He'd carried her. She hadn't acted on her desires.
"There should be hot water in the shower," he said.
He wasn't even aware of her desires.
Nick pounded out his frustration on the nails he was driving into the frame of the sawmill. In his mind, he saw Mary Beth's relief when he told her he'd carried her to bed. Didn't she have any idea what picking her up and putting her down on his bed had cost him?
Even as he mechanically hammered another nail in place, the only things he could see were her long bare legs and the softness of her stomach where the cotton blouse had bunched as he'd lowered her onto white sheets. The way she'd curled to her side, smiling in comfort as her head rested where his had only moments before. He'd been overwhelmed with the need to lay down next to her, gather her close and find relief from the ache he felt.
"You are going to pound a hole in that board."
Nick came back to reality with a resounding thump.
Franco was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and laughter. "Did you sleep well?"
"Very well," he answered, grabbing another nail.
"You look like hell."
"Such an unpriestly thing to say."
"She is a beautiful woman."
He gave Franco an accusatory look. "Why couldn't I stay where her brother lived?"
"And leave her alone? You know better than that." Franco smiled broadly. "Who slept in the bed?"
"I did," he replied gruffly.
Franco smiled. "You are losing your touch, Nicholas."
"And you're not acting like a priest."
"Relax, Nick. I can see you—"
"You can see nothing."
"No?" Franco shook his head. "You have feelings for her."
"We're looking for her brother."
"What does he have to do with Daniel?"
He dropped the hammer to his side and looked at the man who'd helped him bury his brother. "I don't know."
"Juan—Mark—is a good man."
"How can you be sure he wasn't involved in something illegal? How sure can you be of any man's character?"
"You should know," Franco said. "You've seen the best and the worst."
"Most men fall in the middle." And the scales were tipped by unseen factors. Daniel's character depended on the ever-present fact that Antonio Vargas was his father.
As did his own.
Mary Beth sat on a dry boulder and turned the wooden figurine of a vicuna in her hands. Padre Franco had given it to her when she'd taken the dry clothes to his house.
Mark had made this carving. He'd taken time and care to create something beautiful. He'd never shown any indication of an artistic nature. Why had she never known he had this talent? It was fine to tell herself she hadn't seen him often in the ten years since they'd left their father's home, but that didn't answer all her questions.
What did he have to do with Daniel Vargas? Why were all these people looking for him? He wasn't a gunrunner, no way.
Was he?
She remembered how he'd looked that day with Paul. A stranger, not her brother. They'd never talked about it, about the things he hadn't told her about the man she intended to marry. In hindsight, she wondered how he'd discovered the truth about Paul.
"Maria," Rosario, the middle-aged cook, called to her from the edge of the river.
"¿Sí?" Mary Beth had surprised herself with her ability to speak Spanish again so quickly. She knew she had an accent, but Rosario didn't question that she was Juan's sister, come from Argentina to find him.
"It is time to eat."
Mary Beth put the vicuna in her skirt pocket and walked toward Rosario.
"Tu hermano es un artista," Rosario said. "He makes beautiful things."
"Did he have any close friends here?"
"He and el Padre play chess often."
"I mean…"
"Women?" Rosario shook her head. "No, I do not think so."
"Did he meet anyone here?"
"I do not know. He comes and goes many years now. But always he tells us he is leaving. That is why I worry, no? It is not like him to go away with no word."
"He didn't seem anxious before he left?"
"No. But Juan is the kind of man no one knows. He hides behind good looks and charm. There is much below the surface."
And that was precisely what Mary Beth worried about as she made her way to the sawmill for lunch.
She found the priest and Nick already seated at the coarse tables located under the protective overhang of the mill. One of Rosario's assistants served the workers as they lined up before her. Mary Beth queued up and waited her turn.
When she finally got to the table where Nick sat talking to Padre Franco, the priest said, "I hoped you would join us. I was afraid you were not hungry."
She laughed at that. "I'm starving."
"Didn't Nick feed you?"
She looked from the priest to Nick, who seemed to be boring holes into Franco with his eyes. "Yes, he did. But breakfast wasn't enough. I guess I'm not used to physical labor."
Padre Franco leveled his gaze at Nick as Mary Beth sat down. "You must take better care of her."
Nick shifted on the bench and stared at his food.
"He cooks very well," she said.
"Of course he does. Dona Elena insisted the boys learn to cook. They came here and worked like peones and learned to cook for the workers."
So that was why Nick's cooking was so good and effortless. And abundant. She'd eaten every bite of the chicken stew he'd made last night, surprised at her appetite.
"Your mother is an unusual person," Mary Beth said to Nick, hoping he'd look up.
He shifted on the bench. "I know." He took another bite of food.
"Have you heard how Dona Elena came to raise Nick?" Franco asked, his eyes moving from Nick to Mary Beth.
Nick's head jerked up.
"Nick mentioned some things."
Franco put down his fork. "Elena's brother, Enrique, married an American girl. But he died in a mud slide in Cien Fuegos. The girl, already pregnant, went to Elena's house when she learned of this. Of course, the child she carried was the Romero heir, Enrique being the only son. She gave birth to Nick, but died shortly after," the priest crossed himself. "Elena, her own son only two months old, chose to raise the boy."
Nick pushed his food around the plate, his jaw tense. Mary Beth couldn't understand why he objected to Padre Franco elaborating on what she already knew.
"Nick and Daniel were more brothers than cousins," the priest continued.
Mary Beth caught a flash of some deeper emotion in Nick's eyes.
"Of course, Daniel was a Vargas and had very little to do with the Romero fortune. That has been Nick's to deal with."
"That's enough, Franco," Nick said, putting down his fork.
The priest's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nick has too many responsibilities."
Mary Beth felt the tension between the two men. Laura had said something similar about Nick and the Romeros. That had made sense once she learned that he had claimed Daniel's son. But this seemed like more. She felt like she was intruding.
"I don't think—"
"I apologize," Padre Franco said, his gaze still fixed on Nick. "Nick knows I want him to find his own life. One that does not entail the duties he has accepted. One that will give him satisfaction."
"Duty is a part of life. You should know." Nick looked directly at the priest. "You could have had a carefree life in the city. Your family is wealthy, you could have married, had children. Instead you chose this."
"Ah, but Nicholas, this is my choice. Has your life been your choice?"
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Nick didn't like to think of choices. He'd never questioned the roles handed him. Everything he was, everything he'd become, was predicated by the circumstances of his birth.
He picked up a small pebble and skipped it across a deep pool in the river. Somehow, he'd managed to turn the conv
ersation away from Franco's attempts to analyze his life. Mary Beth had excused herself and spent the heat of midday helping Rosario. Nick walked upriver, away from the mission, thinking, remembering.
Doña Elena had taken in her husband's bastard child and treated him like a son. Everything she'd done for Daniel, every ounce of her love for her child had been equally dispersed to Nick. He had no doubts he was loved. But she could not take away the stigma of a boy with no father.
For thirteen years he'd believed the fairy tale Elena Vargas had told him: that he was Enrique Romero's son. Then he'd overheard a particularly bitter argument between General Vargas and Doña Elena. Elena wanted a divorce. She wanted out of the sham of her marriage, wanted to raise her sons her way. The general had told her she could do as she wanted with Nick. The general would never acknowledge him as his own, she should be glad he'd provided a Romero heir for her useless family. And before leaving the house, the general had told his wife that if she persisted in asking for a divorce, he would tell the whole world that Enrique Romero had no child, that the boy living as a Romero was nothing more than a street urchin. The general's words had turned Nick into a man.
Confused, he had run to the boy he considered his cousin. Daniel told him he was glad to have him as a brother and urged a confrontation with the general, one that had broken whatever tenuous connection existed between Daniel and his father. Nick and Daniel had grown even closer then, their everyday rivalries played out more for the joy of brotherhood than out of any competitiveness. Dona Elena sensed the change in both boys and, when they confessed they knew the truth, swore them to secrecy. She refused to insist on a divorce, claiming that the Romeros needed Nick. Now, clearer than before, he saw her decision for what it was: protection and a future for the boy she raised and loved. The only people who knew about his parentage were Dona Elena and the general.
Daniel had carried the secret to his grave. Unable to handle his grief and anger, Nick had told Franco the truth on the day they buried Daniel.
From that day on, Franco did not shy away from giving him the benefit of his opinion. He should step back, the priest said, from the obligations imposed on him by the name he'd been given. When challenged, Franco reminded Nick that he owed him the courtesy of listening. Owed him because it had been Franco who'd stopped him from killing the general that day.
He squatted down and splashed water on his face. It was time to go back to work. Back to pretending he was Manuel, the carpenter, married to Maria, the washerwoman. If only it were that simple—that these were the only pretenses in his life.
Hours later, Nick felt hot and miserable. He'd bashed his thumb. Twice. He opened the front door of the cabin and found Mary Beth sound asleep. Her head rested against the back of the faded couch, her hands lay lax in her lap. She'd pulled her skirt up to her thighs to allow her to bend her legs under her and untie the blouse closure, barely exposing the white lace of her bra. The top swells of her breasts moved with every breath she took. Each of his breaths forced heavy heat through his body.
He wanted to laugh in frustration. With one last long look at her, he stalked to the small bathroom and stripped off his shirt. Tossing the thing to one side, he turned on the shower. It gurgled and spit water out onto the metal floor. He turned it off and tried again. Nothing.
"It's not working?" Mary Beth's voice surprised him.
He turned to see her standing behind him, clutching her blouse closed and peering over his shoulder.
"No."
She looked so forlorn. He understood the feeling. He really needed a cold shower. A very cold one.
"We can bathe in the river."
"The river?"
"There's a waterfall a few hundred feet downriver. I'll show you."
"I'll get soap and a towel."
This was a mistake. Mary Beth had been so eager for a bath, she hadn't thought beyond the cool water. Now she stood on the banks of the river, near a deep, clear pool. On the other side, a five-foot-high waterfall poured over Nick's head and bare back. She could see the flexing of his muscles as he scrubbed with the bar of soap.
Only a few minutes earlier, she'd watched him put aside the leather holster he'd brought with him as he sat to pull off his boots. She'd turned her back then, knowing if she continued to watch, he'd notice her mouth hanging open.
"Where's the shampoo?" he yelled over the roar of the falling water.
She couldn't answer. He took her breath away.
"Mary Beth?" he shouted.
"Yes," she managed to say. "I've got it. Right here."
"Toss it to me."
No way was she going to throw the bottle that far. It would fall in the river and they'd lose it.
She had to get in sometime. Now was as good a time as any. "Turn around!" she called.
She stripped off the wilted blouse and skirt. A last-minute suffusion of heat prompted her to keep her underwear on. She would pretend it was a bathing suit.
Taking a deep breath, she dived in and swam toward the falls. The water felt chilly and invigorating. She stopped a few feet from Nick in waist-high water and crouched down, careful to keep her chest beneath the surface of the swirling water.
"Here," she said, holding out the shampoo.
Stepping out from under the falls, Nick turned. Just above the rippling water, Mary Beth could see his navel. Water droplets glistened on his beautifully sculpted chest. With his hair plastered to his head, he looked sleek and imposing.
Tempting.
"Catch," she said, her voice a hoarse croak, and tossed the shampoo toward him.
Nick caught the bottle, his fingers curling around the plastic. Good thing he was in waist-deep water. He had thought the cold would render this particular response impossible.
And it was all because Mary Beth crouched ten feet away, water up to her chest, hiding her breasts. Across her shoulders he could see the straps of the white bra she'd kept on. He hated to think what his body's reaction would have been if she'd taken it off.
Below the churning water, the white lace of the cups had been rendered translucent by the water. Her nipples, dark and puckered, strained against the lace. His breath caught. His mouth watered. His pulse beat low in his body.
She stood, hugging her arms to her body, and licked water from her lips. He groaned. Helplessly, he stepped forward, his eyes locked to hers. He stopped a foot away and placed his hands on her shoulders. She didn't flinch, didn't protest, and moved closer.
He didn't want to misunderstand that simple move. "Your decision," he said, trying to keep a clear head.
"My decision," she repeated, her golden eyes dilated.
He toyed with one bra strap, wanting to be sure she understood, wanting her choice to be the one that led them to the inevitable. She touched his fingers and pulled down that strap, then the other. The bra fell around her waist. The sight of her beautiful, full breasts covered in shimmering drops of water made heat course through his body. He pulled her into his arms, feeling the hard little nipples against his chest. Then he tilted her head back and took her mouth.
Her body shivered against his; her mouth felt like a furnace. He ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom. He felt the disappointment of cloth. She'd kept her panties on, too, but it wasn't enough to make him stop. Instead, he felt a greater urgency, the agony of the kiss beyond his control, a hunger beyond his comprehension. She reached up, looping her arms around his neck, straining for closeness. He crushed her to him, their mouths locked together.
Breaking the kiss, he looked down at her slumberous eyes. She looked wanton. And ready. God knows he was. Readier than he'd ever been. Her breasts beckoned him. He let her lean back, supported her back and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue insistent against the sweet flesh, biting and sucking again. He repeated the movement with her other breast, until she grasped his hair, not to push him away but to pull him closer. She made delicious wanting sounds and wiggled against him, sending shards of flame through him.<
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He eased her down until she was no longer on tiptoes. Her nipples, wet now from his mouth, made him groan. Below the current he could see through the translucent white of her bikini panties. He put his hands on her hips and grasped the wet cloth, pulling down. She balanced herself, their eyes level, holding his arms, and stepped out. Then she fumbled with the bra, unhooked it, and let it float off with the panties. The sight of her, exposed to daylight, nearly brought him to his knees. He felt one of her hands trace the hair on his chest, touch a tight nipple and travel down to his waist. She paused, her eyes reflecting the green of the forest around them as they searched his for permission. He took her hand and moved it down.
Her hand skimmed him. He couldn't prevent the reflexive thrust of his hips, nor the need to pull her to him. He fitted their bodies together, his knees bent to bring him in contact with her feminine flesh.
She felt hot and slick. His mouth fastened to hers again as he thrust against her without entering her. Moments later she was gasping, her hands gripping his hips, her body moving in ecstasy against his, surprise pouring from her lips. Suddenly he felt her stiffen. And melt.
Then it hit him. He stopped, his body screaming, his mind tumbling down a deep tunnel of sudden clarity.
This couldn't happen. He would not repeat the mistakes of the past, would not break the vow he'd made when he'd learned the truth about himself.
He was doing what a man with no honor would do. What another man had done thirty-three years ago. He wanted Mary Beth Williams with every fiber of his being, but having her, a woman who needed commitment for this, no matter that she'd made the decision, would be wrong. He couldn't break the lifelong vow of silence he'd made. Couldn't abandon a family that had taken him in, given him everything. To have Mary Beth would mean doing just that. She would demand honesty. He couldn't give it.
In torment, he pulled away, struggling for control. When he opened his eyes, Mary Beth was staring at him, her eyes shadowed with passion.
"This can't happen," he managed to say through clenched teeth as desire ran rampant through his body. "We shouldn't do this."
She spun away, but not before he saw the pain he'd caused. He grabbed for her, his fingers sliding off her slick shoulder.
To the Limit Page 11
