Chapter Two
Katrina suffered a momentary letdown as the trio of riveting American men disappeared into the elevator. Holy smokes. Not to stereotype guests in general, but most Americans didn’t look or act like those three. For one thing, they didn’t have an ounce of extra body fat among them. Lean and muscular, they could have modeled athletic wear. And despite having come straight from the airport after an all-night flight, they looked ready to paint the town.
Mitchell Thoreau was especially bright eyed. “Stop it,” she scolded herself, embarrassed by her comment to him. So his eyes were as blue as the Kansas sky that had astounded her every time her mother took her back to the States. And so what that he could quote Lorca? That didn’t mean he was the man of her dreams. God knew when it came to men, her judgment wasn’t the best anyway.
“Stop what?” Her father had apparently overheard her as he pushed through the door leading from the lower level into the reception area.
“Nothing. Good morning, Pare,” Katrina switched from English to Catalan, the language her father and brothers preferred. “Our three new guests just checked in,” she informed him, relieving his worry that they might not show up. The vote for independence had taken quite a toll on their livelihood.
When her father didn’t answer, Katrina turned to face him. Older than her mother had been by fifteen years, Felipe Ferrer had gone completely gray since his young wife’s unexpected death five years earlier. Excess weight padded his previously trim mid-section. That morning, his preoccupied expression made him look especially haggard.
Guessing the reason for it, she cocked a hip against the counter and sighed. The Ferrer family had owned and operated Hotel Leonardo for three generations. Lately, her half-brothers, Martí and Jordi, had been so wrapped up in the political situation, they’d been slacking on their duties and forcing Katrina and her father to cover for them.
“Let me guess,” she said as the phone began to ring. “Martí is making you cover his shift this morning.”
“Yes.” Without another word, Felipe reached out to answer the telephone.
Katrina’s resentment toward her brothers heated to a simmer. Did they have to be so concerned with the fate of Catalonia that they failed to look after their family? Their father, who had been widowed twice, was turning into a sad, old man. And what did they do? They ignored him to head up the Liberation Front, a group comprised of the same separatists who had goaded the Civil Guards in the last violent clash last month.
Katrina wished she could convince her brothers that their tactics were all wrong. Violence would only tighten Madrid’s hold over Barcelona, fueling the fires on both sides until civil war became inevitable.
“I’m going to go talk to them.”
Stuck on the phone with a client, her father shook his head frantically but couldn’t stop her. Through the heavy door marked Employees Only and down to their basement quarters, Katrina hurried, whipping up her indignation as she went. At the same time, she cautioned herself to keep a level head. Martí and Jordi were older than she by a decade. What’s more, Martí had a flash temper, and she would do well to watch her words if she hoped to persuade him that his obligation to family came first.
***
“I like that saying about the cherry tree,” Austin said as he tossed his duffel bag into the armoire in the corner of the room. “That Katrina chick is gorgeous.”
“The metaphor was about hospitality, Bam-Bam,” Mitch retorted, using Austin’s code name to convey how young he was and how much he still had to learn. “Besides, she’s too old for you,” he added, claiming the luggage rack next to the bureau and leaving that for Chuck.
Chuck rose predictably to Austin’s defense. “Everyone is the age of their heart,” he insisted.
“Then she’s still too old for him.” Mitch unzipped his bag, hunting for his overnight kit and a fresh change of clothes. As the officer, he got first dibs on the shower. “You two want to plan where we’re going first?” Finding what he needed, he headed for the bathroom.
“I say we hit up a bar,” he heard Austin say.
“Oh, that’s right, you’re legal in this country.” Mitch couldn’t resist one last jibe. He slipped into the bathroom, dodging the dirty T-shirt Austin lobbed at him.
Seconds later, Mitch studied his naked reflection in the mirror wondering if Katrina had found him at all attractive. She’d made that comment about his eyes, but then lots of people did. Set in a face that was perfectly ordinary, his eyes were more of a liability than an asset in the places he and his teammates visited. He often had to wear brown contact lenses, or at least a dark pair of sunglasses to conceal them and a hat over his light-brown hair.
Apart from his startling eyes, not much set him apart from his superbly fit teammates. He was one inch taller than the average guy, and prone to keep quiet and let others talk. People tended not to notice him—at least when he hung around his swashbuckling, testosterone-driven teammates.
On top of that, he didn’t have a specialty yet. After it was discovered he was a jack-of-all trades, he’d been sent to three different SEAL qualification courses, enabling him to step in as explosives expert, sniper, or medic. His competence made him popular, but only among his peers.
With women? Not so much. Women looked right through him. Part of that was his fault. He’d had priorities like finishing his education and making the Teams. When he became a SEAL, his teammates outshone him, rendering him nearly invisible. The only good news was, they were getting married, one by one, eliminating the competition.
My turn next, Mitch thought, and his mind went instantly to Katrina Ferrer. Why couldn’t she be the one?
She lives in a different country, smart one.
Shaking his head at his ridiculous inner dialogue, Mitch turned and twisted on the shower faucet. Katrina Ferrer wasn’t going to get involved with a guest who was planning to leave in two short days.
***
Storming out of the stairwell into their basement apartment, Katrina drew up short at the sound of Martí’s voice raised in passionate defiance. Who was he talking to like that? Curious to find out, she hurried down the corridor and was amazed to hear other voices—several of them—murmuring in concurrence of what Martí was saying.
“…a statement they will understand,” she heard him rant. “History teaches us this lesson—that progress has never come from peace.”
Rounding the corridor, she blinked in astonishment as she ran into a gathering of ten or twelve people standing in their living area. Lack of available seating kept them on their feet. Over their heads, Katrina could see Martí, up on a chair, warming to his role as their spokesman.
“A new nation has never risen without strife,” he insisted, gesturing with a bony hand. “And strife requires bloodshed. If we are to rise from the ashes then there has to be a fire first.”
Several of his friends applauded. Katrina recognized them as radical-leaning ne’er-do-wells, men who’d milled around the neighborhood doing little to improve their circumstances.
Standing on tiptoe, she searched for her other brother Jordi, hoping to appeal to him to put a stop to this. Martí took sudden notice of her.
“You know the plan,” he added, curtailing his speech abruptly. “Go but tell no one, or you will forever be known as a traitor.”
“Desperta Ferro!”
The room reverberated with the rally cry—one Martí had borrowed from history and apparently popularized with this group of misfits. With a pinch of concern, Katrina considered what the words meant—awaken the iron. It occurred to her Martí was encouraging his little group of ragtag followers to fight physically for their independence.
Oh, my God, she thought, as they brushed past her to funnel out of the basement through an exit used exclusively by her family. Spying snacks laid out on their table, she turned to see what Martí had pilfered from the kitchen.
Her resentment rose. There wasn’t money in this week’s budget to replace the churros he had laid out, not with the tourist season being as dismal as this one. With jerky movements, she began to tidy up, combining the leftovers into a box.
“What are you doing down here?” The question, had it been a whip, would have flayed her with how harshly it was spoken.
Turning, Katrina found Martí and one loitering guest standing behind her, their expressions hostile.
“This is my home,” she answered levelly. “I wasn’t aware that I was forbidden from it.”
Older than she by twelve years, Martí’s sour disposition had carved deep grooves on either side of his thin lips. “Only pure Catalans may attend my meetings,” he stated, sharing a superior look with his friend.
Katrina had accepted Martí’s dislike of her. She obviously reminded him of her mother, Laura, a woman who’d captured Felipe’s heart so soon after the death of Martí’s own mother, that Martí had never viewed Laura as anything but the other woman. After Laura’s death, Martí had transferred his resentment to Katrina. Jordi, at least, had been kinder to her.
Katrina pointed to the churros. “These are not to be given away for free,” she stated. “They come at a cost, right out of our pockets.”
“All things come at a cost,” he surprised her by agreeing.
As he and his friend smirked simultaneously, she recalled his words about strife and fire. “I hope you’re not planning to tangle with the Benemérita,” she cautioned.
“Benemérita?” He scoffed at her use of the respectful term for the Spanish Civil Guard. “La Guardia Civil have no jurisdiction here. We have declared ourselves an independent republic. Therefore, they are nothing but foreign oppressors. We owe them no respect.”
Katrina’s concern deepened. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm to reason with him. “Your way of thinking is dangerous, Martí. Violence is never the solution.”
“Don’t talk to me.” He shook off her touch. “You’re not even one of us.”
His condescension stung. Being half-American, she could never be fully Catalan—that was true. But she’d lived her whole life in northeast Spain, surrounded by the Catalan language and culture. Barcelona was her home.
“What are you planning?” she demanded, ignoring his taunt.
“It’s none of your concern.” Throwing an arm around his companion, he turned away with that man, murmuring directions under his breath.
Katrina wondered where Jordi, her more level-headed brother, was. Apparently, he hadn’t attended this little rally. Perhaps he hadn’t been invited.
Boxing the remaining churros, she carried them out of the sala to return them to the kitchen. When she handed the box to cook, that woman rolled her eyes and flung the box into the trash. Hotel Leonardo served only one meal a day in the small café. Cook clearly took pride in her fresh breakfast pastries.
A premonition of something terrible churned in Katrina as she returned to the lobby. She had caught wind of a dark plan—something involving strife and fire, ashes and revenge. What, exactly, was Martí and his small band of malcontents intending? Did he really think he could teach Madrid a lesson without landing himself in jail?
She needed to discover what her brother had in mind. Perhaps his rhetoric was just that, and his plans weren’t as dire as her gut was insisting. Jordi would know. If he refused to tell her, she would threaten to expose his indiscretion with the cleaning woman to his wife.
One thing she would not do was discuss the matter with her father, whom she found still on the phone. Taking in his defeated posture and subdued voice, she kept her concerns to herself. Felipe was no doubt well aware of his sons’ radical leanings. Yet he lacked both the energy and the resolve to stop them. To some extent, he likely even sympathized.
Katrina swallowed uneasily. She had just reassured their American guests that the Catalans were peaceable people. What if Martí went through with whatever act of violence he was planning and innocent people died or were hurt in the process? He’d be no different than the ISIS extremist who’d run down tourists and locals alike on Las Ramblas last summer.
My God, what was the world coming to?