small for a gnat.
Mary Beth twisted uncomfortably on the monstrous little couch. Her back hurt and the tea she'd had with the dinner Nick had cooked had gone right through her. She had to go to the bathroom.
The one inside the bedroom where Nick now slept.
She sat up and stretched, rubbing her lower back. The moon shone through the single window, a silver surge of light in the darkness. She stood and looked out into the night forest. A cool breeze blew around her and she hugged herself, slightly chilled.
She really had to go to the bathroom.
She looked around but couldn't see her skirt, so she retied the closure on a clean, borrowed blouse that hung to her hips, identical to the one she'd worn all day, and hoped for the best.
With extra care, she tiptoed to the open bedroom door and looked in. Moonlight pooled in a white glow on the bed in the center of the room. Nick lay sprawled on his back, behind the gauze of the mosquito netting, his arms open. Darker shadows centered on his broad chest and beneath his arms. She couldn't bring herself to look past his flat stomach.
She stepped into the room, prepared to leave if he woke. Another step brought her closer to him. Behind the netting, his chest rose and fell with his steady breathing, the white sheet stark against the bronze of his skin.
She walked past the bed, trying to keep from looking at him, and made her way quietly into the bathroom. Somehow, she managed to close the door.
When she came out, he'd moved—rolled to his side toward her, the sheet tangled across his hips, the outline of his legs shadowed in the moonlit room.
She couldn't help herself. She stopped and stared.
His black hair shone blue in the ethereal light. His lashes cast shadows on his angular cheeks. And his chest. Oh, his chest…
Embarrassed, she walked out quickly, eager to push aside the butterflies she felt.
She just needed sleep.
She didn't need Nick Romero.
Nick took a deep breath and tried not to move. She didn't wear a bra beneath the blouse. At least, not when she slept. The erotic sight of Mary Beth walking out of his room, her body bathed in moonlight, the cotton translucent, went beyond any fantasy he'd ever had.
What was he going to do about Mary Beth Williams?
Stay the hell away from her, he told himself.
Damn.
Mary Beth stretched and rubbed her back. Rolling to her side, she adjusted the pillow beneath her head and caught the fresh scent of Nick. Sleepily, she remembered how he'd looked beneath the white mosquito netting. Those thoughts let her doze off.
She shifted her legs against the cool sheets.
Cool sheets!
Her eyes flew open and she cringed at the brightness of the morning. The
brightness beyond the mosquito netting of Nick's bed.
A surge of adrenaline brought her up off the mattress. But she was alone in the room, the bed a tousled mess, the netting pushed aside. Glancing outside, she realized it was light.
How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was tossing on the tiny couch, fighting the image of Nick sprawled on the bed.
Had she crawled into bed with him? Had he left when he'd discovered her next to him? She felt the hot flush of embarrassment.
She walked to the bedroom window and saw Nick walking toward the house through the huge trees. Shirtless, he wore the same black jeans and heavy boots he'd worn the day before. His hair was wet, a towel slung over one shoulder. Over the other, he carried a leather holster that held one of the guns he'd brought. His chest, the chest that had so tempted her the night before, glistened with droplets of water. She swallowed. Hard.
She ran into the living room, grabbed her skirt and managed to pull it up to her waist just as Nick opened the door.
"You're awake," he said, closing the door behind him.
"Yes." She wanted to run and hide.
"I hoped you'd sleep longer. I can't believe you were comfortable on the couch." His eyes lingered on her face before drifting down, leaving a trail of heat over every inch of her skin.
"Uh … no, I wasn't." She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other.
He smiled. "I went down to the river to wash up so I wouldn't wake you."
She nodded and tugged at her blouse. "Thanks."
"Are you okay?" He pulled the towel off his shoulder and stared at her, a twinkle in his eyes.
He had combed his hair back with his hands and trimmed his short beard neatly. He looked older, more powerful. Less civilized.
A bigger temptation.
"Mary Beth?"
"Oh—" she tried to gather her wits "—yes, I'm fine." Sort of.
He put the towel down on a chair and stood in front of her. "Do you remember getting into my bed?"
"I—I got into your bed?" she stammered.
"Not exactly." Casually, he pushed her hair behind her ear. "I got up and found you mashed to fit the couch, so I transferred you."
"I didn't—"
"You probably had a couple of hours of sleep there."
To the Limit Page 10
