Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

“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.