To the Limit Read online

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  © 2004

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  Ciudad San Mateo

  San Mateo, South America

  She'd come armed.

  The dress made a formidable weapon. Simple, sophisticated, tasteful. The kind of dress most women did not have the grace to wear. Another woman would have chosen a little black dress to show off a curvaceous figure. This woman's regal posture said she chose this little black dress to put off any man willing to approach her.

  The thought made Nicholas Romero smile.

  He knew all the other guests at his mother's formal fundraiser. That meant the interesting American had to be Mary Beth Williams. She'd telephoned this morning while he was busy trying to verify the rumors that had brought him home to San Mateo, rumors of something that could bring an end to what had torn at him for years. Annoyed at the intrusion, he'd listened politely, intending to hang up as quickly as possible. But her precise tone and insistent manner had made him curious to find out what she could want that demanded his immediate attention. Even though he'd wanted to avoid this evening's party, he decided to invite her. After a brief hesitation, she'd accepted.

  She stood just inside the marble-floored foyer and looked into the formal dining room, as if searching for someone among the milling guests. A quick push at her short, stylish hair revealed nervousness, but almost before he saw it, a cool, composed mask fell into place. That type of control intrigued Nick.

  He half listened to a new United States embassy official standing beside him as he watched the young woman. He'd always thought blondes were overrated by his countrymen, but this one was different. The black high-heeled sandals she'd chosen showed off her fantastic legs but contradicted her manner. It smacked of aristocracy, of grace and polish, and gave her a touch-me-not quality.

  Not the sort of woman he normally found attractive.

  But he was up to a challenge and, he admitted, excusing himself from the embassy official, he liked what he saw.

  Standing inside the beautifully adorned foyer, Mary Beth hoped no one could tell she'd run in as if the hounds of hell were chasing her. Her relief at getting inside the huge, exquisite house in this elite neighborhood had been so profound, she'd wanted to hug Dona Elena Vargas, who'd greeted her. Now she tried to calm her jangled nerves while waiting for the middle-aged woman to announce Mary Beth's arrival to her son, Nicholas Romero.

  If only the car she'd spotted across the street as she got out of the taxi had not looked exactly like the one that followed her from the airport earlier, she wouldn't have given it another thought. But it did, down to the muddy front plate.

  Clutching her evening bag with a slightly shaky hand, she pushed the idea to the back of her mind. She couldn't afford fear. She had come here for one reason—to do whatever was necessary to save her brother.

  She spotted Romero as he mingled with the guests. He was hard to miss. Even from across the room, Mary Beth couldn't help but notice his intense blue eyes, so at odds with his black hair. On the evening news he didn't seem as tall. Or as handsome. Or as … intimidating. But here, at this formal party, he was all that and more.

  This was the man she had to convince to help her. She'd come prepared to pay him to take her into the San Matean jungle. One look at his home, at him, and she began to have doubts. But the Primero de Mayo terrorist group had given her no choice. If she did not take the hundred-thousand-dollar ransom to them, they would execute Mark.

  At first she'd considered confiding in their father, but only momentarily. Spencer Williams, with his long history of issuing terse orders, would have placed his son at risk by arranging some sort of rescue. The only hope Mark had was for her to do as the terrorists dictated.

  But her years of living as a foreign diplomat's daughter had taught her that she would need someone who knew how to mediate. And the only one who could do that in this country and make sure Mark was released was, according to everything she'd learned, Nicholas Romero.

  She'd chosen him because her exhaustive though hasty research had told her he was the one who could see this through. Several magazine articles had praised his abilities as a successful negotiator. A newspaper article had reported that he'd even dealt with Primero de Mayo before.

  Taking her eyes off him for a moment, she scanned the room, noticing the well-dressed guests, the uniformed waiters, the elegant buffet. A small band played a Latin ballad softly. Everything about the setting reminded her of the life she'd left behind ten years ago. She would never have guessed she'd have to participate in this sort of thing again. And certainly not in order to get Mark back safely.

  Thank goodness for the shop just down the block from the hotel. She'd found an appropriate dress, though a bit low in the back for her taste, and skimpy sandals that were at this moment making her long for her tennis shoes.

  She received appraising looks from several people and smiled politely in response. Sure her face would freeze in a sham of a smile if she didn't stop, she returned her concentration to Romero.

  As she watched, several very attractive women stopped and spoke with him. Attentive, he shook hands and smiled, but treated them no differently than he had two elderly women he'd spoken with moments ago.

  Now, standing beside a youngish man—American, she would guess—he listened courteously, until he looked up, his gaze seemingly drawn to her. He placed his drink on a nearby coffee table and crossed the room, politely greeting people. Dressed in formal black, he moved with confidence, his long strides bringing him closer and closer. The sounds of the party faded, and Mary Beth fought the overwhelming urge to bolt.

  What was she going to say? Everything she'd rehearsed in her hotel room had evaporated. Her surroundings, his appearance, everything about this party told her that offering to pay for his services would be awkward, if not insulting. Wishing for some instant revelation, she scrambled to think of the right approach to get him to agree.

  He had to agree. He was a man sworn to peace, to saving lives. He wouldn't refuse. He couldn't.

  All she had to do was act confident. Schooling her features for the performance of her life, Mary Beth suppressed a nervous laugh and took a wineglass from a passing waiter's tray.

  "Ms. Williams," he said over the sounds of other voices and clinking glasses. "You decided to attend after all." His English was perfect, his Spanish accent barely perceptible.

  "It was kind of you to invite me." But from the cool reception she'd received on the telephone, she guessed it hadn't been kindness. He probably thought she wouldn't know how to deal with these surroundings. But then, he had no way of knowing that this was just the life she understood, the life she'd been raised in.

  "You've made me curious," he replied, his voice quiet and too masculine. "It's not every day that urgent business brings someone to San Mateo to see me."

  Probably not. He was the one to travel on urgent business. As a United Nations diplomat and special envoy to countless world trouble spots, he had pulled off some of the most spectacular feats of compromise in recent international relations.

  But she hadn't chosen him because of his public reputation. That would be easy enough to manipulate—something she'd learned the hard way.

  Never one to believe everything she read or heard, she'd checked with some friends who moved in the same diplomatic circles as Romero. They'd assured her that he was above reproach. But she had been careful not to tell anyone why she was asking. She couldn't afford to risk Mark's life in any way.

  Before she could think of a suitable reply, she was jostled from behind. "Excuse me," she said and stepped forward, only to brush against Romero's chest. He smelled of some expensive but subtle cologne.

&nbs
p; Steadying her with a hand to her upper arm, he smiled at the person behind her. It was a polite, professional smile, the same one he'd used with everyone she'd seen him with, the same one he'd used when greeting her.

  And that reminded her that she had to get beyond his polite professionalism in order to get him to help her. She had to make him want to help her. Standing beside him with nothing to say was not the way to get what she needed.

  Flattery, she'd learned years ago, generally worked. But the only flattering thing she could think of was that he was handsome. That didn't seem like the way to approach him.

  "You have a beautiful home," she said finally, speaking over the music, which had become a bit louder.

  "It's my mother's, although I live here when I'm in the city. It's perfect for fund-raisers such as this."

  Before she had time for a response, he said, "Join me at the buffet." He indicated the long, elaborately set table on the other side of the room, directing her with a sweep of his arm.

  As they made their way across the crowded room, Mary Beth felt the warmth of his hand against the skin of her back and silently cursed the low-cut back of the black dress. With the gentle unsettling brush of his fingers guiding her forward, she made her way around small groups of people. Behind her, he sounded confident as he greeted acquaintances, while she felt as if everyone in the room was staring at her.

  As they reached the buffet, he stepped aside and looked down at her. "You're uncomfortable, Ms. Williams. You don't like parties?"

  "I don't like formal parties, Mr. Romero." The words were out before she could call them back. It had been a rude thing to say, considering the setting and the fact that he'd invited her, graciously or not. She turned toward him, desperate to think of something to correct her faux pas, when her attention was suddenly fixed on the first genuine smile she'd seen on his face. He actually looked approachable. Human. And much too attractive.

  "Don't look so surprised, Ms. Williams," he said, his eyes alight with mirth. "I don't like formal parties, either."

  The young diplomat who'd caught the world's attention didn't like them? She wanted to ask why, to tell him he fit—had been born to fit—while she didn't. Not even after years of attending social gatherings just like this with her father. But she wouldn't think about that time now. Mark needed her. That's why she'd come.

  "Mr. Romero—"

  "Please, call me Nick."

  Now she understood why the articles she'd read referred to him as charismatic. But he was beyond that. People magazine should have put him on their cover as the sexiest man alive.

  He had incredible eyes. Bedroom eyes. Good God, she couldn't believe she'd had such a thought. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "My friends call me Mary Beth."

  "Then, Mary Beth it is," he said with a smile.

  "Nick," she said, feeling a resurgence of confidence. "I apologize for intruding on your party."

  "Don't," he replied quickly, still smiling. Tiny crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. "My mother will soon have your donation for a local orphanage. Before she tries to take your last dime for her good cause, she would want you to at least sample what she has prepared."

  "Feed me before she turns me into a pauper," she replied, more at ease.

  He laughed. "Exactly." Taking a plate from the table, he put a skewer of shrimp and a beautifully prepared tea sandwich on it. Farther down, he used tongs to lift a small semicircular pastry, lightly sprinkled with powdered sugar. "These," he said, placing the confection on her plate, "are worth whatever she manages to get out of you."

  "What are they?"

  "Empanadas de carne, meat-filled pastries. You will never taste any better anywhere. My mother made these herself. The sugar makes them the perfect combination of salty and sweet."

  "Ah, you found each other," Doña Elena said, taking her son's arm and looking at Mary Beth. "You must watch him. He will eat all the empanadas if we are not careful."

  "Then I should eat mine before he takes it from me," Mary Beth replied, appreciating the woman's casual style.

  "My Nicky is a gentleman," Doña Elena said with a laugh. "He will not take it—he will persuade you to give it to him."

  "Mamá," he said. "I haven't found out why Ms. Williams is here and already you're scaring her off."

  "Vaya, hijo, you have never scared away a beautiful woman. I am just alerting her to your methods," she said with a wink.

  Nick laughed, and his mother reached up to give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning away as another guest caught her attention.

  "Now, tell me, why did you call?"

  Caught off guard, she nearly said frantic desperation. Instead, she said, "I need your expertise."

  "Expertise?" he replied, an amused smile on his perfect lips.

  "Your diplomatic skills," she hurried to explain.

  "I'm afraid I don't understand," he replied, his smile still too wicked for her comfort.

  She was in way over her head. Somehow she managed not to take the deep cleansing breath she so desperately needed. "May we speak privately?"

  He assessed her with a cool expression. The small band shifted easily into a Latin pop number she'd heard sung by Jennifer Lopez and another singer. Something about begging to be touched.

  "My office is down the hall." With that, he placed the plate on a waiter's tray, took her elbow in his hand and led her away from the party, the sensual beat of the music mingling with the warmth of his hand on her arm.

  The office was more of a library, the furniture rich and masculine. Three pictures, each framed in hand-worked silver, were the only softer touches on the massive wooden desk. One picture showed Mrs. Vargas, a younger Romero and another young man, a soldier, judging from the San Matean military uniform he wore. The other two pictures were of a small boy at different ages. If Mary Beth had to guess, she would say that the boy was under a year old in one, closer to three in the other.

  "Please," he said, "have a seat."

  She wanted to stand, but that would only show how nervous she was. She sat.

  He walked behind the desk and eased into his chair, his posture relaxed. "Now, please explain why you need me."

  She tried to think of how to begin, how to explain. But there was nothing except the truth.

  "The Primero de Mayo terrorists are holding my brother for ransom. I need your help in dealing with them."

  He made no reply, his expression suddenly closed.

  "You have negotiated with them in the past," she said, his stillness making her feel as if she should justify her request. "Successfully," she added in the lengthening silence.

  He stared at her. The light from a table lamp accentuated his angular cheekbones and strong chin.

  "It wouldn't take very long," she said, trying to maintain her composure. "A few days at the most."

  What was he thinking? The oppressive silence grew. She couldn't look away from him, nor think of anything else to say.

  "Have you contacted your State Department?" he finally asked.

  "No. I was warned not to. I won't risk Mark's life by doing anything like that."

  "Why not just pay the ransom, Ms. Williams? Primero de Mayo has released hostages when the ransom has been paid."

  He had reverted to the use of her last name, not a good sign. "They insist that I must take the money to them. I want—need—an expert when I do this."

  "Where do you have to take the ransom?"

  "To Los Desamparados, in the Upper Rio Hermoso valley."

  Each tick of the large clock on the low bookcase to one side weighed heavily in the subtly lit room. She wished she could climb inside his mind, see what he was thinking.

  "Do you know what desamparados means?" he asked finally.

  "That has nothing—"

  "The forsaken. As in abandoned." He seemed to watch for her reaction. When she wouldn't give him that satisfaction, he continued. "It's not a safe place. It's jungle."

  "That's ceja
de montana country, not jungle. The semi-tropical 'brow of the mountain' from what I've read."

  "Except for the slightly cooler climate, it's much the same." He stood, coming around the desk to lean one hip casually on the uncluttered top. "It is dangerous country."

  "Which is why—"

  "You need a mercenary, not me."

  "A mercenary will get my brother killed."

  "A mercenary will get you there and back in one piece." He turned and picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. "I'll give you the names of several men I consider to be trustworthy. Tell them I referred you."

  "I don't want or need one of those men," Mary Beth insisted. "You know how to deal with these people."

  "Ms. Williams," he said with overwhelming patience, "they are not people. They are animals."

  "I'm prepared to pay—"

  One look from him stopped her.

  He put down the pen. "There isn't enough money in the world to make me accompany you," he said simply.

  "What can I offer—"

  "What do you have to offer?" he asked, his expression indecipherable.

  For one second she didn't understand. "I—" Had he—

  "No!"

  The clock struck the quarter hour as their eyes held. Something fierce crossed his features, then he looked at her with what she could have sworn was sadness. A sadness so profound that it gentled his features.

  Embarrassed that she had assumed he meant anything sordid, she hurried to say, "I'm sor—"

  "I will never deal with Primero de Mayo again." Handing her the paper with its precise block letters, he added, "I apologize for any misunderstanding, Ms. Williams. Find yourself a mercenary. You will need one."

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  A sleepless night full of improbable scenarios and tangled dreams gave way to morning. As she dressed, Mary Beth replayed the evening before.

  Nick Romero had refused.

  Pride had made her thank him, struggling to hide her frustrated anger. Oh, she could have railed at him, begged, pleaded. But if there was one thing she'd inherited from her father, it was tenacity.