Kitabı oku: «Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love», sayfa 3

“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.