"Leave me alone!" The broken sound of her cry rose above the crashing falls.
"Mary Beth, please."
Without turning, she continued, her voice under control, hugging herself. "My choice, you said. We should have left it at yours."
He'd hurt her. And himself. It didn't matter whose choice it was. "It would be a mistake."
Mistake? How could something like that be a mistake? Mary Beth rubbed herself roughly with the towel she'd brought. She'd managed not to respond to Nick's appraisal of the situation, not that there was anything she could say.
She'd never felt anything like this. Never known anyone like Nick. Paul Martens had claimed he wanted her to be a virgin on their wedding night. She hadn't argued because she hadn't known what to want. Of course, Paul only cared about f her as a source of information, not as a woman.
In the intervening years she had occasionally felt arousal at something she read or saw in a movie. She'd had what she'd called her obligatory romance, convincing herself that affection was enough to carry her through. It had, but all she'd succeeded in doing was hurting a perfectly nice man, knowing she hadn't been honest with him or with herself.
But she'd never felt this, this … heat. This wanting. And yet Nick had said it would be a mistake.
A mistake.
"Mary Beth?"
She wanted to ignore him, scream and cry. Make the whole incident disappear.
"Are you okay?"
No, she wasn't. She wanted to tell him so. She wanted to hide.
"Let's walk up to the house. We'll talk." His voice came from beyond the shroud of trees.
"I don't want to talk." She knew she sounded petulant. She couldn't help it.
"We have to."
"There's nothing to say."
"There's plenty to say."
She was not only embarrassed, she was devastated. Because she wanted him, really wanted him, while he could stop.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself together, taking control of the situation. "I'm going back to the house."
"Mary Beth." His tone was soft, cajoling.
She heard him move, heard him part the bushes she'd hidden behind. She didn't want to look at him, but she stiffened, held the towel tightly around herself and turned. He was already wearing his jeans.
"I've—"
"Please stop," she said, sure she would cry if he said anything.
"I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you."
She felt his words deep in her stomach.
"There's no way to protect you."
It took her a moment to understand. Pregnancy? He was thinking of pregnancy? Shocked at her own carelessness, she dared meet his gaze, searched the blue depths for the truth and saw it. And something else. Something deeper. More intense than any emotion he'd ever allowed her to see.
Regret.
And she knew that no matter the circumstances, no matter the availability of protection from pregnancy, he would never love her.
Nick stalked back to the bungalow. Frustration and anger battled with the knowledge that he'd nearly lost control.
His own affairs were for pleasure, not for commitment, and every woman he'd ever been with knew it. Mary Beth wouldn't know how to deal with such an arrangement. He'd never wanted anything else. Until now—when it would destroy the foundation of so many lives.
Because Mary Beth Williams was the sort of woman who would want honesty and a tomorrow. He could give her neither.
The reality of General Antonio Vargas made it all impossible.
But God, how he ached.
The vision of her, the remembered feel of her, the pleasure, all combined to make him hard again. With sudden clarity, he realized that even if he could have her once, really have her, it wouldn't be enough. She meant too much.
To save her pride, he'd used the concern for an unwanted pregnancy, but he'd never even thought of it. He hadn't thought about anything except getting inside her.
He pulled on clean clothes, jerking a shirt over his head. He would be gone by the time she got back. Gone so she wouldn't look into his heart and see the truth. She'd proved she had the ability to do just that. He had to get a grip on the situation. Had to focus on the reasons they were here.
Mary Beth wanted to find her brother, Nick wanted to protect his. Only one thing really mattered: Daniel's connection to Mark Williams had to be found or Nick would fail his brother.
Again.
Nick's questions took him to the market. Juan Marco had no woman here. The old women who sold vegetables all agreed. He was a loner. A friendly, good-natured man who had no close friends. A man who'd disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared. Then another woman remembered that Juan had formed a friendship with an old man and his grandson. He'd even helped them with their house. That woman directed Nick to a boy named Beto, seated on a blanket at the edge of the market.
He was thirteen or so, good-looking, with the angular features that indicated he was on the verge of maturity. Before him lay used magazines and comic books. Nick squatted down to look at the old titles. The boy stared at him, wide-eyed.
"How much?" he asked, fingering an old Spider-Man comic.
The boy mumbled a price, his black eyes intent on Nick's face.
Nick took the money from his pocket and handed it to the boy. "I am looking for Juan Marco," he said, dropping the coins into the boy's palm.
Silence met his question.
"I am told you know him."
"Sí." Beto eyed him suspiciously. He put the change into his pocket before speaking. "Is that woman his sister?"
"Yes, she is."
"They are much alike, no?"
"What do you know about Juan?"
Nick had nearly given up waiting when the boy finally spoke. "He was taken. With my grandfather."
"What are you talking about?"
"El rubio, the man called Juan Marco, he was taken with my grandfather."
"By who?"
"Men." The boy straightened his shirt. "Rangers."
"Why did they do this?"
He raised one thin shoulder. "El rubio was with my grandfather. They make him take his tools."
"Tools?"
"My grandfather is a printer."
"You've done nothing about this?"
"What am I to do? I cannot go to the Rangers and ask about my grandfather. I cannot go to the Guardia." Beto shook his head in defeat. "There is no one who can help."
"Where did the Rangers take your grandfather and Juan?"
"To the stockade."
Nick looked at the meager supply of magazines and comics. This boy would starve unless he had help.
"Where are your parents?"
"Dead," Beto replied, his eyes dark.
There, but for the grace of God and Elena Vargas, was what he could have become. "Go see Padre Franco. He will help you."
Mary Beth walked toward the sawmill. She didn't know what she'd do when she got there, but there was no way she was going back to the cabin. At least not now. She wouldn't risk running into Nick yet.
As she neared Padre Franco's house, she saw the priest come out and get into his battered pickup. He waved and she walked up to him.
"Where is Nick?" he asked.
"At the cabin."
"I'm surprised he let you come out by yourself."
"I, uh … thought I'd see what there is at the market." She wondered if the priest could sense lies.
"I am on my way to visit a nearby village. I will be back late tonight." Padre Franco seemed to assess her. "Are you sure everything is all right?"
"Yes, of course." But Mary Beth felt a flush along her cheeks.
"Nick is a good man, Mary Beth. He will not let you down. He will help you and your brother."
But at what price to her heart? Mary Beth wondered as the priest waved and drove off down the dirt track.
She'd walked most of the way to the market when she heard the rumble of an engine. As she made the final turn along the dusty pa
th, a Jeep come to a screeching halt in front of an old woman's vegetable display. Inside were Elliot Smith and the three American soldiers who'd come by the day before. They stopped and asked questions. More than once, Mary Beth saw an old woman shake her head, or a young boy mouth the word no.
Afraid to draw attention to herself, she kept walking slowly. The men didn't seem to notice her. She managed to reach one of the low benches where a young woman displayed her weaving. Idly, she touched one of the ponchos and tried to j listen to the nearest soldier as he asked his questions, but all she could pick up was the word rubio. Blond. That was enough for her to know they were still looking for Mark.
Somehow, she remained calm. As quickly and as efficiently as they'd arrived, Smith and the soldiers regrouped and drove j away.
She put down the poncho she'd been holding and walked over to the woman who sold vegetables.
"Buenas tardes," she said.
"Buenas tardes, señorita."
"How much for the bananas?"
The woman made her an offer and Mary Beth countered. They haggled over the price of two apples, then Mary Beth asked about the men. "What did they want?"
"They look for your brother."
"Do you know where my brother is?"
"No, señorita, we do not. Two weeks ago the Rangers also look for him," the woman said. "Your brother is a good man."
The words echoed in Mary Beth's mind as she walked back toward the cabin with her fruit. Mark was a good man. She'd always known that. But she hadn't known about his life here. A gift for carving wood into beautiful figures was one thing. Being involved in something that elicited accusations of criminal activity was another. What in the world had brought Mark to this place?
It was nearly dark by the time she reached the cabin and steeled herself for that first awkward encounter. She opened the front door to the cabin and stepped in, calling out, "Nick!"
He wasn't here. Looking around, she noticed a single sheet of paper on the small kitchen table. When she picked it up, Nick's writing, bold and strong, read: "I will be back late tonight. Maybe in the morning." A single scrawled N finished the note.
He wanted to see her even less than she wanted to see him.
The late-night breeze stirred the bushes surrounding the Rangers' stockade. Nick cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in the window, his boots sinking in the soft earth. He'd slipped past two guards and had managed to look inside two of the three buildings. One contained a holding cell, empty, the other, bunks, a bathroom and a kitchen. The entire thing looked abandoned, with no one in sight but the two guards.
This building seemed as unremarkable as the other two he'd seen. Just an office with some communications equipment. He made his way to the corner of the building, careful of where he stepped, holding his Glock down at his side. He waited patiently for any sign of a guard, then peeked around the corner. No one was there.
He checked the first window but couldn't see inside. All the lights were off. He moved down to the second window. Here, the lights were on. And Nick saw something he'd only seen once before—when he'd bargained with terrorists.
Assault rifles. Machine guns. Grenade launchers. Guns and ammunition of every sort. None of them San Matean military issues. All spread out on a long table and across the floor.
A muffled sound drew Nick's attention. Turning quickly, he looked out into the darkness. Nothing.
He moved back to the corner of the building, waited twenty seconds and looked around.
The hot stab of pain in his back, on his lower right side, caught him unaware. Throwing his right elbow down, he turned, swinging his left arm toward his attacker's face.
A slashing pressure burst at his waist.
Mary Beth awoke with a jerk, her neck stiff from trying to sleep on the small couch. How she'd managed to even doze amazed her. She squinted at her wristwatch. Five minutes after five. The first light of day came through the window.
Curious to see if Nick had come back, she stood and tiptoed to the bedroom. The bed was empty.
She combed her fingers through her hair and stretched the kinks from her back. The couch was going to kill her.
Her first reaction to Nick's disappearing act had been anger. Then hurt. Now she simply felt tired. And edgy. She smoothed clammy hands down her thighs.
She'd give him a bit longer, then she'd go see if Padre Franco knew where he'd gone. Even if Nick was trying to avoid her, this was taking things a bit far.
A heavy thud from the side of the house made her jump. She ran for the duffel bag Nick kept in the bedroom. Her fingers shook as she pulled out a loaded gun.
She really was overreacting. It was probably an animal of some kind.
The second thud nearly made her drop the gun. She looked from one small window to the other. The light breeze billowed the cotton-print curtains. Outside, the sounds of predawn stopped.
Heart in her throat, Mary Beth moved to the front door. Why didn't this damn place have a back door?
Her fingers slipped as she turned the doorknob. The gun felt cold, the metal grip foreign.
She waited. Endless minutes.
And heard the heavy weight of something fall against the door, the groan of a wounded animal.
Torn between the need to see her terror and the need to flee, Mary Beth opened the door, her grip on the gun steady.
Nick lay sprawled on his back in the doorway, a bloodstain darkening his clothing from waist to thighs. Mary Beth's knees wobbled as she bent toward him. In the pale light, he opened his eyes, his face ashen.
"Have to get away." His voice was a rough whisper. His blue eyes, normally alight with life and intelligence, tried to focus on her.
"Oh, God, Nick!" She crouched down and touched his cheek. He felt cold and clammy beneath her fingers. That scared her more than the blood.
"No time," he muttered. "Got to get away." He struggled to sit, holding his left arm tightly around his middle. In his right hand he held his gun.
Maneuvering her shoulder under his right arm, she tried to support him as he stood. He weighed a ton.
"Tell Franco I'm hurt." He took the few steps necessary to reach the couch. "Bring his truck."
Mary Beth tried to ease him down, but he fell without a word. When she straightened, she felt the wet stickiness of his blood on her side and arm. She flicked on the light.
His head fell back against the couch. Perspiration glinted off his brow and his lips formed a straight line. His eyes were closed, his left arm glistened red.
She ran to the bathroom and grabbed all the towels she could carry. Kneeling before him, she pried the gun from his grip and tried to move his left arm from around his middle.
"Back," he protested weakly, fighting her hands.
"I've got a towel. Pressure should stop the bleeding."
His grip relaxed and he leaned forward, his head resting on her shoulder. She pulled his T-shirt up, trying to support his weight. A two-inch cut on his back, below his right lower rib, welled blood.
Mary Beth folded a towel into a pad and pressed it to the wound. "Lean back."
He fell back, his arms lax at his sides.
Blood had to be coming from somewhere else for there to be this much. She raised the wet shirt from his abdomen, pulling to get it out of his jeans. The copper-sweet smell made her light-headed, but she tugged until she could raise it.
Shakily, she grabbed another towel and wiped. The second wound, also on his right side, above his hipbone, looked longer than the one on his back. She made a pad of the towel and pressed.
Desperation made her calm.
"Nick?" She waited for some sign that he was awake.
He rolled his head to one side.
"If you can lie down, your weight will put pressure on the back wound. You can hold the towel on the front while I go for Padre Franco." But she didn't know if he could hold the towel. She only prayed he could.
He grunted and opened his eyes. They were nearly black. She should cover
him, keep him warm to stave off shock. If he wasn't already in shock. She didn't know. She knew nothing about emergency care.
"I'm sorry." His eyes were focused on her blouse.
She didn't understand.
"You're covered in blood…" His voice faded.
He was thinking of her when he was so weak? "Can you walk to the bed?"
Somehow, he stood again. Between them, they managed to get him to the bedroom. He fell on the bed. Mary Beth made sure both pads were in place and squeezed his blood-slick hand before leaving. Then she ran as fast as she could.
Praying he would still be alive when she came back.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Padre Franco's truck hit another pothole. Nick flinched but didn't seem to wake. They'd been on the road to the Land Rover for endless minutes, Padre Franco driving as fast as he could. Nick's last words had been to insist that Franco take them to the Rover and that Mary Beth drive them back into the mountains, away from the mission. Then, exhausted, he'd drifted into either sleep or unconsciousness.
Now he lay with his head in her lap. They'd wrapped him in blankets, but even the jeans she'd changed into offered no protection from the cold metal of the truck bed. Icy shivers ran through her body. Her legs felt rubbery from the distance she'd run. She held a pad on Nick's stomach. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but he had to have medical care.
The priest had told her where to go to find a doctor, one who could be trusted. She listened with every ounce of her being, afraid she'd get them lost.
Afraid Nick would die.
The sun rose over the horizon as the truck rolled to a stop, pulling in behind the hidden Rover.
"Remember," Padre Franco said as he helped her get Nick, stumbling, into the car. "Go east, around the lake. You will climb to around thirteen thousand feet. There will be an Incan ruin. Turn to the right there. It is a dirt road. Go to the second town and look for a low white wooden building. It will say Clinica in red letters. The doctor is a French-Canadian man named Jean Rousseau, a close friend of the family. Tell him no one must know it is Nick. I would go, but I must be here to cover for you."
To the Limit Page 12
