To the Limit (Shadow Heroes Book 3) Read online

  “What’s so funny?” he said, his voice deep and amused as he approached her.

  She couldn’t ignore his smile. There was no point in being angry at him when she so badly needed his help. “You, your aunts, your family.”

  “We’re funny?” There was a teasing tone about his question.

  “No, not at all. It’s just that your family is so … normal.”

  He stepped closer, a half-grin on his lips, a glint of humor in his eye. “Did you expect us to be abnormal?”

  She laughed. “You said they were interesting, but I wasn’t expecting this. I think I can almost picture your aunts watching you eat meat loaf and encouraging you to eat your spinach.”

  “They encouraged me to eat everything.” He smiled, then added, “But it was anticuchos I balked at, not spinach.”

  The difference between barbecued beef hearts and American food illustrated their differences so well and so amusingly that she reflexively reached out and put one hand on his forearm as she laughed. His flesh, beneath the rough silky hair of his arm, felt warm against her palm. She started to move it, but he held it in place. The sweater she’d traded her sweatshirt for was suddenly too much. Her laugh faded as the deep blue of his eyes revealed something that made her want to back away.

  Heat.

  That was the only word for it. She suddenly wanted him to be more aloof, less the man who attracted her despite herself. Not the son, the father, the nephew. Not a fascinating man. “I’m not going to bite you,” Nick said with a smile, releasing her hand. But she’d seen the truth again, if only fleetingly.

  The attraction was reciprocal. And, for her, dangerous because she wasn’t able to take that sort of risk. She’d promised herself never to allow desire to override common sense again. And certainly never with a man as complex as this one.

  “Your taste in women has improved,” a man’s deep voice interrupted.

  Nick released her hand and turned so quickly that Mary Beth nearly missed his surprise at recognizing who spoke.

  “Introduce us,” the older man commanded, as if daring Nick to refuse. Slightly shorter, with jet-black hair starting to gray, he wore dress pants, a shirt, tie and an expensive sports jacket.

  “This is Mary Beth Williams,” Nick said, his tone so fiercely cold that it seemed to bring a hush to the room. “Mary Beth, this is General Antonio Vargas, my mother’s husband.”

  The general extended his hand to her, his eyes hard. “Another beautiful American,” he said, looking her over before turning his gaze toward Nick.

  He ignored whatever implication his uncle’s statement seemed to have. Around them, the Romeros began talking again. Someone turned up the music.

  “I must speak with you,” the general said. “Privately.”

  “In the library,” Nick replied.

  “It is always a pleasure to meet such a lovely woman, Miss Williams.” General Vargas shook her hand again and walked toward a hallway.

  “He’s Doña Elena’s husband?” Mary Beth asked when the man was out of hearing range.

  “Yes,” Nick replied, his attention on the general.

  “They seem so ill-suited.”

  “That’s probably why they haven’t lived together since before Daniel was born.”

  “Why didn’t they just get a divorce?” The question burst from Mary Beth before she could recall it. “I’m sorry,” she hurried to add. “It’s really none of my business.”

  “But a good question, just the same.” Then Nick excused himself, an unreadable mask firmly in place.

  She could have kicked herself for asking such a thing. She had always found explaining her parents’ relationship difficult, almost impossible. The only one who ever understood was Mark, because he lived the experiences with her.

  Nick had lost his confidant when Daniel Vargas was killed.

  ***

  “The perfect Romero,” Antonio Vargas said when Nick joined him, “in the Romero inner sanctum.” The general glanced around the library.

  “Who let you in?” Nick leaned back against the heavy Spanish desk. Dim lamplight threw their shadows across one wall of books that stretched from floor to ceiling. The portrait of Doña Elena’s father, the Romero patriarch, stared down at them.

  “Elena’s sisters dare not stop me.” The general took a book from a shelf and flipped it open. “I hear you are going to the Río Hermoso.”

  Nick placed his palms flat on the desktop behind him and waited for the general to continue.

  “Burn the house there.” Vargas closed the book and looked up.

  Nick had to struggle not to show surprise. “Burning the house won’t cleanse you of the sin of Daniel’s death.”

  The old man didn’t flinch. “Daniel is dead. The Río Hermoso house holds secrets.”

  At Nick’s silence, the general continued. “I believe you would want him to be remembered as a hero. Daniel was, after all, half Romero. The family must be protected. That is your role. If you hope to do that, you must be certain nothing will come out to destroy his military record.”

  “His military record is spotless.”

  “How sure are you, Nicolás?” He used the Spanish pronunciation of the name Doña Elena said Nick’s mother didn’t want used, and opened another book, attention seemingly on the pages. “If anything exists that could ruin his name, it would be there. Much easier for you to burn it and its secrets than to have the dilemma of another lie.”

  “Why don’t you burn it?”

  “Daniel left it to you. You could do it openly as an act of … cleansing.” He closed the book and looked up. “Burn the house.”

  Nick forced himself to remain focused, to concentrate on this conversation, not on the implication that Daniel could have done something wrong. “Did you mourn him at all?”

  “You know I am not a sentimentalist.”

  “The Vargas pragmatism.”

  “It is in the blood.”

  The old man’s answer shouldn’t have surprised Nick.

  “Do not make me wait for you to do what must be done.”

  “Wait forever.” Nick’s reply took him back years to a time when he’d heard the exact words from this man’s mouth, the one and only time he’d demanded anything from him.

  Vargas put the book back carefully. “Boys do not wait patiently. Men—ah, Nicolás—what can I say? Boys who learn patience are men of rare character. You should know that.”

  Character. But good or bad? That was the question. He looked into the face of the man responsible for Daniel’s death and said, “Character is not a subject you and I should discuss.”

  The general straightened, his black eyes fixed on him. “Deny it all you will, Nicolás. You are a Vargas. My son, my blood. Only Elena’s desperation gave you the Romero name. Protect your brother.” With that, he turned and walked out of the library.

  The acknowledgment came more than twenty years too late.

  As a thirteen-year-old boy, Nick had wanted this recognition from the general, whom he’d learned was his biological father, but the general had refused. Nick had never again asked, never regretted not getting it.

  As if waking from a surreal dream, Nick remembered the boy he’d been, devastated by a lie, loved by a mother not his, by a brother he could not claim publicly. Denied by this man.

  Until now. When the last thing in the world he wanted was to admit that Antonio Vargas was his real father.

  He opened the door that led to the tiled patio with its soothing fountain. This small piece of southern Spain served as a reminder of the origins of the Romero family. The family that had taken him in based on Elena Vargas’ lie—a lie designed to give her another child to love. One that trapped her in marriage to a man who refused her a divorce with threats of exposing that lie.

  Nick looked up at the sky, remembering nights when he’d looked up and wondered how the woman who bore him had been so foolish as to give herself to a man like that. But he’d never known Angela Crosby. All he knew were
the few things Doña Elena had been able to tell him. He carried a picture of her, one Doña Elena insisted he carry.

  And he kept the secret of his paternity, just as Daniel had.

  It wasn’t something Nick dwelled on. As a matter of fact, after thirty-six years of living with the name, he considered himself a Romero. He’d done well with the family fortune. All of his “aunts” and assorted relatives lived very well. It was only when he had to deal with the general that Nick wondered what it meant to have the blood of Antonio Vargas flowing through his veins. As it had through Daniel’s. Daniel, who lived life heroically but always under the shadow of the corrupting influence of a man unwilling to bend even for the life of his son. A man who implied that his son had something to hide.

  Nick was the son of that same man. Not a good gene pool.

  “Your aunt said you’d come outside, so I brought your jacket. Are you okay?” Mary Beth’s voice floated over the musical sounds of the fountain.

  Turning, he saw her, silhouetted against the inside lights, holding his jacket over her arm. A woman of impeccable pedigree, facing a man with a claim to nothing but secrets. Why had he brought her here, to the Romeros? He’d never brought a woman to his family.

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “You were talking to the general. You don’t like him.”

  “Nobody likes the general.”

  She moved toward him, her footsteps quiet on the tiles. “Was he a good father?”

  Surprise nearly made him jump. “What?” Surely she wasn’t that astute. Nobody was.

  “Was he a good father to your cousin? Separation can make it difficult.”

  “No.”

  “That was a quick answer.”

  “I wouldn’t consider the man responsible for his son’s death a good father.”

  In the silence that followed, music and laughter floated toward them from inside.

  “You hold him responsible for your cousin’s death?”

  “He didn’t shoot Daniel, but he is responsible.” The old man’s impatience, his need for a quick victory, had ended Daniel’s life before Nick could save it. “And not just for Daniel’s death. For the deaths of the men with him. Vargas’ decision to attack the compound where they were held amounted to murder.” Nick had worn out his rage on the topic, but he could still taste the bitterness of what had happened.

  “You assign him an awful lot of power,” she commented.

  He did. And he didn’t like it. “It’s a reflex. Left over from my youth.” He ran a hand absently through his hair.

  “What was it like, growing up with Doña Elena and Daniel?” She slipped her arms into the sweater she’d thrown over her shoulders.

  He found himself answering with more candor than he would have thought possible. “Doña Elena is one of those women who’s a natural mother. She could have been handed any child and she would have loved it.”

  “You weren’t any child. You were her brother’s son.”

  But he wasn’t.

  Nick looked toward the horizon, then straight up to the sky. All traces of sunset were gone now. “You can see the stars clearly here, away from the city lights.”

  Mary Beth stepped closer and held out his jacket. He had the oddest need to hold on to her. To anchor himself against the shock waves of the general’s admission. But she had no way of knowing that, no way of knowing he wasn’t who he pretended to be. He was already using her—too much of a Vargas trait.

  He shrugged into the jacket and tried distracting them both. “When we were boys, Mamá would take us higher into the mountains. The Romeros had another ranch there. Her father was still alive. A fantastic man. He would take us out on horseback and tell us stories about the stars, about Indian legends.” He looked past her, lost in thought. “Daniel and I were hellions. When our girl cousins went with us, we pulled their hair and scared their horses.”

  “Did your grandfather punish you?”

  He quickly looked back down at her, seeing a bit of light reflected from her eyes. “Who?”

  “Your grandfather.”

  “Oh, yes. He made us walk back once. We’d heard all the stories of the wamanis.”

  “The whats?”

  “Wamanis,” he repeated. “The Indians of the region believe they are spirits that live on the mountain peaks. They’re in charge of the herds of llamas and sheep. During certain parts of the year, the wamanis wander the earth searching for offerings. Sometimes they eat the hearts of men who walk alone or show them no respect.”

  “That’s a scary legend.”

  “Very,” Nick agreed. “And for two thirteen-year-olds, absolutely frightening.” He laughed, remembering. “After the first few minutes of the walk, I couldn’t tell if I was shaking because of Daniel, or if he was because of me. We were locked together. We promised, then and there, that each would protect the other forever, no matter the cost.” He fell silent, unwilling to talk about how he’d failed Daniel. “Mamá was angry with her father, but he said we had to learn to be understanding of those weaker. We deserved the punishment.” It was a lesson neither he nor Daniel would have learned from the general.

  “I don’t think Mark and I were ever punished. It’s amazing to me that either of us has a conscience.” She paused. “That makes it sound like we had a horrible childhood.”

  “Did you?”

  “It was … not traditional. Not the close family you seem to have.”

  “Are you close to your brother?”

  “We were. He’s been gone for so long, first with the Army and then with the engineering company. But we grew up close. Sort of like two musketeers. We did everything together, including fight.” She hugged herself against the cold and let him put his jacket over her shoulders. “Our parents divorced when we were young. We went to live with Dad, which meant private schools, socially and politically correct acquaintances. We’d lived in Argentina when he was ambassador there. We were older, in college, when Dad was given the ambassadorship of Spain. Mark stayed in the States, while I went with Dad. It was difficult having to deal with that … social life.”

  “And you don’t like formal parties,” Nick interjected.

  “Oh, I liked them at first.” Mary Beth bowed her head. “It was sort of a challenge, to see if I could be sophisticated enough to fit into those circumstances.”

  “You learned your lessons well.”

  In the dark, her hair cast a shadow across her face. He reached out tentatively, his fingers aching for the feel of her. Then she looked up, her eyes glittering.

  “Mark was always there for me. He took care of me, when he had his own life to deal with.”

  Nick pulled his hand away and rubbed his forehead. “You said he’s an engineer. Where did he study?”

  “Georgia Tech. That’s where he completed ROTC before joining the Army.” She took a quick breath before adding, “He took one term off to help me out with some problems.”

  “That was very loyal of him.”

  “And very foolish. He should have gotten on with his own life, instead of... He was there for me when I needed him.”

  “He sounds like a good brother, Mary Beth.” But good brothers, good men, could make mistakes. Nick knew that firsthand.

  “He’s the best. Which is why I have to help him now.”

  “Did Primero de Mayo contact your father?”

  “No, which surprises me.”

  It was odd, but fit nicely with the possibility that the kidnapping and ransom demand were a ruse to frighten her or Williams, one arranged by the general to cover up something.

  “Nick,” a woman called from the house. “¡Teléfono! Carlos wants to speak with you.”

  “I’d better get it,” he said, stepping toward the door that led to the library. “Why don’t you come inside. It’s cold.”

  After letting Mary Beth into the living room, Nick closed the door of the library and picked up the phone.

  “Do you remember Paul Martens?” his cousin ask
ed over the crackling connection.

  “Yes. I remember him from years ago, when I was still a Ranger. He was spying for the Russians.” Nick sat down behind the ornate desk. The sound of music seeped into the room “What does he have to do with Mark Williams?”

  “His sister was engaged to him.”

  Nick shot to his feet and moved to the front of the desk. “What happened?”

  “She was never implicated. She called off her engagement before the news broke, but it didn’t save her the humiliation or the questions. Her father’s position as ambassador was compromised and he was forced to resign. No one knows how the Americans found out about Martens, but our ambassador in Madrid during that time says rumors were flying that it was Mark Williams who trapped Martens.”

  That explained so much of what she’d told him about how he’d helped her. “Anything on Williams himself?”

  “So far only the basics. University, where he received a degree as a civil engineer. He was in the Army. Two deployments to Afghanistan where he earned several commendations. After that, there is little. It is as if the man barely exists.” Nick heard Carlos take a deep breath. “It may be time for you to try Ethridge.”

  Carlos was right. It was time for him to reach out. Jonathan Ethridge, ex CIA paramilitary, still with the spy agency, nominally as an analyst, would know or be able to find out about Williams. If he would answer Nick’s call. “I’ll try him. “Por favor, keep searching.”

  Nick hung up. He didn’t like the lack of information. It was as if Mark Williams’ past had been deliberately hidden. While the father could have had the influence to cover his son’s problems, Nick didn’t believe that an ambassador who’d been forced from his position had that sort of power.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the international number he had for Ethridge. After ten rings, he hung up. He’d have to either find a telephone later, or buy cell phone no one knew about. From now on, it wouldn’t do for him to use any type of communication device that could be traced.

  Opening the door to the living room, he found an impromptu dance. His aunts, uncles and cousins were all doing a marinera. White handkerchiefs and colored scarves flipped with the turn of each dancer. Over to one side, clapping with enthusiasm stood Mary Beth. The dance ended and one of his uncles chose a classic San Matean song. The music was slow, a vals, or waltz, with a regional, Latin rhythm.