Tenacity and a good plan. That was all she needed.
Not that she had a plan.
Unbidden, part of their exchange replayed through her thoughts.
"What can I offer—"
"What do you have to offer?"
She'd been outraged, she'd wanted to slap him. But she remembered the look on his face. Emotions she couldn't read, followed by a fleeting sadness. And she realized she'd been wrong in guessing at what he'd meant. But he'd understood and, with an apology, she'd been dismissed.
But they weren't finished. This was a setback. Defeat was not an option. She had eight days left before time would run out for Mark. This was the beginning of the day she would get Nicholas Romero to help her save her brother's life.
The direct approach would be the best. She picked up the phone and dialed Nick's house. His mother answered and explained that he'd gone out and would not return until lunch-time. After thanking Dona Elena, Mary Beth decided she would not bother calling him again—she'd be there when he got back. It wasn't nine o'clock yet. She had hours to wait.
The newspaper didn't help her pass the time. Not until she saw a familiar name in an article on the front page. She scanned it quickly, then read and read again, trying to learn as much as she could, because she couldn't believe it.
Mark's friend, the one he'd told Mary Beth to contact if she couldn't reach him, was dead. Killed by the same group that held Mark. This man, Daniel Vargas, had been Nick's cousin, Dona Elena's only son. Nick was her nephew, not her son. None of the articles she'd read mentioned any of this, but she'd read only American magazines and newspapers. They had no reason to report such details.
No wonder Nick's response to her request was so overwhelmingly negative.
And thank God she hadn't known this before. She would never have dared approach him if she had.
She picked up the paper with the names of the mercenaries he'd recommended, and stared at it. Three choices. She'd have to interview them, decide which one would do.
No. She didn't have time. She wouldn't settle for a mercenary. She needed an expert, and Nicholas Romero was it.
She had to convince him to help her.
But if she told him that Mark knew his cousin, the cousin killed by Primero de Mayo, he would refuse again.
She couldn't tell him. Wouldn't.
As she finished a light breakfast in the hotel restaurant, that omission—that lie—did not sit well with her.
Rather than throw things at the walls in frustration, she decided to take a walk. The morning was pleasant, San Mateo's capital enjoying an early spring. She would take her time browsing the shop windows along the streets of the historic city. Then she'd take a taxi and wait in front of Nick's house.
Five minutes into her walk she became convinced she was being watched.
The small white car that had followed her the day before was no longer in sight. But that man standing on the corner by the newspaper stand, the bald one reading the paper, looked a little familiar. Where had she seen him? The party last night? Try as she might, she couldn't be sure.
Walking past a small jewelry store, she eyed the silver and gold trinkets on display in the window and worried about the small gold cross that hung from her neck. Mark had sent it three years earlier in a package that held a safety deposit box key along with a passbook to a San Matean bank account. He'd told her it was hers should something happen to him. She'd laughed off his disturbing words. But now, after selling her car and raiding her savings, she needed that money to help pay the ransom.
She turned, searching for the bald man. He'd moved and now stood looking down the street. Maybe he wasn't following her. Maybe, if she took her time, he'd leave and she'd know for sure.
She walked past the jewelry store and peered through the window of a craft shop. Colorful Andean blankets, ceramics and woodcarvings lay inside and atop sparkling glass cases. She stepped inside and picked up a wood carving of a jaguar, turning it over in her hands, her thoughts still outside with the bald man.
"It is perfect, yes?" a young male clerk said in accented English. "So much life, ready to spring for his prey."
"It is stunning," Mary Beth agreed, forcing herself to relax, to take advantage of the distraction. She felt some smoothly carved letters on the jaguar's belly. J.M.
"With four hundred fifty soles, it is yours." The clerk smiled.
"Three hundred." Mark, with his love of the wild and dangerous, would appreciate this.
"Señorita!" The clerk looked shocked and offended. "Can you not see the detail? The care that went into the making of this magnificent beast?" He continued. "Four hundred twenty-five, señorita, or we will wound the artist's pride."
"Three-fifty." She touched the stylized letters in the artist's signature again.
"Señorita, you have bargained before." He sighed. "I will explain to the artist that you are an expert at el regateo, no?"
Knowing she really hadn't bested the clerk in the haggling, Mary Beth paid the agreed-upon price, took her package and walked to the door.
He was still there. The bald man. Across the street, watching from the front of a coffee shop. She stepped back.
"Are you ill, señorita?" asked the clerk.
She couldn't answer for a moment. "No, I'm fine, just…" Scared. And becoming more so with each passing moment. The kidnappers had said she would be contacted once she arrived in Los Desamparados. Were they following her to be sure she did as she was told?
Stepping out into the bright sunlight, she walked quickly down the street in the direction of her hotel, throwing an occasional furtive look at the man who seemed to be strolling along behind her. She quickened her pace and bounced off a tourist's portly middle. Apologizing, she hurried on, concentrating on her destination, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder.
One block down, in front of a pharmacy, she turned, trying to avoid the moving crowd. Rising up on tiptoes, she scanned the sea of faces for her pursuer.
He was gone.
Nick folded the newspaper he'd been reading and placed it on his cousin's desk. Staring outside, he pushed aside the memories evoked by the paper's lead story. He wouldn't dwell on the past. He would remedy the future.
Carlos worked on San Matean time, so their eight-o'clock appointment would probably turn into a nine-o'clock appointment. He stood and stretched, wondering if Mary Beth Williams had called one of the men he'd recommended.
He couldn't forget their encounter. She was a woman armed with more determination than most people he knew. She'd guessed he meant something unbelievably crude. He hadn't, but that she would think such a thing made him wonder about himself, wonder what she'd seen in him. Still, in the clear light of day, he was as surprised at what he'd said as she had been.
He'd apologized because he sincerely regretted the misunderstanding. He lived his life so that he rarely regretted anything, let alone apologized for anything.
Had he meant it as a subconscious way of testing her? Her character? Her motives? If so, she'd passed with flying colors. When he should have been kind, he'd been cruel. After all, her brother was in terrible danger, something he understood too well.
Still, he found himself attracted, surprisingly so. She wasn't really beautiful, not in the way the women he normally wanted were. She didn't calculate or flaunt her femininity. She had that elusive something so many women worked a lifetime to achieve—presence.
A regal air, refined manners—those were traits the lovely Ms. Williams had learned. Dignity and integrity were hers, deeply ingrained.
"Nicholas." Carlos Montoya greeted him, coming through the open door. "Buenos días. I thought to talk to you at your mother's, but you had left."
"I should have called this morning."
"You thought I was late," Carlos said, smiling. "You are much too Americanized. I had breakfast with Elena. She gave me two cups of café con leche strong enough to keep me awake all day."
Nick laughed. "Be glad it's warm or she would ha
ve forced you to eat oatmeal."
"Elena is priceless," Carlos said, closing the door behind him. "Even after her charity work last night, she was up early."
"I'm sure you've piqued her interest, stopping by so early."
"Your mother sees too much, no?" Carlos commented, sitting.
"What can you tell me about my evening visitor?"
"You did not give me much time, Nick. I am not a magician."
No, but sometimes Nick thought he was. The oldest of Elena Vargas's nephews, he had been a mentor and surrogate father. Now, at the age of sixty, he was a friend and, since Nick had taken the reins of the Romero empire, his greatest asset. Carlos, with his enormous web of contacts, could find out anything.
"What have you learned so far?"
"The only information I have is very basic. Your Miss Williams is a university librarian. She is twenty-eight years old and lives in Atlanta, Georgia. Her father was a diplomat, ambassador to Spain a few years ago. I can find no mention of a brother, but we should know more by this evening. You say someone is following her?" Carlos asked, his eyebrow creased.
"From what my man tells me."
"And you refuse to help her. Have you lost your sense of chivalry?"
Four years ago, before Nick took over the Romero estate, there would have been reprimand in the words. But Carlos had willingly—eagerly—given over his responsibilities, wanting only to provide guidance to Nick, the only male who still carried the Romero name. Now Nick heard the censure in Carlos's tone.
He met his older cousin's eyes across the expanse of the desk. The morning sun slanted in through the open window, brightening the office. "She'll be safe until she makes contact with one of the men I recommended."
"It would have been a simple thing for you to go with her."
"I never want to deal with the Primero de Mayo again, you know that."
"It did not stop you last year when you—" Carlos cut off his sentence abruptly and picked up the newspaper Nick had left folded on the desk. "This is why you came back from New York so suddenly."
Nick said nothing as Carlos opened the paper to the headline, which read "General Vargas to Lead Gunrunning Probe." The photo beneath the caption was of an older man in a military uniform. Beside that was one of another soldier, younger.
"This is why you refused her," Carlos continued. "You think you can get him this time."
"You're jumping to conclusions."
"It is true," Carlos said, tossing the paper back on the desk, "or you would not be home." He shook his head. "When are you going to stop, Nicholas? When will you let it rest?"
"When he burns in hell."
The sudden opening of the door interrupted the silence of the office.
"Perdón, Señor Montoya—" Carlos's secretary said, her voice agitated.
"Carlos, Nicholas," a male voice said from behind her.
"I did not—" the secretary began.
"It is okay, Isabel. Let him in." Carlos stood.
Nick stood, too. Mario Gomez, from the Ministry of Justice, pushed past the secretary. She looked the man up and down and closed the door as she left, indignation in every line of her body. The heavy, graying man paid her no attention.
After brief, formal greetings, Mario took the seat Carlos offered.
"What brings you to my office?" Carlos asked.
"I owe a favor to the Romeros," Mario said. "I have come to pay Nicholas back for helping my son." He looked from Carlos to Nick. "It is better for you to stay away from this woman."
Neither Nick nor Carlos said anything.
Mario continued. "This Miss Williams, her brother, a Mark Williams, is a known gunrunner. He jeopardizes the safety of many. It would do no good for you to become involved in the situation in the Rio Hermoso."
"Situation?" Nick repeated.
"Our Rangers—Daniel's old outfit—have an operation with the Americans." Mario sat forward in his chair. "Mistakes were made years ago. Serious mistakes. There is an investigation. It has become political."
Nick picked up the newspaper Carlos had thrown down.
"Stay out of it, Nicholas," Mario said, glancing pointedly at the paper. He stood. "I talk reason, no, amigo? Diplomacy, you would call it." He looked from Nick to Carlos, then at his watch. "I have a meeting."
"You can tell us nothing more?"
"There is no more to tell, Carlos." With that, Mario Gomez shook hands with both men and left.
Once the door closed, Carlos shook his head. "No, Nicholas."
"You wanted me to help Miss Williams."
"For her, for her brother. Not for this. You cannot bring Vargas down. He is too powerful."
"He'll make another mistake, and this time I'll be able to take advantage of it."
Carlos was silent for a moment. Nick could tell he was looking for another approach. "It is dangerous. This is Primero de Mayo, Nick—"
"I know that I have failed with them before."
"Not your failure," Carlos said with an angry shake of his head. "What about this brother? What if he is a gunrunner?"
Nick shrugged. He would not think of Mary Beth—the loss of a brother would be devastating. "Find out what you can about him, but it makes no difference. Our Rangers will probably kill him, if Primero de Mayo doesn't."
"As they did Daniel."
Nick stood and walked to the window. He didn't like to think about it, or remember it. Primero de Mayo might have pulled the trigger that ended Daniel's life, but it was Antonio Vargas who was responsible.
Outside, the sun shone, lives moved on. But Daniel, the man Nick considered a brother, the man who was Elena Vargas's only son, was dead. Nick, the infant she'd taken in and raised, was alive. During that first year after Daniel's death, Nick had wished it had been he who died. Sometimes he still did.
"Elena would not want this."
"She knows what her husband is capable of. It's why she hasn't lived with him since before Daniel was born."
"Daniel would not want this vendetta," Carlos argued.
"He has no voice now. No one but me to stop his father. No one but me to keep Vargas from hurting our mother."
"Your death will hurt her. Do not do this thing."
"He nearly destroyed her when he killed his own son."
"Primero de Mayo killed him, Nick."
"If Vargas hadn't refused to ransom him, if—"
"Do not think of ifs, Nicholas. You cannot live your life that way."
"I don't need to concern myself with ifs. I know with certainty that Vargas will hurt the family again. He will hurt us, he will hurt San Mateo. He has to be stopped."
"And you believe you are the one to do it?"
"I'm the only one who can," Nick said with quick assurance.
Because I'm the one most like him.
Mary Beth pushed through the heavy glass doors of her hotel. The cool interior felt soothing. The amiable concierge greeted her, smiling oddly as she passed him. She understood why when she caught sight of her reflection in the lobby's large mirrors. If she'd felt like the hounds of hell had chased her the night before, today in bright daylight, she looked like it. Her hair was windblown, her face pale, her hands shaky. She appeared nothing like the elegant, charming woman she'd wanted to be at eighteen when she so desperately tried to fit into her father's life. She looked more like she had when she discovered how miserably she'd failed, how easily she'd been fooled by charm and looks.
She walked through the sparsely decorated lobby toward the elevators, her breath coming a little easier now that she was back. After pressing the call button, she scrambled in her purse, digging impatiently for the plastic key card—
Glancing at the two elevator doors, she noticed an out-of-order sign on one. The other elevator was taking too long. She punched the button again.
"Having trouble?"
The card flew from her fingers as she turned. Her gaze took in the enigmatic smile on Nick's face. "You scared me half to death!" She bent to pick up the card just as
he plucked it from the floor.
His expression changed to one of concern as he handed her the card. "I'm sorry." Worn jeans and a dark-blue polo made him less intimidating than had the formal attire of the evening before. But the casual clothes only made him more attractive.
"I didn't hear you walk up," she said, embarrassed at her reaction.
A little niggling thought crept into her mind. Had he been waiting for her, or had he followed her? That was ridiculous. A bald man had been behind her. But had Nick ordered—
Surely not. She was letting her fears get the better of her. And letting the lies of the past cloud her judgment, when she was the one holding back something he should know.
He looked up at the floor indicator, then at the sign. "It looks like you're in for a long wait."
"Why are you here?" She put the card back in her purse, wishing her jittery nerves would calm down, wishing she hadn't sounded so abrupt. He'd come to her. This was her second chance to convince him. She couldn't afford to sound waspish.
He smiled. God, he had a smile that could stop even the most cold-blooded woman dead in her tracks. And Mary Beth wasn't cold-blooded.
"I wanted to apologize again, for any misunderstanding last night."
She didn't want his apology. She wanted his help. She would get it, even if she choked trying to be polite. "Apology accepted."
"Have you called one of the men I recommended?"
"I told you, I don't want or need—"
"What plans have you made?"
None. She'd made no plans except to convince him to go along, no matter what it took. "Plans?"
"How are you going to get there?"
"Drive," she said with much more conviction than she felt. She hadn't thought at all about how she'd get there. She'd figured he would know how to do that.
He arched a brow. "What sort of deadline did they give you?"
"Ten days. I have eight left if you count today."
"With no complications, it should only take two days at most."
She didn't like this. He'd refused outright. Now he was asking questions, being too … nice. Such a bland word. Nice was not a word she would ever use to describe Nick. Common sense was sending her the strong message to tread carefully. But that was silly. He was Nicholas Romero, trusted by world leaders.
To the Limit Page 2