Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (9 page)

“Your father?” Helen said.

“Yes. He was a minister of the current regime who served it until he died three years ago. He had all the wealth and privileges its favorites enjoy: a seaside villa, a staff of servants to wait on him and his family, the best of everything. Nothing was too good for a man so high in the government, a trusted cog in the most corrupt machine in Central America.”

“It must have been hard for you growing up in his house,” Helen offered softly.

“I didn’t,” Matteo responded, meeting her gaze directly. “I am illegitimate. My mother was my father’s maid.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

Matteo stood and began to walk around, gesturing to make his points. “I was raised with my mother’s people and saw things from their point of view. She was poor and I was poor, dirt poor, while my father and his legal wife, and their legal children, lived in a big house, and were driven around in a fancy car, and ate off china plates.”

Helen didn’t say a word, fearful he would remember that she was a lot closer in origin to the father he described so bitterly than to Matteo himself.

“We ate off the clay dishes my mother made by hand, when we had anything to eat at all,” he continued, lost in the past. “And she was ignored once she got older and lost the beauty that had attracted my father’s attention. But he did do one thing for her, something that changed the course of my life and made me glad, for once, that he had sired me.”

“What was that?”

“He listened to my mother when she asked for me to receive an education. She knew it was the one route I could take to escape the cycle of poverty that had trapped her and everyone like her. She begged and pleaded and I guess she finally wore him down, or maybe I was getting old enough to become an embarrassment and he wanted me out of the way. I don’t know. But when I was ten he arranged for me to go to boarding school in Connecticut. He had a lot of diplomatic ties here because the ambassador to the U.S. at that time was a close friend of his.”

Helen sensed that he had almost forgotten she was there, his memories were so vivid. He smiled slightly.

“So I found myself living and studying with a bunch of rich Americans, the sons of doctors and lawyers and big businessmen. And there I was, the Puerta Lindan bastard without a word of English transplanted to the wilds of New England. The first winter I almost froze. I had never seen snow, and we had two blizzards, drifts up to the windowsills. I thought I was at the North Pole. And I couldn’t even say Connecticut.” He grinned suddenly. “When I get nervous I still can’t.”

Helen smiled back at him, glad that his reminiscence had taken a humorous turn. “I can’t imagine your ever being nervous,” she said.

“It happens,” he replied lightly.

“What school was it?” Helen asked.

“Longfield Academy, in Westport.”

“I know it.” She didn’t add that she had a cousin there.

“And so,” he went on, “I began my American education. The people in charge at the school knew who my father was, and they were very anxious that he should think everything possible was being done for his son. In enrolling me, he neglected to mention that he had never married my mother, so they treated me like the scion I never was in Puerta Linda—private tutors to help me with my English, the best accommodations, the roommate of my choice, and so on. It was a very schizophrenic existence; in America I was the Puerta Lindan prince, and at home I was the Montega bastard.”

Helen could feel the pain in his voice as he spread his hands and said, “It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I began to spend more and more time in America. On school vacations I would go to the home of a friend and have my bed changed by a maid who might have come from my village in Puerta Linda. I saw less and less of my mother, finding ways to remain on campus over the summer: sports camp, an extra course, a school job. She finally died the fall I started college at Columbia.”

“Matteo, you were young,” Helen said gently. “No one would choose to be treated the way you were at home when there was an alternative available.”

“She had no alternative,” he said flatly. “And I almost forgot she existed while I was so busy grabbing at the good life.”

“You’re remembering now,” Helen stated quietly.

He looked at her, really seeing her for the first time in several minutes. “That’s right. What I want to do is for her and everyone like her. If I can change their lives maybe hers won’t have been in vain.”

“Did you go back to Puerta Linda after college?” Helen asked.

“Not right away. I had majored in engineering, and I took a job at a firm in New York. I had a big salary, a flashy apartment and a fast sports car. I dated blondes and redheads with names like Sharon and Tracy and Beth.”

“And Helen?” she supplied softly.

He nodded. “They thought I was exotic, primitive, dangerous. What a laugh. The most dangerous thing I did in those days was forget my slide rule.”

“As opposed to now, when your life is a powder keg,” Helen said unhappily.

He ignored that. “And then one day I was assigned to go to Puerta Linda on a job, to scout out a location for a new bridge near San Jacinta, the capital. I hadn’t been back in so long—not since my mother’s funeral, and then only for a couple of days—that I almost felt like a foreigner myself. But the management thought I would be able to deal with the natives better since I had lived there, so I was on my way.”

He paused, staring into the distance. “And something happened when I got there. I went to visit my mother’s sister and saw again the way she lived, saw what I had been actively trying to forget since I was ten. And I knew why I had never become an American citizen, why the engineering degree and the G. Fox clothes had polished me but never really changed what was inside of me.” He shrugged. “I resigned my job and stayed.”

“And you started to work to change the government,” Helen said.

He folded his arms. “At first I was naive. I actually thought I could organize the vote, the way I had seen my friends do for a campus election. Then it gradually became clear that there
was
no vote, that it was all fixed and controlled from the top and that the only chance for change was revolution. So I went underground and got together with others who felt the same way I did.” He lifted one shoulder eloquently. “That was eight years ago.”

“ And now you are the leader.”

He made a deprecating gesture. “So they tell me on American television. You know the media, they like to hang tag lines on people.”

“And with all the Sharons and Tracys you knew, there’s no one you could ask to go to Puerta Linda with you?”

Matteo knelt on the floor before her and took both her hands. “Not one of them could do what you did for me when I broke into your house. You’re the one I want.”

“Oh, Matt.” The directness of his plea was disarming.

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were any other way, Helen. I have to get home.”

“I know you do,” she responded softly.

“The terms would be the same as when I stayed at your house,” he added. “If you’re caught, I’ll say you were my hostage and that I forced you to go along in fear for your life.”

Helen didn’t answer, wondering if it was possible that he was proposing this scheme, and even more unbelievable, that she was actually considering it.

“I would offer to pay you,” Matteo said finally, a note of despair creeping into his voice, “but my men have investigated your background. I know that your family is wealthy and that money would not persuade you. I hope the cause of freedom will.”

“You investigated me?” Helen asked incredulously.

“It was necessary. I had to know more about you before I asked you to help. I could see that the house where you were staying was expensive, and I knew that your family must be well off, but there’s rich and there’s
rich.”
He smiled thinly. “I used to see the name Demarest on the trucks delivering fuel to my dormitory at school in New York. I didn’t realize you were
that
Demarest until I got the report.”

“And you still trust me?” Helen asked. “I would think that would be difficult for you now.”

“Why?” he asked, his brows knitting. “I know you; I know what you did for me. Information about what your father has in the bank or in stocks doesn’t change that. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any... encumbrances.”

“Like what?”

“Like somebody who would come after you if you left the country.”

“Oh, I see. And you discovered that nobody really cares much what I do, right? I should think that would make me ideal for your purposes. Is that why I was chosen for this dubious honor?” she said flatly.

“You were chosen for my faith in you,” he answered huskily, and she closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the emotion there.

Matteo held both her hands to his mouth, kissing them. “As soon as we reach Puerta Linda, you can turn around and go back home. I just need you to get me there.”

Helen gazed into his lean, handsome face, unsure of what to do. He was asking her to take a terrible chance, and she didn’t delude herself about one thing: if he had made it back to his country on his first try he would never have contacted her again.

But on the other hand, this man had a purpose and a direction her whole family had always lacked. Everyone she knew was like the parasitic aristocracy he described in Puerta Linda. His dedication appealed to her strongly; she found it almost irresistible. He had given up the very things that her relatives thought spelled success and happiness for something that meant more to him, and she wanted to help him.
 

“The risk isn’t all on your side, Helen,” Matteo concluded. “I’m taking a chance in telling you this, because if you say no, as soon as you leave here you could turn me in. But you didn’t let me down before and I don’t think you will now.”

Helen smiled. Part patriot, part con artist, he was all persuasiveness and all charm. He used his natural gifts to get what he wanted, and she guessed she wouldn’t be the first person who found it impossible to turn him down.

“All right,” she said.

He bowed his head, too moved to speak.

“I’ll leave a message with my mother’s secretary that I’m taking a vacation.”

“Anything you need to arrange is fine,” he said quickly, finding his voice.

“If your men could take me back to my car, I’ll go home and pack,” she said.

Matteo knocked on the glass window, summoning the guard who still stood outside. The man entered and Matteo issued a rapid command in Spanish.

“He’ll take you back,” Matteo said to Helen. “He is my best man; you’ll be safe with him.”

“He looks like a skyscraper, Matteo; I’m not worried.”

Matteo chuckled, then kissed her quickly on the forehead.

“Go. Bring light clothes, summer things. It’s very hot in Puerta Linda. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Okay.”

He put his hand on her arm as she turned to go.

“Helen, I haven’t the words to thank you.”

“You’ve thanked me enough for a lifetime, Matteo.”

“You’ve done me a lifetime of good,
mi corazon.”

“Tell me that when you’re safely back in Puerta Linda,” Helen said.

“I will be soon. I know it.”

He raised his hand in farewell as she walked out with the guard, and Helen squared her shoulders, telling herself that she had made her decision and was not going to lose her nerve now.

And she didn’t.

* * * *

When she got back to the beach house she left the guard, who seemed to understand a lot more English than he was able to speak, in the car and went inside to get her things together.

She telephoned her mother’s personal assistant and left her message, then packed up the piles of books and papers on the dining table and stowed them in a closet. The thesis would have to wait, and she didn’t want Adrienne’s kids making paper airplanes out of her notes while she was away.

Then Helen riffled the drawers for suitable clothing. The weather in Florida was never really cold, and over the years she had accumulated a wardrobe of sorts which she left at the house for her occasional use. As she folded blouses and pairs of cotton slacks she tried not to think about what she was preparing to do, because if she considered it rationally she knew she would chicken out. In her whole life she had done few unconsidered, spontaneous things, and now she was about to make a quantum leap into the realm of rash, impulsive behavior, leaving good sense far behind.

For once she had an opportunity to follow her heart, and she was going to take it. She believed that it was not the mistakes that haunted people in later life, but the chances missed, the roads not taken, and this was one road she was going to follow as far as she could.

Helen snapped the tabs on her suitcase and picked it up, along with her purse.

She was ready. She glanced around the beach house for a last look and then marched out the door to share Matteo’s fate.

Chapter 4

When Helen returned to the warehouse, Matteo was waiting for her. He took the suitcase from her hand and said, “It’s a rare woman who can pack for a trip with one bag.”