Kitabı oku: «Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love: Ramirez's Woman / Her Royal Bodyguard / Protecting the Princess»

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November 2009

Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

Featuring

Ramirez’s Woman by Beverly Barton

Her Royal Bodyguard by Joyce Sullivan

Protecting the Princess by Carla Cassidy

Sleeping with the Sheikh

Featuring

The Sheikh’s Bidding by Kristi Gold

Delaney’s Desert Sheikh by Brenda Jackson

Desert Warrior by Nalini Singh

It’s his duty to safeguard her, but his desire to seduce her.

It’s a choice between honour and passion…

DETERMINED TO PROTECT, FORBIDDEN TO LOVE

Three of your favourite authors bring you three pulse-racing romances

DETERMINED TO PROTECT, FORBIDDEN TO LOVE
BEVERLY BARTON
JOYCE SULLIVAN
CARLA CASSIDY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RAMIREZ'S WOMAN

Beverly Barton wrote her first book at the age of nine. After marriage to her own “hero” and the births of her daughter and son, Beverly chose to be a full-time homemaker, aka wife, mother, friend and volunteer. This author of over thirty-five books is a member of Romance Writers of America and helped found the Heart of Dixie chapter. She has won numerous awards and appears on many bestseller lists.

For my brilliant editor and dear friend,

leslie Wainger

Prologue

Look at him, the smug, arrogant bastard. And that’s what Miguel Ramirez is—a bastard. The son of a whore. What makes him think he’s good enough to run for the highest office in the land? The leader of Mocorito has always been a member of the ruling class, an aristocrat, with the blood of royals running through his veins. Yes, it was true that Ramirez’s father was the descendant of the last Mocoritian king, but Ramirez had been born out of wedlock, his mother a poor peasant girl who had grown up in the ghetto of the nation’s capital, Nava. And Ramirez himself had lived in that same squalor until he was nearly grown. The stench of his plebeian upbringing could not be sanitized by his suave good looks, his beguiling charm or his American education at Harvard.

When Ramirez had qualified to run for office, the opposition had laughed, believing he had no chance of winning. But as the weeks and months went by and it became evident that the Nationalist Party candidate had become the unsung hero of the populace, the opposing party stopped laughing and began plotting. They had dug into Ramirez’s past and found not even an inkling of a scandal. And in today’s political climate, the fact that he’d been born poor and to an unwed mother only made him all the more appealing because he had overcome the handicaps of his childhood. The man had become a lawyer, who, for the past eight years, had worked tirelessly for the downtrodden and needy citizens of his country, endearing himself to them.

El Presidente, Hector Padilla, had been told that there was only one way to deal with Miguel Cesar Ramirez. Eliminate the son of a bitch. And do it soon. But make sure the assassin could never be traced back to the Federalist Party.

Miguel believed he had been born for this—to be a political force for good in Mocorito. It was past time to oust the corrupt Federalist Party and give power back to the people. His people. His mother’s people. The majority vote was his. All the recent polls showed him winning by a landslide if the election were held today. He could think of nothing that would alter the outcome. In less than two months, he, Miguel Cesar Ramirez, the man of the people, would be elected president of Mocorito. The dream of a lifetime was on the verge of coming true.

As he approached the podium, flanked by his staunchest supporters and good friends, Roberto Aznar and Emilio Lopez, the cheering crowd went wild, shouting his name again and again—Presidente Ramirez, Presidente Ramirez.

Smiling, holding up his hands as if to embrace his public as he stood before them in the central downtown square in the heart of Nava, Miguel basked in the pleasure of being loved by his people. His relationship with the people was symbiotic. He loved them, fought for them, gave them his best. And in return, they would bestow upon him the great honor of allowing him to serve them as their leader.

After a good five minutes of trying to quiet the crowd so that he could speak, Miguel finally managed to calm them enough to begin his speech. Not words written by another, not false sentiments and fake promises. But words from his heart. A love letter to his supporters.

“Good people of Nava, now is the time for change,” he told them.

The shouts and applause filled the square, drowning out Miguel’s next words. But he didn’t care. If this speech took him two hours instead of twenty minutes, what difference did it make? There was no place on earth he’d rather be than where he was this very minute.

Suddenly, Miguel heard an odd sound, then the earsplitting screams of frightened people. A spray of bullets ripped across the podium’s wooden floor. Emilio knocked Miguel down and fell on top of him, protecting Miguel with his own body.

“Stay down,” Emilio told him.

“Has anyone been hit?” Miguel asked.

“I do not know,” Emilio replied.

Within minutes, silence prevailed on this warm Autumn afternoon. Eerie, unnatural quiet. Miguel shoved Emilio up and off him, then glanced around and noted the thinning crowd as people fled. On the podium behind him, two of his supporters lay covered with blood. Major Rodolfo and Jose Gomez.

Roberto rushed forward and helped Miguel to his feet. “Are you all right?”

Miguel shook his head. “I am fine, but how are Rodolfo and Jose? How could this have happened?”

“It was an attempt on your life,” Emilio said. “We must take you away from here to safety. We can wait in the car until the police arrive.”

“Not until we help Rodolfo and—”

“Only our blessed Father in Heaven can help them now,” Roberto said. “They are both dead.”

Crossing himself, Miguel whispered a hasty, heartfelt prayer.

“We must go. Now!” Emilio grabbed Miguel’s arm.

Knowing at this point that his best course of action was to take cover and wait for the police, he allowed his friends to guard him as they crossed the square to reach the big black limousine waiting for them.

Carlos hopped out and opened the back door. “Are you all right, Señor Ramirez?” the chauffeur asked, true concern evident in his voice and his facial expressions.

Miguel patted him on the back. “I am fine, Carlos.”

Once inside the limo, Emilio said, “The Federalists were behind this assassination attempt. I would stake my life on it. There is no other explanation.”

“We cannot make accusations without proof,” Roberto cautioned. “If it was the Federalists, then we will find the proof and tell the people. But it could have been a disgruntled citizen, someone out to kill a politician.”

Shaken and angry, Miguel agreed with his two best friends. “Emilio is right. I believe the Federalists sent someone to kill me because they fear that Hector Padilla cannot win reelection. But, you, too, are right, Roberto. We cannot make accusations without proof.”

“From now on, you must have a bodyguard with you at all times,” Emilio said. “I tried to tell you from the very beginning that you would not be safe without protection.”

“How can I parade around with a bodyguard at my side when my opponent has never resorted to using armed men to protect him?” Miguel balked at the thought of showing any weakness. “Padilla has made a point of telling the people that under his leadership, the president has no need for bodyguards as El Presidente of old had, back in the days when the government leadership changed at the drop of a hat and dictators and presidents alike were murdered on a regular basis.”

“Miguel is right. He can show no sign of weakness. The Federalists would use it against him,” Roberto said. “We must find another way to protect him, one that does not require a bodyguard.”

“By not taking heed, you will not only put Miguel’s life at risk, but jeopardize our party’s chance to take power. We will lose the opportunity for a representative of the people to govern this country.” Emilio glowered at Roberto.

“Do not argue, my friends,” Miguel said. “I believe I know a solution to our problem.”

Both men turned to Miguel, their expressions questioning.

“I was lucky today, but I may not be so lucky a second time. Two good men were killed because they were with me. I cannot show weakness by hiring an armed bodyguard, some burly man who will remind the people of the past. But if a beautiful young woman were in my company, day and night, no one would suspect her of being my protector. They would simply say how fortunate Miguel is to have such a lovely companion. If necessary, we can even pass her off as my fiancée, so as not to upset the female voters.”

“Are you suggesting we hire a female bodyguard?” Roberto asked.

“That is a brilliant idea,” Emilio said.

“There are no female bodyguards in Mocorito.” Roberto threw up his hands in exasperation.

“But I am quite certain that there are female bodyguards in America,” Miguel told them. “We will simply contact Will Pierce and ask him to arrange for one to be brought here as soon as possible.”

“The CIA cannot send one of their agents here,” Roberto said. “The Americans must appear to have no interest in this election. If they provide you with a—”

“I am sure Will can arrange something through an independent agency.” Miguel narrowed his gaze thoughtfully. “I will suggest he find me a tall, elegant blonde. Everyone knows that I have a weakness for blondes.”

Chapter 1

J. J. Blair zipped in and out of Atlanta traffic on her glacier-white Harley, loving the feel of riding the big, roaring brute. For a woman who was five-two and weighed a hundred and seven pounds soaking wet, the FXD/FXDI Super Glide Custom was big, even though it was actually one of the smaller motorcycles that Harley Davidson built. However, it fit her and her needs to perfection. She never felt more herself, more free and in control than when astride her customized hog. It had taken her three years to put aside enough money to pay cash for this sweet baby—a cool fifteen thousand, once she added all the extras. Two months ago, after purchasing her dream machine, she’d sold her old reliable FXR, the bike she’d bought used six years ago when she’d run away from her old life in Mobile, Alabama.

Having worked off her last case for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency only four days ago, she had thought she might have a full week to kick back and relax. But Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, had phoned her late yesterday evening to inform her that their boss, Sawyer McNamara, needed her to show up for a meeting first thing in the morning.

All Daisy had said was, “The job is in Mocorito, so I figure since you and Dom speak Spanish fluently, you two will be assigned to this case.”

“Know any details?” J.J. had asked.

“Nope.”

J.J. did speak Spanish fluently, as well as French and some Italian. She also knew a little German, Japanese and Russian, but not enough to do more than order a meal or ask where the restroom was. Her father, Rudd Blair, had been a career soldier, so, as a kid, she’d lived all over, at least until her parents had divorced when she was eleven. Her teachers had been amazed at how adept she’d been at picking up foreign languages. But her mother Lenora had said fiddlesticks, her people, the Ashfords of Mobile, were all brilliant and Jennifer Joy was half Ashford, wasn’t she?

As J.J. drove into the underground garage of the building that housed the Dundee Agency, which leased the entire sixth floor, she tried to remember what she knew about Mocorito.

Mocorito was a small island nation off the coast of South America, the population a mixture of races, but the strong Spanish influence of the earliest settlers dominated the country. Okay, so she remembered that much from either high school social studies or from having read something more recently. She wasn’t sure which. One thing for sure—her father had never been stationed there.

After removing her shiny purple helmet and shaking loose her black curls, she unzipped her purple leather jacket and headed for the bank of elevators.

Hadn’t she heard something on the ten o’clock news last night about Mocorito? She’d been in the kitchen making herself a cup of hot cocoa while the news was on and had returned to the living room just in time to catch the last snippets of the story. The presidential election was coming up in a few weeks and somebody had taken a potshot at one of the candidates. Yeah, that’s what it was. Some guy named Romero or Rodriguez. No, no. Ramirez. That was it.

As the elevator zoomed upward, J.J. groaned. Surely that incident didn’t have anything to do with this new Dundee assignment. After all, why would a South American presidential candidate hire a security firm based in the U.S.?

When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor, J.J. exited straight into the heart of the Dundee Agency, where she had been employed for the past three years. After leaving Mobile over six years ago, she’d traveled around the country on her FXR for a couple of years, picking up odd jobs here and there and trying to figure out who she was and what she wanted to do when she grew up. Then four years ago she’d wound up in Atlanta. Back in the South. But not the South in which her mother had been reared as one of the privileged Ashfords of Mobile, with hot and cold running servants, membership in all the exclusive clubs and an air of snobbery acquired over generations. No, Atlanta was part of the new South, having shed the past like a snake shedding dead skin.

She had worked for nearly a year at a local martial arts studio, where she’d finally acquired her black belt. Although she’d enjoyed that job, it hadn’t been challenging enough for her. When she’d met an Amazonian redhead in a coffee shop near her apartment and discovered that the lady—Lucie Evans—worked for a private security and investigation agency based in Atlanta, she’d made inquiries about employment. Lucie had set up an interview for her the very next week, and, as luck would have it, one of their agents had just resigned.

J.J. had taken to the world of private security like a duck to water. Being trained in the martial arts and having served in the army as a second lieutenant after graduation from college had helped her zip through the six-week training course that Dundee required. Being one of only three women agents at Dundee, she had expected some ribbing, maybe even harassment from the men, but what she’d gotten was acceptance and camaraderie. Even the CEO, Sawyer McNamara, had told her that her looks were deceiving, that she had shown everyone during her training sessions that she was more than qualified for the job despite being a petite bombshell. Sawyer’s comment had come shortly after she’d equaled his impressive shooting on the firing range. Her father had taught her how to use a gun when she was twelve and over the years, she had practiced relentlessly to perfect her skills.

Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, also known as Ms. Efficiency, glanced up from her desk located in a glass cubicle in the center hub of the office complex and smiled at J.J.

“Morning,” Daisy said. “Love the purple jacket. Is it new?”

J.J. did a feminine twirl. “I splurged on this and a pair of boots to match.” She lifted her jean-clad leg high enough for Daisy, who leaned over her desk, to see the supple leather boots.

“Don’t you look good enough to eat,” a deep masculine voice commented. “Like a delicious purple grape.”

Laughing, both J.J. and Daisy turned to face Domingo Shea, Dundee’s Latin lover. Some women might take his remark as a sexist comment, but J.J. knew Dom well enough to take what he’d said as the compliment he’d meant it to be. Dom and she were friends, comrades-in-arms and drinking buddies who often played cards with several other agents on a fairly regular basis.

“Well, good morning to you, too, Mr. Tall, Dark and Politically Incorrect.” J.J. grinned at the drop-dead-gorgeous Texas heartthrob. Dom was one of those men who took your breath away because he was so good-looking. Jet-black hair that he’d been wearing a bit long and shaggy lately only added to his macho appeal. And when he gazed at a woman with those sharp black eyes, more often than not she melted into a puddle at his feet. Then there was that body. God almighty, what a bod. Six-three, muscular and lean.

“Are you here for the meeting this morning?” Dom asked.

J.J. nodded.

“Vic’s coming in, too, for the same meeting,” Daisy told them. “It seems he knows people in Mocorito from back in his spook days.”

J.J. glanced at the clock on the wall behind Daisy’s desk. “We’re a little early. Is Sawyer here yet?”

“He’s in his office with the door closed,” Dom said. “He’s holed up in there with Lucie. Some little disagreement concerning her expense account on her last assignment.”

J.J. groaned. “There’s no such thing as a little disagreement between Lucie and Sawyer.”

“No, with those two, it’s always all-out warfare.” Dom glanced down the hall toward the CEO’s office, which was behind the glass-enclosed office of his private secretary. “Who’s the guy sitting there in Ms. Davidson’s office? Somebody waiting for Sawyer?”

“His name is Will Pierce. I figure he’s alphabet soup,” Daisy said. “FBI, CIA, DEA. Take your pick.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other.” Dom, a former navy SEAL, knew as well as J.J. and Daisy that a good percentage of the Dundee staff, past and present, had come from various government agencies.

“A new agent?” J.J. looked at Daisy.

Ms. Efficiency shook her head. “We’re fully staffed at present and not looking to hire, unless Mr. Dundee decides he wants to expand the business.”

“Any chance of that happening?” Dom asked.

“How would I know?” Daisy smiled coquettishly, deepening the cheek dimples in her heart-shaped face.

Dom leaned his six-three frame over the office manager’s desk. “Because, Daisy, my darling, you know everything there is to know around here. Don’t you realize we’re all aware of that fact that you’re the one who really runs the DundeeAgency and not Sawyer.”

Daisy giggled. “That silver tongue of yours must come from a combination of Latin charm and Irish blarney.”

Before Dom got a chance for a response, Sawyer’s office door flew open and Lucie Evans stormed out, tromped through Ms. Davidson’s office and came barreling down the hall, hellfire in her smoky brown eyes.

“That man infuriates me!” Lucie paused at Daisy’s cubicle.

“Like that’s a news flash,” Dom said under his breath.

“What’s he done now?” Daisy asked sympathetically.

Lucie took a deep breath, then let it out with a loud, exasperated whoosh. “Nothing he hasn’t done before and nothing he won’t do again. He’s questioning a twenty-dollar charge on my expense account. It’s ridiculous and I told him so. I’m sick and tired of this crap. I have half a mind to quit.”

Dom laughed. “Now, Lucie, you and I both know that you are not going to quit, because that’s exactly what Sawyer wants you to do and you’d walk over hot coals to keep from letting him have his way, now wouldn’t you?”

Lucie huffed. “Yes, you’re right. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of quitting.”

“Besides, you enjoy making his life miserable far too much to quit and leave the man in peace,” Daisy added.

Lucie smiled, glanced at her friends, and then laughed.

Vic Noble joined the others. “Did I just miss a good joke?” he asked.

Lucie leaned over and kissed Vic on the cheek. “Why can’t Sawyer be a sweetheart like you?”

Vic chuckled quietly. “You two been at it again, huh?”

“Considering you’re ex-CIA, you wouldn’t happen to know a discreet assassin I could hire to eliminate a certain pain in the ass, would you?”

“You don’t want Sawyer dead,” Vic told her. “You’d miss tormenting the man far too much.”

A roar of good-natured laughter rose up inside and around Daisy’s cubicle.

The laughter died the minute a deep, authoritarian voice called loudly from down the hall. “Dom. J.J. Vic.” Standing outside his current secretary’s office—the boss went through secretaries on the average of two a year—Sawyer McNamara motioned for them with a commanding flick of his big hand. Dressed to the nines like a model out of GQ, he looked like a wealthy businessman. But those who knew him well understood that beneath that handsome, stylish facade beat the heart of a deadly warrior.

“The master calls,” Lucie said. “You’d better run or he’ll threaten to send y’all to obedience school, along with me.”

Everyone chuckled, but quickly left Lucie with Daisy and headed down the hall toward the boss’s office. Once the three of them were inside, Sawyer closed the door and made introductions

“Will, these are the three agents I’ve chosen for the job,” Sawyer told their visitor. “Vic Noble is a former CIA contract agent.” Vic nodded. “Dom Shea is a former navy SEAL.” Dom smiled. “And this is J.J. Blair. She’s an expert marksman and is proficient in the martial arts. Dom and J.J. both speak Spanish like natives.”

Mr. Pierce studied the threesome for a full minute, then nodded. “I’m Will Pierce, with the CIA.” His gaze met with Vic’s for a split second. “You may or may not know that yesterday afternoon, someone tried to assassinate Miguel Cesar Ramirez, the Nationalist Party candidate for president of Mocorito. Unofficially, the United States government wants to see Ramirez elected. He’s a new breed of Mocoritian. A man of the people, but educated in the U.S. He graduated from Harvard Law School and has numerous American friends.”

“Our interest in this election wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Mocorito is in possession of more oil than any other country in the western hemisphere, would it?” Vic asked.

Will pinned Vic with his pensive glare. “I don’t think I need to answer that question, do I?”

“Señor Ramirez needs a full-time bodyguard,” Sawyer said. “That’s where the Dundee Agency comes in.”

J.J. narrowed her gaze as she focused on her boss. “Why doesn’t he already have bodyguards?”

“Neither the presiding president nor his opponent have bodyguards,” Pierce explained. “In the past, before Mocorito was a democracy, the leader—either a president or a dictator or at one time the king—was always surrounded by a contingent of armed guards. President Padilla refuses to have bodyguards in order to show that he has nothing to fear from his people because they love him so much. Ramirez can hardly surround himself with guards and take the chance that he’ll be perceived as either weak or afraid.”

“Why send us? Why not U.S. undercover agents?” J.J. asked.

“We can’t send in any of our people,” Pierce said. “If it ever came out that we were backing Ramirez…well, let’s just say, we don’t want that to happen. And Ramirez has refused a regular bodyguard. The only way he’ll agree to having twenty-four-seven protection is if the bodyguard is female and is willing to pose as his lady friend.”

J.J.’s mouth gaped open. “Are you saying that I’m supposed to pose as this guy’s latest paramour? Are we talking putting on a show for the public only or are we talking about being loveydovey in private, too?”

Will Pierce frowned. All eyes turned to Sawyer.

“Only Señor Ramirez, Mr. Pierce and Ramirez’s two closest confidantes will know the truth,” Sawyer said. “As far as everyone else is concerned—and that includes family, friends, supporters and any servants working in the house—you will be Ramirez’s girlfriend.”

“His lover, you mean?” J.J. glared at Sawyer.

“If you aren’t comfortable in that role, then Señor Ramirez might be willing to present you to everyone as his fiancée,” Pierce said.

“Oh, that makes me feel a whole heap of a lot better.” J.J. bristled at the thought of having to fight off some Latin Romeo with whom she’d be forced to share a bedroom for the next few weeks.

Dom chuckled. “You can take care of yourself and we all know it. Just lay down some ground rules with this Ramirez guy first thing. If he steps over the line, show him a few of your best moves. You can kick his butt. You’ve proved you’re capable of downing a guy twice your size.”

“The election is in four-and-a-half weeks,” Pierce said. “Ramirez is the front-runner. We can’t allow anything to go wrong.”

“While I’m playing kissy-kissy with the future el presidente, where will Dom and Vic be?”

“Vic will be working undercover to help find out who tried to assassinate Ramirez.” Pierce glanced at Dom. “Mr. Shea will pose as a distant American relative who has come to Mocorito to cheer on his cousin in his bid for the presidency.”

“Dom will be close by if you need him,” Sawyer told her. “He’ll be living in the same house and his job will be to find out if there’s anyone inside Ramirez’s organization who can’t be trusted.” He pinned her with his imposing glare. “J.J., your sole duty will be to protect Miguel Ramirez. Do whatever you have to do to keep him alive and do it without seeming to do it. You understand?”

She nodded. “Cling to Ramirez’s arm, bat my eyelashes at him, giggle and smile and act all feminine, but if anyone tries to harm him, stop them without making it obvious that I’m actually a trained bodyguard who just saved the future president’s life.”

“You’ll fly to Caracas by Dundee jet, then go first class into Nava, the capital city,” Sawyer explained. “Arrangements have already been made for J.J. and Dom to fly together. Vic will go in separately. Dom, you and Vic go home, pack your bags and meet back here by noon.” He turned to J.J. “You go shopping. Buy whatever you need to look totally feminine. Daytime wear, a couple of evening gowns, sportswear and…” Sawyer cleared his throat. “Some negligees, underwear…”

“Say no more.” J.J. held up her hand in a stop gesture. “I get the idea.”

“When y’all come back into the office, I’ll brief you, as a group, on what your roles will be. J.J., you and Dom will use your own names. Our government will do whatever is necessary to make sure any inquiries about one or all of you are handled through proper channels.”

Understanding that they’d just been dismissed, Vic, Dom and J.J. headed for the door. Being the last of the threesome to exit, J.J. paused before leaving and asked, “What’s my budget for this wardrobe I’m supposed to buy during the next few hours?”

She had asked Sawyer, but it was Will Pierce who answered. “Spend whatever you think is necessary, Ms. Blair. And get whatever you feel you’ll need to adequately do your job.”

Miguel’s home in Nava had once belonged to his father’s cousin, Count Porfirio Fernandez, an extremely wealthy old man who had died unmarried and childless. Cesar Fernandez had inherited his uncle’s home, various properties throughout Mocorito and his millions. In turn, he had deeded the house to his illegitimate son and set up a trust fund for the child he hadn’t known existed until the boy was thirteen. Cesar had never acknowledged Miguel as his own flesh and blood, not legally or in any public way. He had taken care of him financially and sent him to the best schools, educating him in America, as generations of Fernandez men had been educated. But Miguel and his father had met only twice. The first time had been a brief visit at his father’s office in downtown Nava when Miguel was eighteen and leaving for Harvard. It was an unemotional exchange, with little said except an admonishment from his father to do well in his studies. Then, three years ago, when Cesar lay on his deathbed, Miguel had been called to the old man’s home. It was only then, on the day his father died, that Cesar’s legitimate son and daughter had learned of their half-brother’s existence. And it was only then that Cesar had mentioned Miguel’s mother.

“Luz Ramirez was a very pretty girl, if I remember correctly,” Cesar had said. “You have her golden-brown eyes, but the rest of you is pure Fernandez.”

That was the closest his father had come to acknowledging him.

By anyone’s standards, Miguel was wealthy, but although he lived in this beautiful old home and used his trust fund for the upkeep and to pay the servants required to maintain the house and grounds, he had left the bulk of his fortune untouched. Occasionally he used the money to help others, whenever he saw a desperate need. Since returning to Mocorito after law school, he had worked tirelessly for the poor and downtrodden in his country, providing the general public with legal assistance, something few citizens could afford under Hector Padilla’s reign.

Often he felt guilty for living so well, surrounded by luxury, here in this magnificent old home, but, God help him, since moving in eight years ago, he had grown to love every square foot of the palatial two-story mansion. This was a home meant to be shared with a wife and filled with the laughter of many children. He intended to marry someday, had hoped that by now he would have met the perfect woman, a lady who would not only love him, but love his dream for Mocorito’s future.

Perhaps the lady with whom he planned to dine tonight would turn out to be that person. Emilio’s wife, Dolores, was hosting a small, intimate dinner party for six, here in Miguel’s home. After yesterday’s assassination attempt, Dolores had suggested canceling the dinner, but Miguel had insisted that they proceed as planned. So, Emilio, Dolores and Roberto, as well as Miguel’s old and dear friend, Dr. Juan Esteban, and the lovely Zita Fuentes were due to arrive at any moment.

He had met Zita at a political rally several weeks ago, where she had pledged her support to his campaign. Since Zita was a wealthy widow, her support meant more than lip service. She had made a sizable donation that had helped pay for the television ads running day and night now that the election was a little over a month away. Zita was the type of woman who would make a traditional first lady: cultured, demure and subservient to her husband’s wishes. Having been married very young to a millionaire industrialist, she had been trained to be the perfect wife for a professional.

He couldn’t say that it had been love at first sight for him, but he had been quite attracted to the lady. Black-eyed and auburnhaired, the tall, slender Zita possessed an appealing air of elegance and sophistication. However, now that the U.S. government had arranged to send him a female bodyguard who would pose as his girlfriend, he could hardly begin courting Zita Fuentes. But after the election was over, and his fake relationship with the Dundee agent had ended, he would initiate his plan to woo the alluring widow. He only hoped that making his affair with another woman so public wouldn’t ruin his chances with Zita.

“Miguel,” a sweet, feminine voice called his name from the open French doors leading from the house to the patio where Miguel stood enjoying the serenity of the enclosed garden.

He smiled and turned to greet a very pregnant Dolores Lopez, his second cousin, who was as dear to him as any sister could be. “You look lovely tonight.”

She tsked-tsked and shook her head. “You are wonderful to lie to me. I know I look more and more like a hippopotamus every day.”

Emilio, only a few inches taller than his five-six wife, came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist. He patted her protruding belly. “But you are my little hippopotamus and the prettiest mother-to-be in the world.”

She turned and kissed her husband on the cheek, then focused on Miguel. “We are the first to arrive, are we not? I would not want to neglect my duties as your hostess. But you really should have a wife, Miguel. When you are elected president, you will need a first lady.”

“I believe Miguel can handle his own love life,” Emilio said, always eager to defend the man who had been his best friend since the two were boys.

“I’m not so sure of that.” Dolores walked over and kissed Miguel on both cheeks. “He is thirty-five and still unmarried.”

Miguel slipped his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and hugged her to his side. “I promise you that as soon as this election is over, I will get down to the serious business of finding myself a wife.”

“A wife for you and a first lady for Mocorito,” a gruff male voice called from behind them.

All three acknowledged Miguel’s good friend, RobertoAznar, who joined them on the patio. Roberto, a staunch Nationalist, was Miguel’s campaign fund-raiser, and Emilio was the campaign manager, overseeing every detail of their quest to win the election.

“I will leave you men to talk politics,” Dolores said. “I need to speak to Ramona to make sure dinner will be ready at precisely seven-thirty.” As she headed toward the open French doors, she asked Miguel, “Did the florist deliver the arrangements I ordered?”

“Yes, yes,” Miguel replied. “The flowers are perfect, the dinner table is perfect and we all know that Ramona’s meal will also be perfect.”

“But of course,” Dolores said. “However, I simply must see to everything myself.”

Once Dolores disappeared inside the house, Emilio spoke quietly, as if he were afraid his wife would overhear. “I do not like keeping secrets from Dolores. This business of an American bodyguard posing as your lady friend is something we should tell my wife. Otherwise, she’ll worry herself sick that you’re involved with some American floozy.”

“The fewer people who know, the better,” Roberto said. “I am very fond of Dolores, but you know as well as I do that she cannot keep a secret. If we tell her, we might as well tell the world and that would defeat the purpose of having a female bodyguard in the first place.”

Miguel clamped his hand down on Emilio’s shoulder. “In this case, Roberto is right. As much as I love Dolores, I can’t trust her with this information. It would be bad enough if the public were to discover I had a bodyguard, but think how the voters would react to learn that I have a woman guarding me.”

“I know, I know,” Miguel replied. “But once this woman from the Dundee Agency shows up, Dolores will make it her business to become acquainted with her. She guards your back like a fierce mama tiger.”

Dom and J.J. took a taxi from the airport to Miguel Ramirez’s home in the oldest and one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Nava. Huge brick and stucco mansions lay behind iron gates, every impressive structure and sprawling lawn well-maintained. Only the very rich and powerful could afford to live here.

“I thought this Ramirez guy came from humble beginnings,” J.J. whispered to Dom, speaking quietly on the off chance the cabdriver understood English. “These are rich folks’ homes.”

“He inherited the place from a relative,” Dom said. “Didn’t you read the bio on Ramirez that Daisy gave you?”

“I didn’t have time to do more than skim it before we left. It took me four hours of intensive shopping to find a suitable wardrobe for this assignment.” She adjusted the neckline on the simple beige crepe-knit dress she’d worn on the plane. “I must have missed the part about him living in a palace.”

The cabby turned off the street onto a brick driveway that led to a breathtaking two-story, white stucco house, with a red-tiled roof and a veranda that appeared to span the circumference of the mansion.

Speaking in Spanish, the cabby said, “Is Señor Ramirez expecting you? If not, you will not be able to get in to see him without passing inspection.”

“Miguel is my cousin,” Dom replied. “I live in Miami and when he was visiting there this past spring, he invited me to come for a visit.”

“A cousin, you say.” The cabby’s mouth opened in a wide, friendly smile as he parked the car and turned around to look at Dom and then at J.J. “This lovely lady, she is your wife?”

“No, she’s a friend of mine and of Miguel’s,” Dom said. “Her family has entrusted me with her care while we are visiting here.”

The cabby looked J.J. over thoroughly, then nodded. “It is good that her father did not allow her to travel alone. Too many young women are acting like men these days, ruining their reputations and making them unsuitable for marriage.”

J.J. had to bite her tongue to keep from making a comment, but when her eyes widened and she clenched her teeth, Dom grinned, knowing full well that she was more than a little irritated.

After they got out of the cab, Dom helped the driver take their suitcases to the veranda, then he tipped the guy generously. “We’ll just leave our luggage here for now,” Dom said. “Thanks.”

As the cabby drove away, Dom rang the doorbell. “Get ready for the performance of your life.”

“My playing a lovesick fool will require an Academy-awardwinning performance.”

A heavyset, middle-aged woman opened the door. Without any expression on her slightly wrinkled, makeup-free face, she sized up the two guests.

“I am Domingo Shea,” he said in Spanish. “I am Señor Ramirez’s cousin from Miami. And this—” he indicated with a sweep of his hand “—is Señorita Jennifer Blair.”

“You are expected?” the woman asked.

“Yes, I believe he’s expecting us tomorrow,” Dom told her. “But we were able to get away earlier than anticipated. I do hope our early arrival will not be an inconvenience.”

“Please, come inside and I will announce you.”

Dom and J.J. waited in the massive, marble-floored foyer. Overhead a huge chandelier shimmered with what appeared to be a hundred tiny lights, all reflecting off the crystal gems. A wide, spiral, marble staircase led from the foyer to the second level, the wrought-iron banisters circling the open landing.

“This is some place,” Dom said. “I can’t imagine any presidential mansion being more impressive.”

“Actually, it reminds me a little of my Grandmother Ashford’s place in Mobile.”

“Poor little rich girl.”

“My mother is rich. My stepfather is rich. Me, I’m just an ordinary woman who works for a living.”

Moments turned to minutes as they waited. And waited. And waited. After a good ten minutes had passed, a tall attractive man, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a thin, dark moustache, appeared and greeted them. J.J. guessed his age to be somewhere around forty. Mentally reviewing the photos she’d been shown of the people closest to Ramirez, she realized that this was Roberto Aznar.

“You have arrived a day early.”Aznar seemed genuinely agitated.

“I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“No. No problem. I’m sure the servants can prepare your rooms tonight. I’ll ask Ramona to see that your bags are taken upstairs and if you’d like to freshen up—”

“We’d like to see Miguel,” Dom said.

“Yes, well…you see, he has guests. He’s giving a small dinner party for—”

“Wonderful.” J.J. sighed. “I’m starving. You know how airline food is. Like cardboard, even in first class. Please, be a dear and lead us to the dining room.” J.J. slipped her arm through Roberto’s, much to his astonishment. “Besides, I know Miguel will be thrilled to see us. I’m sure he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.”

Dom followed as Roberto led J.J. down the hall and into the dining room. The table sat twenty, but this evening the guests were placed at the far end of the table, the two men and two women flanking the head of the table where Miguel Ramirez presided.

When Roberto entered, bringing J.J. with him and Dom coming in behind them, Ramirez rose from his chair.

Impressive, J.J. thought. The man’s photographs didn’t do him justice. He was one-hundred-percent male, from his wide shoulders to his lean hips and long legs. He was handsome without being pretty. His bronze skin was a shade darker than Dom’s, but he had the same blue-black hair, only his was cut conservatively short and neatly styled. But it was his unique golden-brown eyes that captured J.J.’s attention. Large, expressive eyes, the color of dusty topaz.

“Your cousin Dom has arrived a day early,” Roberto said. “And look who he has brought with him.”

Ramirez hesitated for a moment as he studied J.J. Then he smiled, scooted back his chair and walked hurriedly around the table and straight to her. He opened his arms in an expression of welcome, then reached down and grasped both of her hands in his.

“Querida, it is so good to see you again.” He kissed first one hand and then the other. “Please, come in and let me introduce you to everyone.”

They stood there in the dining room, just beyond the threshold and stared at each other, his gaze locked on her face. J.J.’s heart skipped a beat. Uh-oh, that wasn’t a good sign. As a general rule, most men didn’t have this effect on her, but when one did, that meant she was in trouble. She had hoped the man she would be protecting wouldn’t set off a frenzy of crazed butterflies in her belly. So much for hoping. The little buggers were doing a Saint Vitus dance in her stomach right now.

He led J.J. farther into the room, then paused while the others stared at her.

A very pregnant, black-haired woman glanced from J.J. to Miguel. “Who are these people?”

Dom spoke up first. “I’m Miguel’s cousin, Domingo Shea, from Miami.”

“And this is Jennifer.” Miguel’s voice embraced her name. “She is—”

“I am Miguel’s fiancée,” J.J. said, deciding on the spur of the moment that she did not intend to spend the next month being treated like a mistress. Then she turned and looked Miguel right in the eyes, daring him to contradict her. “That is, if your proposal is still good and you still want me.” She batted her eyelashes.

His eyes widened in surprise, but, barely missing a beat, he replied. “Of course, I still want you, querida. More than ever.”

Chapter 2

The lady was not what he’d been expecting. No six-foot Viking goddess. No cool, sophisticated Grace Kelly blonde. Not even a hard-as-nails, pro-wrestler-type female with a killer look in her eyes. No, Jennifer Blair was none of those things. What she was was a petite, raven-haired beauty with an hourglass figure and the most striking blue-violet eyes Miguel had ever seen.And the way she’d taken charge of the moment—accepting a fictitious marriage proposal in front of an audience—told him she expected to run the show. Call him old-fashioned, call him a macho pig, but he preferred his women to defer to him in all things. And that included his female bodyguard. Miguel chuckled to himself as he held the lady’s small, delicate hands. She didn’t look as if she could swat a fly, let alone protect a man more than twice her size.

“Querida, let me introduce you to everyone.” Miguel slipped his arm around her tiny waist and led her farther into the room. Without glancing back, he said, “Come along, Dom.”

Dolores glowered at J.J., so much so that he felt his cousin’s hostility as if it were a viable thing. “You asked this woman to marry you and you have told no one here about her? I find that very strange.”

Emilio cleared his throat, then said hastily. “Miguel told me about Miss Blair, but he swore me to secrecy. Otherwise, you know I would have told you.”

“Dolores, don’t be upset with Emilio,” Miguel said, falling hurriedly into the act that he would have to perpetuate for the next few weeks. “I met Jennifer on my trip to Miami. She is a friend of Dom’s and he introduced us. We had a whirlwind romance and I—” The words caught in his throat. Lying about loving a woman was something he’d never done. “We fell in love and I asked her to marry me. But we agreed that she would wait to give me an answer, that we would put some time and distance between us to make sure what we felt was…real love.”

Skewering J.J. with her cynical gaze, Dolores came toward her. Dolores knew Miguel the way a sister knows her brother, so convincing her that he was in love with this American woman would not be easy.

“You have decided that you love Miguel and wish to be his wife?” Dolores asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” J.J. replied, keeping her phony smile in place.

Emilio wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and hugged her to him. “Then congratulations are in order, are they not? We should ask Ramona to bring in champagne…er…uh…and sparkling cider for you, my sweet.”

“I did not know we had a cousin in Miami.” Naturally, the ever-skeptical Dolores was not convinced that J.J. and Dom were genuine. His cousin’s feminine instincts had warned her that something wasn’t quite right about the situation, that something was rotten in Nava tonight.

“He is my cousin, not yours.” When Miguel tightened his hold around J.J.’s waist, he realized that his actions had told her that he was tense, that already the lies were bothering him. “He is from the other side of the family. The son of one of Papá Tomas’s cousins.”

“Hmm…” Dolores glanced from Dom to J.J. “Have you had dinner?”

A collective sigh permeated the room. Miguel loosened his tenacious hold about J.J.’s waist. Dolores’s cordiality did not mean she had accepted these strangers on face value, but it did mean she was giving them the benefit of the doubt and would allow them to prove themselves to her.

“As a matter of fact, we haven’t.” Dom went around the room, shaking hands and making nice. When he paused by the chair where the elegant redhead sat, the woman stopped glaring daggers at J.J. and smiled at Dom.

“And who is this enchanting creature?” Dom asked.

Not waiting for a proper introduction, she spoke for herself, “I am Zita Fuentes and am I delighted to make your acquaintance, Señor Shea.” She cut Miguel to the quick with a withering glare.

“If you all will entertain Dom, I need a moment alone with Jennifer.” Not giving anyone a chance to halt him by word or action, Miguel grasped J.J.’s arm and all but dragged her out of the dining room.

Once outside in the hall, she jerked free and stopped dead still. “Do not ever pull that Me-Tarzan-You-Jane routine with me again.”

Totally exasperated with this woman, Miguel groaned. “Lower your voice. Sound carries in this old house, especially in the hallways.”

She looked him square in the eye and said softly, “Then let’s go somewhere more private. We should set up the ground rules for this charade immediately. That way, we’ll both know where we stand and what to expect from the other person.”

“Agreed. Come with me.”

He did not touch her again; instead he allowed her to fall into step beside him as he led her away from the dining room. A few minutes later, he opened the massive double doors to the mahogany-paneled library with bookcases on three sides that reached to the top of the fourteen-foot ceiling.

“Would you care to sit, Ms. Blair?” He indicated one of the two leather chairs flanking the fireplace, in which a warm blaze emitted delicious heat on this unseasonably cool October evening. Here in Mocorito the temperatures seldom dropped below the high sixties.

“I’ll stand.” She tilted her chin defiantly.

Wonderful, Miguel thought. He was dealing with a hotheaded little feminist. How was it possible that a woman could look like a beautiful young Elizabeth Taylor and be a ball-bashing women’s libber? He had encountered numerous women such as this during the years he had spent in the United States, but none had been as lovely as Ms. Blair. And none had been assigned to him as his bodyguard; nor had they played the part of his fiancée for several weeks.

“Suit yourself,” Miguel told her.

“I usually do.”

Miguel huffed.

“First thing you should know is that there will be no sex between us while we’re playing lovers.” She crossed her arms over her ample chest, as if it to make a point.

Point duly noted. And her large, full breasts were duly noted, also. “Of course,” he replied. “No sex.”

“In public, I will play the part of a dutiful, obedient fiancée, a woman totally besotted with you. But in private, I will be myself. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand. And I will do the same. In public, I will be your adoring future husband.”

“In matters of your security, my word is law,” she told him. “You will make that clear to Emilio Lopez and Roberto Aznar. Neither they nor you will question my authority in that area.”

“I assumed Mr. Shea would—”

“Dom is here to do an internal investigation and to act as my backup. I am completely in charge of you.”

Miguel groaned silently as the image of this lovely creature dominating him in a very intimate way flashed through his mind, sending arousal signals to his lower anatomy. Willing his traitorous body under control, he nodded, then said, “I am not accustomed to taking orders from a woman.”

“Well, ‘el presidente,’you’d better get used to taking orders from this woman.” She tapped herself in the middle of her chest. “Because until you take the oath of office and we unearth the people behind the plot to kill you, I’m going to be your worst nightmare.”

Bristling at her derogatory use of the title, he glowered at her. “Meaning?”

She smiled. “Meaning you’re going to obey me, not the other way around. When I say jump, you ask, how high?”

Enough of this nonsense, he told himself. Who did this arrogant, cocksure woman think she was? Miguel Cesar Ramirez had spent his life proving to himself and the world around him that he was a man of integrity and self-assurance, a leader and not a follower. He was on the verge of being elected the president of Mocorito, a country where the majority of women knew their place.

“You overstep your authority, Ms. Blair. You have not been assigned to this job to issue me orders.You are here to watch over me, to ensure my safety, and even to take a bullet for me, if necessary.”

She didn’t so much as flinch nor did she blush with embarrassment as most females would do. “I haven’t been here thirty minutes and already we seem to be at odds over the ground rules. And I had so hoped that your being educated in the United States would have prepared you to deal with a woman as an equal. I will play the subservient female in public, but in private, I am in command. Take it or leave it, Señor Ramirez.”

He surveyed her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Your ego is bigger than you are.”

“Don’t let my size fool you. You know the old saying, don’t you?” She grinned mockingly.

He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Dynamite comes in small packages,” she said.

“In your case, I do not doubt it for a moment.” And he did not doubt that under the right circumstances, his little American bodyguard would be as hot as a firecracker in bed. In his bed. He would truly enjoy setting her off and seeing the sparks fly.

“Then we understand each other? I’m the boss.”

“If you need to think of yourself in those terms, then by all means, do so,” he told her.

“Are we at an impasse?”

“If by that you mean it is apparent that neither of us is willing to back down from our position, then yes, Señorita Blair, we are definitely at an impasse.”

She heaved a deep sigh, apparently as aggravated with him as he was with her. “We’re in a no-win situation. I suppose you realize that. We’re stuck with each other, whether we like it or not. There is no way another female agent can come in and pose as your fiancée now.”

“Ah, yes, my fiancée. Who gave you permission to announce yourself as my fiancée?”

“I was told that you were willing to pass me off as your fiancée, if the circumstances warranted it.” She shrugged. “I felt it was necessary. There’s no way I’m going to pretend to be your mistress for weeks on end. Not here in this male-dominated country where mistresses are second-class citizens.”

He could not deny the truth of her statement. Mistresses were treated as second-class citizens, a fact he knew only too well. His sweet, caring mother had been treated like dirt beneath the feet of the ladies and gentlemen of Mocorito because she had borne her lover’s child out of wedlock.

“I had assumed that being anAmerican woman, you would not mind being thought of as my mistress, but apparently I was wrong.”

“You were dead wrong.”

He studied her closely, forcing himself to break away from those hypnotic violet eyes. She wore a simple dress of some non-wrinkling fabric in a shade of cream, a complimentary shade to her pale olive complexion. The garment was not too tight, but it draped her body like a well-fitting glove. Until this moment he had not truly taken in her appearance, other than to note that she was beautiful, in a sexy, earthy way. Her short black hair curled about her face in soft waves, enticing a man to run his fingers through the silky locks. Her lips were full and painted hot pink, bringing to mind a set of other moist feminine lips. His body reacted in a natural way, warning him that arousal was imminent.

He glanced away, took a deep breath and then turned his back on her. He could not allow himself to continue reacting to her in such a carnal way. “Unless my life is in danger, in public you will be the demure, adoring fiancée. Any disagreements we will keep private, between the two of us. Agreed?”

“I suppose I can live with those terms,” she told him, her lips twitching in a barely restrained smile.

“Agreed?” he demanded harshly.

“Agreed, agreed.”

He glowered at her. “I will tell my guests that you were tired and wished to have dinner in your room tonight. They will understand.”

She laughed.

Damn the woman.

“I take it that I’m being dismissed and sent off to the attic for being a bad girl?”

“Your room is far from an attic. It is the master suite. Ramona will bring you a dinner tray and unpack your suitcases and attend to any of your needs. If you require a personal maid while you are here, I will provide you with one.”

“You’re giving me the master suite? How kind of you to give up your personal quarters—”

“I give up nothing,” he told her. “As my fiancée, you will share my suite and my bed. Since you are an American and assumed not to be a virgin, it will be expected.”

“Hold up just a minute there, ‘el presidente.’ Sharing your suite is okay. As your bodyguard, I will need to be close to you, but—”

“Feel free to sleep on the floor, if you wish, as long as none of the servants are aware that you are doing so.”

Tilting her chin so that she could look him directly in the eyes, she said, “Believe me, sleeping on the floor will be preferable to sharing your bed.”

A scrapper to the bitter end, Miguel thought. Such passion. “You, Señorita Blair, are in a minority. Most of the women I’ve known would much prefer to share my bed.”

“You’ll find that I’m not like most women.”

“I have already discovered that fact.”

She gave him a sharp nod. “Very well. I’ll go quietly upstairs to our room for the evening, but beginning tomorrow morning, I’ll be stuck to your side like glue, twenty-four-seven.”

He bowed graciously, then smiled at her. “I look forward to every moment. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll send Ramona to see you to our room, then she’ll bring your dinner up on a tray. And I’ll see that Paco takes care of your and Mr. Shea’s luggage.”

“Perhaps you should call us Dom and Jennifer, even in private,” she told him. “It will help you become accustomed to our names. After all, you wouldn’t want to slip up and call your cousin Mr. Shea or your beloved fiancée, Ms. Blair.”

“Point taken…Jennifer. Or would you prefer that I call you querida?”

“You choose, depending on your mood.”

If he called her what his present mood dictated, his grandmother would come down from heaven and wash his mouth out with soap, as she had done when he was a child and had dared to use foul language in her presence.

With Señorita Blair—Jennifer—ensconced in his suite upstairs and his “cousin” Dom regaling his friends with a completely fictitious story of how Miguel had contacted him on his most recent trip to Miami, Miguel breathed a sigh of relief as he rejoined the others in the dining room.

“You’ve missed dessert,” Dolores told him, then eyed him inquiringly. “Or perhaps you consider time alone with your future wife sweeter than any of Ramona’s delicious pastries?”

“Well put, little sister,” Miguel said, but his gaze connected with Zita’s. Her expression told him that she was displeased, that she had come here tonight expecting this to be the first evening of many they would share. He could hardly tell her that he, too, had wanted the same. But those plans had been altered by circumstances beyond his control. First and foremost, his loyalty and dedication belonged to the people of Mocorito. Any personal happiness had to come second.

He turned to Roberto. “My dear friend, will you please see Señora Fuentes home? I’m afraid the sudden arrival of my darling Jennifer and Cousin Domingo must, of necessity, bring our evening to an early close.”

“Of course, Miguel, I would be delighted to escort the señora home.” Roberto walked over and held out his hand to Zita, who smiled graciously and rose to her feet.

“I shall say good night, also,” Dr. Esteban said. “I have early rounds at St. Augustine’s in the morning and will be rising before dawn.”

“Juan, thank you for coming tonight.” Miguel shook hands with his old friend, a man who shared his hopes and dreams for a true democracy in Mocorito.

“You must bring your lovely fiancée to dine with Aunt Josephina and me one evening soon, before the two of you are flooded with invitations,” Juan said. “Everyone in Nava will be eager to meet Señorita Blair.”

“And naturally, I would be honored to receive an invitation to your engagement party,” Zita told him as Roberto led her past Miguel.

“Of course. How very gracious of you, my dear Zita.” Miguel was not sure she would ever forgive him for this farce, even if he explained everything to her when the danger had passed and he had been elected president. It was possible that this evening’s events had destroyed any possible future he might have had with the charming young widow.

“Since all of you are making it an early evening, I think I’ll do the same,” Dom said. “If you will have someone show me to my room, I’ll call it a night.”

“I have sent Paco for your and Jennifer’s bags,” Miguel said. “Once he has delivered Jennifer’s luggage, I’ll have him show you upstairs.”

“In the meantime, why don’t you walk Emilio and me to the door?” Dolores said to her cousin.

Miguel would have preferred to avoid being drilled by Dolores. But better to get it over with tonight and hope he could persuade her of his sincerity. His little cousin knew him too well and even if he swore to her on his mother’s grave, she would still have some doubts. Whenever she was around, he would have to be doubly careful because she would watch him with Jennifer Blair as a hawk watches a chicken.

They had no sooner exited the dining room than Dolores checked to make sure Roberto and Zita were not within earshot, then she began the inquisition.

“She does not look pregnant, your fiancée,” Dolores said. “So why are you marrying this woman you barely know? An American woman! Is she Catholic? Is she willing to give up her United States citizenship? Do you truly love her or is it just great sex that has you acting like a fool?”

Emilio mumbled under his breath, evoking God to take pity on them—he and Miguel. “Dolores, querida, have faith in Miguel. Everything he does, he does for the right reasons.”

Halting before reaching the foyer, she snapped her head around and glared at her husband. “Exactly what does that mean?”

Miguel put his arm around her shoulders. “It means that I am engaged to be married to a woman who will be sharing my life these next few weeks as she stands at my side and helps me win the presidency. Jennifer has come to me to help me, not harm me in any way. She understands the duties she must perform as my fiancée and she will not fail me. I trust her with my life.”

Dolores studied Miguel contemplatively. “Do you have any objection to my spending time with her? To our becoming better acquainted?”

“None whatsoever,” Miguel replied. “As long as you treat her with the respect she deserves as my future wife.”

“Do you love her?”

“Would I ever ask a woman to marry me if I did not love her?”

Dolores sighed, then reached up and caressed his cheek. “Then I pray that she loves you as much as you do her.”

Emilio emitted a nervous chuckle. “As far as you are concerned, no woman would ever be good enough for Miguel.”

“Perhaps that is true,” she agreed.

“Come, come. We must go and get you to bed, little mother. You need your rest.” Emilio hovered over his wife, petting and soothing her as best he could.

Miguel stood on the veranda and watched his guests leave. First Roberto and Zita, then Juan Esteban and finally Emilio and Dolores. The evening had not gone as he had hoped due to the unexpected arrival of his American guests.

“Lovely evening,” Dom Shea came up beside Miguel.

“It was.”

“Sorry that we stormed in on you without warning, but our orders were to get here as quickly as possible.”

“Will Pierce’s idea, no doubt.”

Dom glanced all around, then asked in English, “Do your servants speak English?”

“No, they do not,” Miguel replied.

“Then I suggest that whenever we need to talk concerning private matters here in your home, that you, J.J. and I speak English.”

“J.J.?”

“Her name is Jennifer,” Dom replied. “But no one calls her that.”

Miguel nodded. “Was she the only female agent available?”

Dom chuckled. “She’s a handful, isn’t she? But she’s good at her job. You’ll be in safe hands with her.” Dom took a deep breath of fresh evening air. “To answer your question, no she wasn’t the only female Dundee agent available, but she was the best-qualified for this assignment. As you must have noticed, she speaks fluent Spanish.”

“Yes, her command of the language is excellent.”

“You should know from the years you spent in the U.S. that American women are not like Mocoritian women. And J.J. is a breed apart. You look at her and you see sultry sex kitten, but I suspect you’ve already learned that in her case looks can really be deceiving.”

“That, Mr. Shea, er, Dom, is the understatement of the century.”

“May I give you some advice on how to handle J.J.?”

Miguel turned and looked at Domingo. The two of them being of almost equal height, they stood eye-to-eye. “I would appreciate any advice you can give me.”

“Don’t try to boss her around. She hates that. Let her think something is her idea, not yours. Make suggestions, but ask her opinion. Allow her to believe that she is totally in charge.”

Miguel smiled. “You know her well, do you? There is a personal relationship between the two of you?”

“I’ve worked with J.J. for three years. I like and respect her. We’re friends. Nothing more, nothing less. But I should warn you that if you do anything to hurt her, you’ll have at least half a dozen of Dundee’s best men coming after you.”

“I certainly do not want that.”

Miguel and Dom stood on the veranda for several more minutes, not speaking, then Dom broke the silence. “We need to discuss something you probably prefer not to talk about at all.”

“And that would be?”

“The loyalty of your friends, closest supporters and household employees. My job is to make sure there are no traitors in your camp.”

“I trust my friends and employees completely, as I do the supporters I have known for many years.”

“But you don’t have any objections to my digging around in their lives, do you? I will do it as discreetly as possible.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Someone tried to shoot you yesterday, Señor Ramirez,” Dom said. “And behind the shooter is the person who hired him. That person wants to see you dead.”

“We are relatively certain that the Federalist Party was behind the assassination attempt, which means Hector Padilla was part of the plot.”

“That may be true, but I doubt President Padilla actually hired the rifleman who fired at you. We need to find the person or persons who paid the assassin. Often, behind something like this, you’ll find a small group of people, not just one person.”

“You will discover that none of my friends, supporters or employees are involved,” Miguel said with total assurance. “But I give you permission to do the job Will Pierce hired you to do.”

“Hmm…”

“What?”

“Another bit of advice.”

“Yes?”

“When you speak to J.J., try not to use those exact words.”

“What words?”

“Don’t ever say to her that you give her your permission to do something. That would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”

Miguel snorted. “Other than the fact she speaks Spanish fluently, what possible reason could your superior have thought she was the ideal person to pose as my girlfriend?”

“Your fiancée, not your girlfriend.”

“Yes, she chose to become my fiancée instantly, without consulting me. That is a case in point of why she is unsuitable.”

“She really ticked you off, didn’t she?”

“Let us just say that I would prefer facing a mountain lion without a weapon than having to deal with your J.J.”

“She’s not my J.J. She’s your J.J., Señor Ramirez, at least for the next few weeks.”

“¡Que Dios me ayude!” Miguel said aloud, then repeated the prayer to himself. God help me!

Chapter 3

Miguel’s bedroom suite comprised three rooms—bedroom, sitting room and bath—and a massive walk-in-closet that had probably, at one time, been a small nursery. A huge round iron chandelier hung in the middle of the ten-foot-high ceiling, crossed with weathered wooden beams. The stucco walls possessed a soft gold patina, as did the cast-stone fireplace, which was flanked by sets of double French doors. A plush coral velvet sofa hugged one wall. Round tables and nail-head-trimmed chairs in taupe leather served as bookends for the marble-topped decorative-iron coffee table in front of the sofa. Across the room, two rich gold arm chairs sat like fat mushrooms growing out of the antique Persian rug.

Luxurious was the first word that came to mind.

Paco had deposited J.J.’s bags in the closet and told her that Ramona would see to the unpacking in the morning. That had been at least twenty minutes ago and it had taken her every second of that time to explore the rooms she would be sharing with Miguel for the next few weeks. It wasn’t that she hadn’t known luxury before—she had when she’d lived with her mother and Raymond, her stepfather, in their twenty-room mansion in Mobile. But this was no antebellum mansion, although she suspected it was as old, if not older than many of the homes built pre War Between the States.

The French doors led to a large balcony that overlooked the courtyard gardens. J.J. had stood out there for several minutes, breathing in the cool night air and thinking about how she would handle her first night with the future president of Mocorito. If she weren’t terribly attracted to him on a purely physical level, it might be easier to share these intimate quarters without her mind wandering from the job at hand to considering what it would be like to actually be engaged to this man.

She would never—not in a million years—marry a man like Miguel Cesar Ramirez, a male chauvinist from the old school of male superiority. But the very thing that she disliked about him the most was what also attracted her to him. That powerful male essence that declared to one and all that he was king of the hill, master of all he surveyed. Her father had been that kind of man. Was that kind of man. Rudd Blair was a career soldier, having moved up the ranks over the years. The last she’d heard, he was a general and his son, eighteen-year-old Rudd, Jr., had just graduated from military school. She had spent her entire life trying to earn the privilege of being what her half-brother became the moment he was born—the apple of their father’s eye. Hell, she’d even joined the army after college graduation in the hopes that her becoming a soldier would please her father as much as it pissed off her genteel, Southern-belle mother. But it hadn’t mattered to Daddy Dearest that she had graduated top in her class or that she’d excelled in her duties as a second lieutenant. As far as Rudd was concerned, J.J. was nothing more than a female offspring who should get married and do her best to produce some grandsons for him.

Okay, so it was unfair to compare Miguel to her father, despite the fact that they were probably cut from the same prejudiced cloth. She figured that over the next few weeks, she would learn to dislike Miguel intensely for reasons that had nothing to do with her past history with her father.

A soft rapping at the door drew J.J.’s eyes in that direction. “¿Sí?” she asked.

“I have your dinner, señorita,” a woman’s voice called from the other side of the door.

Ramona, no doubt. “Please, come in.” J.J. rushed across the room to open the door.

Carrying a small silver tray covered with a white linen cloth, Ramona entered the room, walked over and placed the tray on the coffee table and turned to J.J. “If you require anything else, señorita—”

“No, thank you. Not tonight.”

Ramona nodded, then turned and left the sitting room. The woman had been neither friendly nor unfriendly. J.J. wasn’t certain how she should interact with the servants in Miguel’s house. The servants who worked for her mother were treated well, but were thought of as socially inferior, and one never associated with them on a personal level. However, her mother was especially fond of her old nanny; Aunt Bess, as everyone in the Ashford family referred to the woman, was now eighty-six and living in an assisted-living facility paid for by Lenore Ashford Whitney.

J.J. hated barriers of any kind—social, economic, race or religion. And sex. Her mother had been a snob, her father sexist. She prided herself on being neither. That was one reason she could not allow herself to judge Miguel without getting to know him better. He deserved to be judged on his merits and flaws alone and not on some preconceived idea J.J. had of him.

Wondering what Ramona had brought for her to eat, J.J. removed the white linen cloth from the silver tray. Cheese, bread, grapes, wine and some sort of cake that looked sinfully rich. She grabbed the grapes and nibbled on them as she strolled into the bedroom. This room intrigued her, and for more than one reason. She had no intention of this area becoming a battleground tonight or in the nights ahead.

What makes me think he’s going to try something? she asked herself.

The answer came immediately. He’s a man, isn’t he?

But I don’t think he likes me any more than I like him.

Maybe not, but that unnerving charge of awareness you felt wasn’t a one-sided thing. That sensation of I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-and-have-you-here-and-now tore through his gut just like it did yours.

She’d seen that look in his eyes. Had he seen it in hers? If so, he would make his first move tonight.

The bedroom was as large as the sitting room, but where the latter had been decorated in warm, earthy shades, the decor in this room reflected peace, tranquility and age-old charm. Everything in the room, from bed linens to lamp shades, reflected the simple elegance and color scheme of the ivory stucco walls. Color came from the rich glow of the dark wooden floors, accent pieces, and dark wooden bedside tables. The king-size bed was modern in size and structure, but an intricately carved wooden arch made a dramatic antique headboard.

The bed was large enough that she could actually lie beside Miguel and never touch him. Yeah, sure, like she was going to take the chance that he wouldn’t touch her.

Scanning the twenty-by-twenty room, J.J. sought and found an alternative place for her to sleep. A large, comfy chaise lounge, covered in ivory damask, sprawled languidly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. All she needed to make the chaise her bed was a pillow and a blanket. Both items would be easy to discard come morning, to keep the servants unaware that she had not shared a bed with Miguel.

Finishing off the grapes, J.J. returned to the sitting room and hurriedly ate part of the cheese and bread, then lifted the glass of wine and carried it with her as she headed for the bathroom. Would she have time for a leisurely soak in the massive marble tub before Miguel came upstairs for the night? Nope. Better not risk it. A quick shower would have to suffice.

She entered the walk-in closet, set her glass on top of a highboy to her left, then bent over and opened one of her suitcases. Without giving much thought as to which peignoir set to wear, she yanked up a lavender silk gown and matching robe from the large bag. She hurriedly turned around and grabbed her wineglass on the way back into the bedroom. When she entered the bathroom and hung the gown and robe over the vanity chair, she sighed as the light hit the almost iridescent silk. At home she slept in pajamas in the winter and an oversize T-shirt in the summer. Since it was rare that a man ever saw her in her sleepwear, she didn’t own anything really sexy, certainly nothing like the items she had purchased with her corporate charge card.

Stop it, right this minute, she warned herself. She could not—would not—allow herself to wonder what Miguel would think or how he would react when he saw her in the ultrafeminine lavender peignoir set. Besides, if she timed things just right, she’d be asleep on the chaise by the time he came up for the night and she could either rise early and be out of the bedroom before he got up or she could sleep late and let him be the first to leave.

He had been expecting a telephone call about Miguel’s secret bodyguard, but not tonight. His contact—the spy with Ramirez’s camp—had told him the Dundee agent would arrive tomorrow.

“His American bodyguards arrived early. They came tonight instead of in the morning as we’d been expecting.”

“Did you say two bodyguards? I thought there would be only the woman.” He swirled the liquor in the crystal tumbler, sniffed the aroma and took a sip.

“Yes, there are two,” said the quiet voice at the other end of the line. “One male and one female. They are telling everyone that the man is Miguel’s cousin from Miami and the woman is Miguel’s fiancée.”

“Fiancée? I thought she was to pose as his mistress.” He did not like it when plans changed—especially when the change was not in his favor.

“That was the original plan, but this American woman accepted his proposal there in front of everyone present tonight.”

“Then our plan to use the woman against him will have to be altered.” He set aside his glass, placing it atop a stone coaster on his desk. “A mistress can easily be discredited. A fiancée is a different matter. If the voters believe he plans to marry this woman, they will view her in a different light.”

“If we cannot use the woman against him, we must find another way. I do not want Miguel killed, only frightened enough to withdraw from the presidential race.”

Personally, he would prefer Ramirez dead and buried, but if they killed him, the people would see him as a martyr and possibly revolt. That was the last thing he and his party wanted. Besides, this traitor who had proved so useful to him was not the only Federalist who did not want to resort to murdering Ramirez. Some of them had no stomach for fighting dirty, for doing whatever it took to win. And some of those weak men already thought of him as a bloodthirsty tyrant.

“We tried scaring Miguel with the assassination attempt, but he simply hired a bodyguard, using his contact with that American CIA agent to hire her. If only we had some type of proof that Miguel has sold out to the Americans—”

“We have discussed this before, as you well know. If we could prove this to be a fact, it could well work against us instead of for us. A vast majority of the people here in Mocorito see the U.S. as an ally, a friend who will help us.”

“Then perhaps we could reveal that the woman and man living in Miguel’s home are actually American bodyguards, that he has lied to the people. That could make them turn against him.”

“Putting out such a rumor will be easy enough, but proving it is a different matter. Unless you can prove your claims, trying to discredit Ramirez could harm us instead of him. The people adore him, unfortunately. They see him as their hero.”

A very unpleasant thought suddenly crossed his mind. Once he had learned that the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency would be involved, he had made it his business to find out everything he could about them. The private bodyguard for Miguel did not worry him. But the fact that another agent had come with her did concern him. What if there were others? What if they were mounting an investigation? “Are the two American bodyguards who arrived tonight, the only two?”

“What?”

“Are there others? Perhaps working undercover?”

“If there are, I don’t know of them.”

“Find out.”

“But how?”

“You will think of a way.”

Dolores traipsed through the house in her bare feet, stopping outside the door to her husband’s study when she heard him speaking in a low, quiet voice. She knocked on the closed door, then entered. Emilio jerked around and stared at her, his eyes wide, his hand clutching the telephone receiver.

“Who are you talking to this late at night?” she asked.

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and replied, “Roberto. We are discussing how to handle the announcement of Miguel’s engagement.” He removed his hand and said into the telephone, “We will discuss this matter further in the morning.” He hung up the phone and held open his arms for Dolores.

She went to him, allowing him to envelop her in his gentle, loving embrace. There had never been another man for her. Only Emilio. Since they were children together—she, Emilio and Miguel—she had loved Emilio and had always known that someday she would become his wife. Their road to happiness had taken many years and numerous detours, but in the end, she had been blessed with all she desired. She had been Emilio’s wife for two years and now she was carrying his child. His son.

“You must be tired, querida.” Emilio rubbed her back with wide, circular motions.

“You should rest more and not do so much work on Miguel’s campaign. And now that he has a fiancée, you must allow her to take over the duties as his hostess.”

“What do you know about this woman, this Señorita Blair?”

Emilio shrugged. “Only that Miguel met her on his last trip to Miami and asked her to marry him.”

“It is not like Miguel to keep such important news from me.”

“Perhaps he wanted to wait to see if she would accept his proposal.”

“Hmm…perhaps.”

Emilio turned her around and urged her into movement. “Come to bed with me.”

She smiled at her husband. “And we will make love?”

“I would like nothing more, but if you are too tired—”

She stopped him with a kiss, one that quickly became passionate. His strong, smooth hands moved over her shoulders and across her heavy breasts. When he flicked her tight nipples with his thumbs, she moaned deep in her throat.

“Did I hurt you, my love?”

“No, no, you didn’t hurt me.”

Hand-in-hand, desire burning inside them, they rushed to their bedroom and closed the door. Within minutes, Dolores no longer thought about Miguel and his mysterious American fiancée or about Emilio’s late-night phone call from Roberto.

Josephina Esteban Santiago did not sleep well. Her arthritic hips often woke her in the night and once awake, her overactive brain would not allow her to fall peacefully back to sleep. Since she often woke several times during the night, she usually went to bed early and stayed in bed late. The financial support of a loving nephew afforded her certain luxuries in her old age. Not that she was impoverished. Her late husband had left her comfortable, but she had used a great deal of her money to send Juan to medical school. She was so proud of him, her brother’s only child, a boy she and her late husband Xavier had taken into their home shortly after his parents were killed in a car crash when he was nine.

As Josephina crept along the semidark hallway toward the kitchen, she thought she heard voices coming from the parlor. Surely not at this late hour. It was nearly midnight. But she paused and listened. Yes, that was Juan’s voice. She would recognize it anywhere. Not meaning to eavesdrop, she turned and continued toward the kitchen, but before she reached her destination, Juan called out to her.

“Is that you, Aunt Josephina?”

“Yes, dear. I am sorry to have bothered you. I am going to the kitchen to prepare some warm milk. That often helps me sleep.”

“I’ll come with you and we will drink warm milk together,” he told her as he came out of the parlor.

“You’re up rather late, aren’t you, dear?” She patted his cheek when he drew near enough for her to touch him. “Did Miguel’s dinner party last this long?”

“No, it actually ended a bit early,” Juan told her, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You heard me speaking on the telephone, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I heard you speaking to someone, but I couldn’t hear what you were saying.”

“I was on the phone with St. Augustine’s. I wanted to check on a patient whose condition greatly concerns me.”

“You are such a good man. Such a conscientious doctor.”

“You thought I was on the telephone with her, didn’t you?” A frown marred Juan’s handsome face. Handsome to her, although perhaps not to everyone. His wide, flat nose and high cheekbones revealed his mother’s Indian heritage, while his height had been inherited from the Esteban family, who could trace their roots all the way back to Spain. What her nephew lacked in good looks, he made up for in brains and talent.

“It is none of my business to whom you speak,” Josephina told him. “But you know how I feel about her. She is a woman betrothed to another man, yet she seeks you out time and again. If anyone discovers that—”

He grasped her hands in his and held tightly. “We are friends, Aunt Josephina. Only friends. She is very unhappy and needs to talk to someone she can trust. I am her doctor.”

“And she tells you she does not want to marry this man because she does not love him. What nonsense. In my day, we married for better reasons than love.”

“There is no better reason,” Juan said, a wistful tone to his voice.

“You may be only friends with her, but you love her, do you not?”

“Come along and let me prepare us both some warm milk.”

Josephina allowed him to change the subject momentarily as he led her into the kitchen and aided her in sitting at the table.

“If she does not marry this man, her family will disown her, especially if they discover she has feelings for you and learn that you are one of Miguel’s dearest friends.” Josephina cradled her stiff, aching hands in her lap. Arthritis was such a curse. “Have you told Miguel that you are friends with his sister?”

“His half-sister,” Juan corrected. “And no, I have not mentioned my friendship with Seina to Miguel. There is no love lost between Miguel and Cesar Fernandez’s family. Seina knows that Miguel is my friend. She has no animosity toward Miguel, not the way her brother and mother do.”

“Be careful, my dear boy, that Seina Fernandez does not use you in any way.”

“What are you implying?”

“As you say, there is no love lost between Miguel and his late father’s family. It is no secret that the Fernandez family support the reelection of Hector Padilla. If they could use you against Miguel, they would.”

“I would never allow that to happen.”

“I hope not. Miguel is a good friend and he is the people’s hope for the future of Mocorito.”

Roberto Aznar hung up the telephone and turned off the light. The lady waited for him. He would be a fool to leave her, not after such a warm invitation to stay the night, to share her bed. Perhaps she had made the offer only because she was angry with Miguel, but he was not a man who would turn down a beautiful woman just because she wished he were another man. The loving would be just as good for him regardless of who Zita Fuentes pretended was between her spread thighs. It wasn’t as if he would be betraying Miguel. After all, Zita and Miguel had not had even one date and now that Miguel had a phony fiancée ensconced in his home, in his bedroom, it was highly unlikely that Zita would forgive him, even if the truth about the American woman came to light. Besides, after the election, when he was assigned a choice government position, he would be on a more equal footing, at least socially, with women such as Señora Fuentes. Who knew, without Miguel as a rival for Zita’s affections, she might consider him as potential husband material. What a delectable thought—having access to the lady’s millions, as well as having her in his bed every night.

“Querido, why are you keeping me waiting?” Zita called from the head of the stairs. “I thought you had to make only one phone call.”

Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed upstairs and into the welcoming arms of the luscious and naked widow.

Miguel stayed up past midnight, deliberately giving Señorita Blair enough time to eat, bathe and go to sleep. He did not want another confrontation with her tonight.

Standing outside the door to his bedroom suite, he hesitated, wondering if, when he went inside, he would find her asleep in his bed. Would she be curled up in the middle of the down mattress topper, sleeping like a little black kitten, purring softly as she breathed in and out, her breasts rising and falling with each heartbeat?

He could not continue doing this to himself. Yes, she was a highly desirable woman and yes, they would be together day and night, possibly for weeks. But an affair was out of the question.

Why was it out of the question?

She was a woman; he was a man. Neither of them was married or otherwise attached. Why shouldn’t they consider an affair?

Miguel opened the door quietly and eased into the semidark room. Only the moonlight floating through the double set of French doors on either side of the fireplace illuminated the sitting room. Scanning the area, halfway expecting to find her asleep on the sofa, he moved toward the bedroom when he did not see her.

The bedroom was slightly darker, but enough light came through the floor-to-ceiling windows for him to make his way into the room without tripping over anything. Within minutes his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he noted that his bed had been untouched, except for a missing pillow. As he made his way across the room, heading for the closet, he paused and searched for her. She lay on the chaise lounge, a cotton blanket covering her from the waist down, leaving her bare shoulders and neck visible.

Was she asleep? Should he call her name? Or should he do the wise thing and ignore her? But how did a red-blooded man ignore the fact that a scantily clad woman was in his bedroom, sleeping only a few feet away from him?

Miguel entered the closet, flipped on the overhead light, then closed the door halfway. After finding his robe, he searched through the highboy for a pair of pajamas. He owned several, but seldom wore them, preferring to sleep in the raw.

Chuckling silently to himself, he wondered what Señorita Blair would think if she woke in the morning to find him lying naked in his bed? Being an American woman who had probably been with many men, he doubted she would be the least bit shocked.

Just how many men had there been in Jennifer’s life? Two or three? A dozen? Two dozen? She looked young, no more than her late twenties, but American girls became sexually active in their teens, so it was possible that she’d had numerous lovers.

Why should he care how many lovers his make-believe fiancée had had? It wasn’t as if he was actually going to marry this woman, or that she would be the mother of his children.

After rifling through every drawer in the highboy, he finally found two pairs of pajamas, one set silk and one cotton. He chose the black silk, which had been a gift from a lady friend a number of years ago. He’d never worn them. Hurriedly, he removed his shoes and socks, then slipped out of his slacks and dress shirt. He laid them out for Ramona, who would take care of the items in the morning. Wearing only his black cotton briefs, he hung the robe and pajamas over his arm and walked back through the bedroom and into the bath, forcing himself not to glance toward the chaise.

If he were spending the night making love to his phony fiancée, he would take the time to shave. He possessed one of those heavy black beards that required him to shave twice a day if he didn’t want to go to bed with thick, prickly stubble, which women apparently hated. But tonight, he would be sleeping alone, as he did more often than not. Although he had known his fair share of women since reaching manhood, he had never been a Don Juan, and he had not indulged in what the Americans referred to as a one-night stand since his college days at Harvard.

Wearing the black silk pajamas and carrying the robe, he made his way back into the bedroom and went straight to his bed. While turning down the covers, he hazarded a quick glance toward the chaise. She had turned over, her back to him, and the cotton blanket lay on the floor beside her.

Don’t go over there, he cautioned himself. If she becomes chilly, she’ll wake, find the blanket and pull it up and over herself again.

But before he had finished the thought, he was halfway across the room. As he approached the chaise, he slowed his movements. Standing over her, he glanced down and wished he hadn’t. She had turned in her sleep and her lavender silk gown had ridden up and twisted around her, revealing her calves and lower thighs. The material stretched tightly across her hips and derriere. Nicely rounded hips and full, tight derriere. A perfect upside-down-heart-shaped butt.

Miguel swallowed.

Her short, curly hair shimmered a rich ebony against the white pillow beneath her head. Her lavender gown was cut low in the back, almost to her waist, giving him a view of her smooth, satiny skin. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her.

Whatever you do, do not touch her.

Leaning over, he picked up the cotton blanket, spread it out and laid it over her from bare feet to slender neck. She stirred and mumbled the moment the blanket came into contact with her skin. Her eyelashes fluttered.

He held his breath, praying she wouldn’t wake and find him standing over her. When she curled up in the blanket and sighed contentedly, he backed away from her, then practically ran to his bed. After crawling in and drawing the covers up over his chest, he lay there and stared up at the ceiling.

In the distance he heard St. Angela’s church bell announce one o’clock. It was already early morning and he had an incredibly busy day ahead. Instead of lying here with an erection thinking of Jennifer Blair, he should be sleeping. He would need his rest for the hectic schedule facing him, not only tomorrow, but in the weeks to come.

After tossing and turning for what seemed like forever, he sat up in bed, unbuttoned his pajama top and removed it. Lying back down, he settled against the cool, soft sheets. He liked the feel of his naked skin against the luxurious cotton. But despite being more comfortable half-naked, he remained awake, longing for sleep that wouldn’t come. Sometime after he heard the church bells strike twice, Miguel finally dozed off to sleep, his last thought of the woman lying only a few feet from him.

She woke before dawn and needed to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t want to traipse across the bedroom and risk waking Miguel. She lay there until she couldn’t wait a minute longer, then she tossed back the cotton blanket, slipped off the chaise and stood up on her bare feet. Tiptoeing across the room, she cast a quick glance at the large body lying sprawled in the middle of the king-size bed.

Ignore him. Pretend he isn’t there.

She rushed to the bathroom, closed the door as quietly as possible, then, without turning on a light, she felt her way to the commode. Afterward, she washed and dried her hands in the dark, feeling for the soap and the towel and finding them without knocking anything over and causing a disturbance.

As she made her way back across the room, she found herself walking toward the bed instead of the chaise. She stood at the side of the bed and looked at Miguel, his body clearly visible in the moonlight. He lay flat on his back, his arms sprawled out on either side of his body and one leg bent at the knee. His chest was muscular and sprinkled with curly black hair that tapered into a thin line and disappeared into his pajama bottoms. Those black-satin bottoms rode low on his hips, low enough to reveal his navel. His long arms were large and well-muscled. He possessed the body of a man in his prime.

J.J. sucked in a deep breath, then released it slowly. Everything feminine within her reacted to all that was masculine in him.

This wouldn’t do. No, sirree. She never—ever—got involved with a client, no matter what. But she had never been instantly attracted to a client—no, make that any man—the way she was to Miguel Ramirez. It didn’t make sense to her. He was far from the first gorgeous man she’d ever met. And he wasn’t the first whose blatant machismo reminded her of her father, whom she had adored as a young girl. Whatever it was about this man that attracted her so, she had to deal with it now and move past it.

Suddenly, Miguel rolled over onto his side and whispered one word as his big hand caressed the empty space beside him.

“Querida…”

She all but ran back to the chaise, snuggled into a ball and wrapped herself in the cotton blanket. Okay, so maybe she’d wait until later today to face her fears and find a way to vanquish them.

Chapter 4

J.J. woke with a start. Sunlight flooded the room, telling her that it was well past dawn and that she had overslept. Without thinking, she tossed back the cotton blanket and slid to the edge of the chaise lounge as she sat up and stretched.

“Good morning,” Miguel said.

J.J. froze. Oh, God. In her early-morning haze, she had forgotten all about him.

Daring a glance in the direction of his deep voice, which came from the sitting room, she saw him standing in the doorway. Fully clothed in a lightweight charcoal-gray pinstriped suit, pale gray shirt and burgundy tie, he looked like a successful businessman—or a political candidate dressed for success. And here she was, his bodyguard, wearing a flimsy fluff of lavender silk that clung to every curve and bared way too much flesh. Reaching behind her in as nonchalant a way as possible, she felt around on the back of the chaise for her matching robe. It wasn’t there. Damn, it was probably lying on the floor.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Seven-fifteen,” he replied as he walked into the bedroom.

No, don’t, she wanted to shout. Go away. Don’t come any closer. But instead she squared her shoulders and offered him a half-hearted smile.

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

He came closer and closer. Her heart caught in her throat. Although she wasn’t naked, she felt as vulnerable as if she were. She had shared a bedroom with a client before, but she’d always slept in more appropriate attire—usually baggy sweat pants and T-shirt. And she’d never had a client who struck every female chord within her.

When Miguel walked past her, she let out a deep breath, but that relieved sigh was short-lived. From the corner of her eye, she saw him bend over and reach down for something, then suddenly he came up behind her and draped her sheer silk robe over her shoulders. When his big hands grazed her naked shoulders, she gasped.

He ran his hands across her shoulders, slowly, sensuously. She shuddered.

“While you dress and prepare yourself for the day, I’ll put away the blanket and return the pillow to my bed,” he told her as he gave her upper arms a gentle squeeze. “We cannot have Ramona or the other girls thinking we have had a lover’s quarrel on your first night here, can we?”

J.J. swallowed. “No, we certainly do not want that.”

She pulled away from him and hurried to the closet. Before closing the door, she peeked back into the bedroom. Miguel folded the blanket and placed it in the intricately carved walnut cabinet on the far side of the room, then he picked up the pillow and tossed it onto his bed.

Stop wasting time staring at the man, she told herself. If he knew he had her rattled, she’d lose the upper hand with him. And that was something she couldn’t allow to happen. Let a man like Miguel—like her father and all macho chauvinists—know they had any kind of hold over you and they would use it against you. She’d learned that the only way to deal with such a man was to show him that not only did he not intimidate her, but that his blatant masculinity had no effect on her whatsoever. Let the airheaded, silly women who needed a big, strong man to lean on feed those men’s huge egos.

After closing the door, J.J. sorted through her choice of clothes. Damn, she had no idea what was on today’s agenda and since she was not officially acting as Miguel’s bodyguard, she could hardly wear her standard outfit of slacks, button-down shirt and jacket. Oh, no, on this assignment, she had to dress as if she were the candidate’s fiancée and she’d have to carry her weapon—which Miguel was supposed to furnish—in a handbag. How inconvenient was that? The extra time it would take her to open the bag and get her hands on the gun could mean the difference between life and death for her or for Miguel.

What insanity! That a man’s ego might cost him his life didn’t make sense to her. That had been one of the things she’d never understood about her father. And no matter how much she had adored him—idolized him, really—she’d been forced to face a hard truth. Rudd Blair was one of those men to whom the birth of a female child was a disappointment.

J.J. cracked the door and peered out into the bedroom. Her gaze settled on Miguel’s wide shoulders. Forcing herself not to do a quick survey, she cleared her throat and called to him.

“What is on today’s agenda? How should I dress?”

Keeping his back to her, he replied, “We will attend a sort of pep rally this morning at the Nationalist headquarters, then I have a television interview at noon, followed by lunch with a group of supporters at the country club. Domingo will go with us for the rally, but then he will return here. This afternoon, I will be followed by a news crew as I tour St. Augustine’s pediatric ward. We will end the day with a dinner held in my honor at the home of one of my most famous and influential supporters, Anton Casimiro. Of course we will return here to change before going to dinner.”

“The Anton Casimiro, the famous opera tenor fromArgentina?”

“Yes, that Anton Casimiro.”

“I had no idea he was living in Mocorito.”

“He keeps a penthouse in downtown Nava,” Miguel told her. “Anton’s mother was born here in Nava and he has cousins in the city.”

“Oh.” Switching gears, returning to her original concerns about how to dress for the day, she asked, “Then will a simple suit be appropriate for today?”

“Yes, I should think that would be quite appropriate.”

J.J. closed the door and rummaged through her clothes, each outfit covered with a protective plastic bag. She had packed shoes and purses in another suitcase and jewelry in a smaller overnight case. The clothes she had chosen for this assignment reflected her mother Lenore’s tastes. Simple elegance. Understated, yet fashionable.

With all the necessary paraphernalia in hand, she trekked back into the bedroom and felt a great sense of relief when she found the room empty. The door to the sitting area was closed, so she assumed Miguel had done the gentlemanly thing and given her some privacy.

She’d taken a shower last night, so a quick sponge bath this morning should suffice. And being blessed with curly hair, which she kept cut fairly short, all she needed to do was brush the curls into place. Although she often didn’t wear any makeup, today she would. Lipstick. Blush. A bit of eye shadow. Just enough, but not too much. Makeup should always look natural, or so her mother had told her numerous times.

Before she stripped, she made sure the door was locked, then she bathed, brushed her teeth and put on her underwear. She hated pantyhose with a passion, so when forced to wear a dress or suit, she preferred wearing a garter belt and stockings. Yesterday she’d worn pantyhose on the flight from Atlanta to Caracas on the Dundee jet and from Caracas to Nava on a commercial flight. After peeling them off and tossing them away, she’d been doubly glad that she’d packed a couple of garter belts and a dozen pair of stockings in various shades to wear for the rest of the time she was in Mocorito.

Although she’d heard that men loved to see women in garter belts and stockings, she had never chosen to perform in that particular attire for any man. She wore them to please herself, not to satisfy some drooling male who treated women as nothing more than sex objects.

Out of the blue, an unwanted image flashed through her mind. Miguel in his pajama bottoms sitting in his bed, his back propped against the elaborately carved headboard, watching her as she removed her clothes, down to her bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. A foreboding shudder rippled up her spine. It would be a cold day in hell before she’d strip for any man, and that included Miguel Ramirez!

“Dr. Esteban, I am not sure what to do.” Juan’s nurse, Carmen, caught him between patients. “Señorita Fernandez insists on seeing you. She is waiting in your private office.”

“When did she arrive?”

“About five minutes ago, Carmen replied. “I told her you were very busy this morning and in the middle of doing rounds here at the hospital, but she said she would wait however long it takes.”

Juan patted Carmen’s back. “I will see her now. It must be important or she would not have come here to the hospital so early this morning.”

As they walked together down the corridor toward the elevator, Carmen caught him by the arm to slow his pace. He paused and looked at her questioningly. Carmen had been with him since he finished his residency here at St. Augustine’s and became a member of the staff. She was round and plump, with gray hair and expressive hazel-brown eyes that often revealed the emotions stirring in her compassionate heart.

“It is not my place to advise you in personal matters, but…” Carmen lowered her voice as they entered the elevator. Once the doors closed and they were alone, she continued. “Señorita Fernandez belongs to a very powerful family and if her brother were to find out that—”

“I don’t need you to warn me,” Juan said. “Aunt Josephina spoke to me only last night about the dangers of becoming involved with Seina.”

“Did you listen to your aunt? No, you did not. If you had taken heed to her warning, you would have told me to explain to the señorita that you could not see her today.”

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor where Juan’s office was located. He held the door for Carmen, then together they walked down the corridor. When they neared his private office, he paused and turned to her.

“Go to the cafeteria and bring back some coffee for us…in about fifteen minutes,” Juan told her.

“It is not wise for you to be alone with her.”

“Please, do as I ask.”

Huffing indignantly, she glowered at him. “I will return in fifteen minutes. And I will not knock on the door.” She didn’t look back as she walked away hurriedly.

Juan heaved a deep sigh as he grasped the doorknob. No one needed to tell him the foolishness of being in love with Seina Fernandez. He knew that there could be no future for them. Even if she were not engaged to another man, one chosen by her family, Seina and he could never marry. Not unless she broke all ties to her family and gave up her inheritance. He was not a poor man, but he could never give her the kind of lifestyle into which she had been born.

Garnering his courage, praying for the strength to do what was right for Seina, he opened the door and entered his private office. The moment she saw him, she sprung from her chair and rushed toward him. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, he found himself opening his arms to her and holding her with gentle strength as she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Mother has made plans for my engagement party,” Seina said. “In three weeks. She and Lorenzo’s mother have set the date for our wedding. It will be six months from the night our families officially announce our engagement.”

“You knew this day would come.” Juan tightened his hold on her.

She lifted her head and stared pleadingly at him with her huge black eyes. “We must find a way to be together. I do not love Lorenzo. I love you. I want to be your wife. Please, Juan, please, do not tell me that marrying another man is what is best for me. You cannot want me to be Lorenzo’s wife.”

Juan grasped her shoulders and held her away from him. “I die inside thinking of him touching you, kissing you, making love to you.”

“Oh, Juan…”

He shook her gently. “But I will not allow you to lose everything to be with me. In time you would come to hate me.”

“I would never—”

He shook her again, then released her. They stood there staring at each other. Tears gathered in Seina’s eyes. Juan swallowed the emotions threatening to choke him.

“I should never have allowed this to happen. That first time, when you came to see me as a patient and we felt an instant attraction, I should have sent you to another doctor that very day.”

“But you didn’t because you felt as I did. You knew we were meant to be together.”

He shook his head. “We are not together and we never can be.”

“You want me. I know you do.” Tension etched frown lines in her lovely face.

“I would never dishonor you.” Juan looked at the floor, knowing he dared not look at her. She was temptation personified.

“Then you are willing to send me to another man still a virgin, knowing he will take from me what I long to give you.”

Juan’s stomach muscles clenched into knots. “You must not say such things.”

“I say only what is in my heart. If…if I cannot be with you, my life is not worth living.”

He snapped his head up and looked directly into her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Querida…”

“I shall kill myself.”

“No, Seina, you must not say such a thing. You must not even think it.”

Suddenly the door opened and, unannounced, Carmen walked in carrying two cups. “I apologize for interrupting you, Dr. Esteban, but I knew you would want your coffee before returning upstairs to finish your rounds.”

Juan glared at his nurse. “Please, place the coffee on my desk. Señorita Fernandez and I have not completed our—”

“No, no, I do not want to keep you from caring for your patients,” Seina said.

“Thank you for being so understanding, señorita.” Carmen placed the coffee on the desk. “If you would like, I can see you out. Do you have a car waiting or did you drive yourself?”

With her gaze downcast, Seina replied shyly, “I do not drive. A friend brought me. She is waiting for me in the parking lot.”

“Seina…Señorita Fernandez…” Juan looked at her longingly. He knew it was best for both of them if she left, if they never saw each other again. But a man in love seldom chose what was in his best interests. “We will speak again.”

“When?” she asked hopefully.

“Soon.”

Gala Hernandez waited in the parking lot of St. Augustine’s Hospital for her dearest friend. When Seina had telephoned her early this morning and pleaded with her to drive her here to see Dr. Esteban, she had done everything she could to dissuade Seina. Not only was her friend’s secret relationship with the doctor dangerous for Seina, but it also put Gala in a no-win situation. She had made some foolish mistakes several years ago and had it not been for Diego, Seina’s older brother, intervening on her behalf with the police, she would now be serving time in prison for drug use. Diego had not only protected her, he had sent her through a rehabilitation program and kept the whole thing in strictest confidence. And not once since then had Diego ever asked anything of her—until a few weeks ago.

“I know that Seina is slipping around seeing Juan Esteban,” Diego had told Gala. “I will, of course, put a stop to that relationship, when the time is right. But for now, it may be of use to me. To us.”

“I don’t understand. I thought that if you found out, you’d be furious.”

“I am displeased, but I trust you to keep me informed of what is happening with my sister and Dr. Esteban. If you think she is on the verge of sleeping with this man—”

“Seina is still a virgin. I swear she is.”

“Good. I know that you two share everything. She tells you what she is feeling, what she is doing. You know more about her than either I or our mother, and that is why I want you to report to me every time she sees Esteban. I want to know every word she says about him. I want to know what they talk about, who they discuss.”

“You think they discuss Miguel Ramirez?”

“It is possible. Especially if you were to encourage Seina to ask Esteban about his good friend. Encourage her to learn more about her half-brother. She is curious about him, and she has said that she believes we should get to know him. I’m afraid my little sister has a soft heart. Use your powers of persuasion to gain whatever information you can.”

Unlike his younger sister, Diego Fernandez did not have a soft heart. Handsome, charming and powerful, he could be a good friend. Unless you opposed him. Then he was ruthless. He hated his half-brother and would do anything to keep him from winning the presidency. She didn’t know for sure, but she suspected that he was somehow involved in the recent assassination attempt on Miguel Ramirez’s life.

The morning sun grew warmer by the minute. Even with the top down on her small sports car, Gala had begun to perspire. Seina had promised her she would be gone only a brief time, but she’d already been inside the hospital for nearly thirty minutes.

As she kept watch on the side entrance to the hospital, Gala’s cell phone rang. She knew before answering who the caller was.

“Hello.”

“Is she still with Dr. Esteban?” Diego asked.

“Yes.”

“I want a report the moment you take her home.”

“Very well.”

“And I have an assignment for you.”

“What sort of assignment?” Gala asked, her stomach tightening with apprehension. She could not refuse Diego. Her life was in his hands. He could, even now, see that she went to prison. If that happened, not only would her life be ruined, but her parents would be brokenhearted and disgraced.

“There is a luncheon at the Nava country club this afternoon in honor of Miguel Ramirez. I want you to attend. I’ve arranged for your name to be on the guest list.”

“But everyone knows that Seina and I are close friends.”

“Yes, I know. You will, however, publicly disagree with our family’s politics. And you can even imply that my sister secretly supports her half-brother, although she cannot publicly commit to him.”

“What purpose will this—”

“You are a beautiful woman, Gala. Ingratiate yourself to whatever man you can within the Ramirez camp, perhaps even Ramirez himself. I want you trailing the Nationalist candidate. Become a camp follower. Keep your eyes and ears open. I am especially interested in any information about Ramirez’s new fiancée, Señorita Blair.”

“You ask too much, Diego. It is bad enough that you have made me betray my best friend, but now you want me to work as a spy for the Federalists.”

“Of course, you have a choice.”

Gala swallowed the fear lodged in her throat. “I will do as you ask.”

“Good. You have made the right choice. I am good to my friends, as you already know.”

“I have to go now. I see Seina,” she lied.

“Ask her about her visit with Esteban, then take her home. If she gives you any interesting information, call me. Otherwise, show up at the country club at one-thirty, then I will contact you this evening.”

Miguel shook hands with everyone on staff at the television station directly following his fifteen-minute interview on the noon news. Afterward, with his fake fiancée at his side, he spoke at length to the huge audience crammed into the small auditorium at the station. He noticed the way she not only kept watch over him, but continuously surveyed the area around them. Everyone seemed as interested in meeting Jennifer as they were in him. But who could blame them? The woman even intrigued him.

The television station was owned by a member of the Nationalist Party who provided Miguel with a weekly interview as well as numerous free one-minute ads that ran often during each twenty-four-hour period. When the reporter doing the interview had asked about Miguel’s fiancée, he had been given little choice but to bring her on camera and introduce her to the people of Mocorito. His lovely Jennifer had surprised him. The ease with which she appeared on camera, a warm smile in place and her hand clasping his the whole time, told him that she had done this type of thing before today. She was what the Americans referred to as “a natural.”

When asked how she felt about her future husband being a candidate for president, she had replied without missing a beat, “I am very proud of Miguel and support him without reservation. I will do everything within my power to help him become el presidente because I know in my heart how much he loves Mocorito and all the people of this wonderful country.”

“Thank you, J.J. I am a fortunate man to have found such a loving and caring helpmate,” he had said as he’d gazed lovingly at her.

He had deliberately referred to her as J.J., the nickname that Domingo Shea had told him everyone close to her used. For half a second, she’d reacted, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly, but then she had simply smiled and continued looking at him as if he were the sun and moon and stars to her.

If he had not known better, he would have believed every sweet word out of her mouth. The lady had been quite convincing, all that he could have asked for in a fiancée. Not only had she shown her support by word and deed, she had presented herself as a fashionable yet conservatively dressed lady. The simple purple suit she wore was accented with pearl earrings and necklace. Her shoes and handbag were a rich, dark purple leather. Everything about her whispered aristocratic sophistication. Understated and elegant.

After the interview ended, he told her in a quiet voice, yet loud enough for everyone around them to hear, “You were perfect.”

“Thank you, Miguel.”

She gazed at him with those incredible blue-violet eyes and he found himself unable to resist the urge to kiss her. Only at the last minute, with Roberto clearing his throat behind them, did Miguel manage to restrain himself and simply brush her cheek with a tiny peck.

“Miguel, my friend,” Mario Lamas, the TV station’s owner clamped his hand down on Miguel’s shoulder. “The phones have been ringing off the hook. Your lady is a huge success. The people love her.” Mario turned to Jennifer, took her hand and kissed it. “You, my dear Señorita Blair, are a definite asset in this election. You must accompany Miguel everywhere from now until election day.”

“I plan to do just that, isn’t that right, querido?” Jennifer slipped her hand into Miguel’s. A subtle yet effective sign of affection.

“Absolutely.” Miguel confirmed her statement.

“I don’t mean to rush you,” Roberto said, “but if we are to arrive at the country club at one-thirty, we must leave now.”

“Yes, yes, go, go,” Mario told them, waving his hands expressively. “And next week, you and your lady will come back here for another interview. Each week until the night before the election, you will speak to the people for an hour. Yes?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mario.”

Miguel shook Mario’s hand before slipping his arm around Jennifer’s waist and, following Roberto, escorting her outside to the waiting limousine. Roberto waited until they were safely ensconced in the back of the limo before he slid inside with them and closed the door.

Knowing what was next on Miguel’s schedule, Carlos shifted into Drive and headed the car away from the downtown television station and onto the main thoroughfare that would take them a few miles out of the city limits to Ebano, a suburb of Nava, where many of the up-and-coming middle-class and upper-middle-class citizens lived. Dolores and Emilio had purchased a home in Ebano only six months ago and Juan Esteban lived there with his aunt in one of the older sections of the area that had been updated in recent years.

Once inside the limousine, Miguel had expected Jennifer to move as far away from him as possible. But she didn’t. She remained at his side, although several inches separated them.

“You put on quite a performance, Señorita Blair,” Roberto said, an odd tone to his voice.

Miguel glowered at him.

“You object, Roberto?” she asked, using his first name, as she would have done had she truly been Miguel’s fiancée. “I would think you would approve of the fine acting job I did. We don’t want the people to suspect that I’m not only a fraud, but that I am Miguel’s bodyguard.”

“I apologize if it appeared I was criticizing,” Roberto said.

“It sounded that way to me, too,” Miguel told him.

“Then I apologize to both of you. I meant it as a compliment, although I admit I was surprised that an American woman, especially one trained as a bodyguard, could so effectively present herself as a lady of breeding.”

Jennifer’s laughter stopped Miguel from chastising his friend. Undoubtedly she found Roberto’s comment amusing.

“You can thank my mother for that aspect of my personality. You see Lenore Ashford Whitney is a lady of breeding and nothing would please her more than to know I am capable of presenting myself as a carbon copy of her when the situation calls for it.”

Miguel studied her closely. Those seductive blue-lavender eyes. That mane of shiny black curls. The pouty pink lips. The oval-shaped face, the tiny nose and the translucent, creamy complexion. If he allowed himself the luxury, he could easily fall under her spell. And if other matters were not far more important in his life, he would set about seducing the beautiful Jennifer.

Suddenly, without any warning, a loud bang reverberated through the limousine. The car bounced, then skidded off the road, onto the shoulder and crashed into the ditch. The wreck happened so quickly that there was no time to think, only to react. As the limo came to a jarring halt, Miguel reached out and grabbed a tumbling J.J. seconds before his left shoulder slammed painfully against the crushed back door.