Mary Beth put the vicuña 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?”
“He didn’t seem anxious before he left?”
“No. But Juan is the kind of man no one knows. Guapo y carismático.”
Good looking and charismatic.
“There is much below the surface,” Rosario added.
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 rough 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. Doña Elena insisted her sons learn to cook. They came here and worked like peones—laborers—and learned to cook for them.”
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 didn’t. “I know.” He took another bite of food.
“Have you heard how Doña 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 mudslide in Cien Fuegos, deep in the jungle. The girl, 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 brothers more than cousins,” the priest continued.
Mary Beth caught a flash of some deeper emotion in Nick’s eyes when he looked up.
“Of course, Daniel was a Vargas and had very little to do with the responsibilities of a Romero. 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.”
Tension sparked between the two men. Mary Beth remembered that Cristina had said something similar about Nick and the Romeros. It had made sense once she learned that he had claimed Daniel’s son. But this seemed like more.
She glanced from one man to the other. “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 Eight
Nick picked up a flat pebble and skipped it across a deep pool in the river. Somehow, he’d managed to turn the conversation away from Franco’s attempts to analyze his life. Mary Beth had excused herself and was helping Rosario.
He 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.
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 stunned Nick.
Confused, he’d 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, their everyday rivalries played out more for the joy of brotherhood than out of any competitiveness. Doña 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, more clearly 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 Doña 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 had not shied 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.
Nick 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 María, the washerwoman. If only it were that simple—if these were the only pretenses in his life.
***
Hours later, Nick, hot and miserable, walked back to the cabin. He’d bashed his thumb. Twice. He opened the front door 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, bent her legs under her and loosened the blouse closure. The top swells of her breasts rose and fell with every breath she took. Each of those 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 sweaty shirt. After tossing the thing to one side, he turned on the shower. It gurgled and spit water onto the metal floor. He turned it off and tried again. Nothing.
“It’s not working?” Mary Beth’s voice surprised him.
She stood behind him, peering over
his shoulder, clutching her blouse closed.
“No.”
She blew out a breath, her shoulders sagged. 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 upriver.” He grabbed the soap. “I’ll show you.”
“I’ll get shampoo and a towel.”
***
Mary Beth had been so eager for a bath, she hadn’t thought beyond the cool water. But standing beside the deep clear pool on the bank of a creek that fed the river, she knew. This was a mistake.
Dappled sunlight played across Nick’s bare back. He stood beneath a five-foot-high waterfall, water pouring over his head and bare back. His muscles flexed as he scrubbed with a bar of soap.
“Where’s the shampoo?” he yelled over the rumble of the falling water.
She snapped her mouth closed, eyes riveted to him.
“Mary Beth?” he shouted.
“I’ve got it,” she managed. “Right here.”
“Toss it to me.”
No way was she going to throw the bottle that far. It would fall in the river and be lost forever.
She had to get in the water sometime. Facing him seemed like too much of strip tease act, so she turned her back and pulled off the wilted blouse and skirt. At the last-minute she decided to keep her underwear on.
As if a clothing kept her from wanting Nick.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, she walked into the pool, the bottom covered in smooth stones, and swam toward the falls. She stopped a few feet from Nick in waist-high water and crouched low, keeping her chest beneath the surface of the swirling water.
“Here,” she said, holding out the shampoo.
Nick turned away from the falls. 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 stood in the churning flow of the falls because his body was totally ignoring the fact that Mary Beth, squatting a few feet away, had kept her bra on. The straps, white against her smooth skin, led to the white lace of the cups rendered translucent by the water. Her nipples, rosy and puckered, strained against the lace. His mouth watered. His pulse beat low in his body.
She hugged her arms to her body and licked water droplets from her lips. He groaned. Helpless to resist her, 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 straightened.
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, needing to be sure she understood, needing her choice to be the one that led them to the inevitable. She reached behind herself, unfastened the bra, then touched his fingers to pull down the strap. The bra fell away. The sight of her beautiful, full breasts covered in shimmering drops of water made heat race through his body. He pulled her into his arms, feeling her hard little nipples against his chest. Then he cupped the back of her head and took her mouth.
She shivered against him, her mouth hot and wanting. He ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom. 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 understanding. 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, at her lips, puffy from their kisses. He lifted her, supporting her bottom, as she wound her legs around his waist. Then she leaned back and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue insistent against the sweet flesh, and bit gently. 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.
He eased her down until she was no longer on tiptoes. Below the current he could see through the translucent white of her bikini panties. He put his hands on her hips, grasped the wet cloth, and pulled down. She balanced herself, holding his arms, and stepped out. The sight of her, exposed to daylight, nearly brought him to his knees. One of her hands traced the hair on his chest, touched a tight nipple and traveled 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, his erection positioned against her sex.
Hot, slick, giving. He kissed her, rocking her against himself. 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 for relief, 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 another man had done thirty-six years ago. He wanted Mary Beth Williams with every fiber of his being, but having her, a woman who needed honesty, no matter that she’d made the decision to take him in passion, would be wrong. He couldn’t break the lifelong vow of silence he’d made. Couldn’t abandon a family that had given him everything. To have Mary Beth would mean doing just that.
She would demand the truth. He couldn’t give it.
In torment, he pulled away, struggling for control, his body burning with need. 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, desire a hot brand in his belly. “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.
“Leave me alone.” Her broken whisper, difficult to hear above the crashing falls, knifed through him.
“Mary Beth, please.”
Without turning, she continued, her voice seemingly under control, hugging herself. “My choice, you said.” She snatched at her clothes which floated nearby. “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 dried 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. Maybe she should thank him for her first climax in years. And he hadn’t even…
She’d never known anyone like Nick, never lost herself so easily. Paul Martens had used her as a source of information to betray his country. He’d never cared for her, neither as a person nor as a woman.
In the intervening years she’d dated several men and had enjoyed passion. She’d had one long-term relationship, if a year could be considered long-term, but had broken it off when she thought things were becoming too serious—on his side. After hurting a perfectly nice man, knowing she hadn’t been honest with him or with herself, she’d avoided emotional entanglements.
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, to scream and cry. To take back the last few minutes.
“Are you okay?”
<
br /> No, she wasn’t. She wanted to tell him so. She wanted to hide.
“We need to 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 he’d been able to stop, while she hadn’t.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself together, taking control of the situation. “I’m going back to the house.”
“Mary Beth,” he said his voice a caress across her chaotic emotions.
She heard him move, heard him part the bushes she’d hidden behind. She didn’t want to look at him, but she refused to be a coward. She held the towel tightly around herself and turned. He was already wearing his jeans, but his body… His body, beautiful. Perfect. And still ready for her.
“I’ve—”
“Please don’t,” 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 chest.
“There’s no way to protect you.”
It took her a moment to understand. He was thinking of unprotected sex? Shocked at her own carelessness, she dared to meet his gaze, searched the blue depths for the truth and saw something deeper. More intense than any emotion he’d ever allowed her to see.
Longing. Regret.
And she knew that no matter the circumstances, no matter the availability of protection, they would never be together.
***
Nick swatted at a tree branch as he stalked back to the bungalow. He’d nearly lost control. He never lost control.
His relationships were for pleasure, not for commitment, and every woman he’d ever been with knew it. Mary Beth deserved more. 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.
To the Limit (Shadow Heroes Book 3) Page 12