Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

“You can give the people the right to choose for themselves.” She paused, then looked him right in the eye. “I would definitely wait until I had all the facts, then if what we suspect is true, I would take this information to the people it concerns the most. Put their fate in their own hands. Speak with your family, closest friends and most avid supporters first and ask them what they want you to do. Then, if and when circumstances warrant it, go directly to the people in a radio or television broadcast.”

The corners of his lips lifted in a half-hearted smile. “You are a very wise woman for one so young.”

“Thank you.” Everything in her longed to comfort Miguel. It was all she could do to stop herself from wrapping her arms around him and telling him she would make everything all right for him.

When the closed chapel door opened, J.J. shifted in her seat so she could glance over her shoulder. She nudged Miguel. “It’s Dr. Esteban.”

Miguel shot to his feet, still clasping her hand and inadvertently dragging her up with him. “Please, tell me you have good news.”

“I have good news,” Juan said. “Several of the patients are severely dehydrated and they will all be sore from the retching, but it appears all fifteen will recover completely. Probably by tomorrow morning.”

“Thank God.” Miguel grabbed J.J. and hugged her fiercely.

She threw her arms around his neck and laughed when he lifted her off her feet.

“Take him home, Señorita Blair,” Juan said. “See to it that he gets a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, thank you, doctor, I’ll do just that.”

Juan nodded. “I must return to my patients.”

“I will call first thing tomorrow to check on everyone,” Miguel said as he set J.J. back on her feet.

“Come on, let’s follow doctor’s orders.” J.J. tugged on Miguel’s hand.

Just as they exited the chapel and had walked no more than ten feet, Dom came around the corner.

“Emilio told me he thought I could find you two in the chapel,” Dom said.

“Have you heard the good news?” J.J. asked.

“Yes, just before I showed up, Dr. Esteban had informed Emilio and Roberto that everyone was going to live.”

“Do you have any news for us about the food?” Miguel asked.

Dom shook his head. “It will be tomorrow sometime before we know anything for sure. Will Pierce will call me as soon as his people know anything. They took samples of all the food at Casimiro’s buffet table before the police arrived.”

“Good. Good.” Miguel clenched his jaw.

“You don’t trust the police?” J.J. asked.

“Some of them, I do. But many of the higher-ranking officials here in Nava are loyal to Padilla. They are, how do you say it in America? On his payroll.”

“Then one of your first official acts as president should be to clean house in the police department here in the capital city.” J.J. glanced at Dom. “Are there any reporters downstairs?”

“Hordes,” Dom replied. “That’s why I had Carlos take the limo around to the back entrance to wait for us.”

“Shouldn’t I make some kind of statement tonight?” Miguel asked.

“Let Emilio or Roberto make it for you,” J.J. said. “Have them say that you are well and greatly relieved that all those who got food poisoning at the dinner party are going to be all right. Leave it at that. For now.”

Miguel put his arm around her shoulders. “You are quite adept at public relations, querida. You would make a most admirable first lady.”

Dom lifted his eyebrows speculatively, the expression on his face clearly asking if there was something intimate going on between her and Miguel. She chose to pretend she hadn’t noticed that inquiring look.

“What are you doing here?”

Diego was furious. She knew he would be, but she did not give a damn. Within a few minutes of learning that fifteen people had been poisoned at Anton Casimiro’s dinner party, Gala had begun feeling guilty. Although she hadn’t known that the vial hidden in her designer handbag had been filled with poison, she had suspected as much. What she hadn’t suspected was that whoever had retrieved the vial from her purse had used it to doctor one of the food items at the buffet table. She had assumed it would be used in Miguel Ramirez’s champagne. Not caring what political party ruled Mocorito, what did it matter to her if Diego and his friends eliminated the Nationalist Party’s candidate? But poisoning fifteen people was something else. If they had died, it would have been mass murder.

“I came to tell you that I will not do any more of your dirty work.” Gala glared at Diego. Even though she was still afraid of him and the power he held over her, the liquor she had consumed before coming to his home had infused her with false bravado.

“Lower your voice.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her with him into the front parlor. After flipping on a lamp, he shoved her into the nearest chair and came down over her, bracing his hands on either armrest. “My mother and sister are upstairs asleep and several of the servants are still up and stirring in the back of the house.”

“You should have told me that you planned to poison innocent people. I would never have helped you do such a despicable thing.”

Diego laughed, then put his face up to hers. “No one died from the poison. Killing innocent people was not our goal. We simply wanted, once again, to show Miguel that he cannot protect his friends, family and supporters.”

“And if convincing him that your people can harm those he cares about does not stop him, what will you do then?” she asked. “You should kill him. Hire another assassin. Don’t harm innocent people.”

“We do not want Ramirez dead,” Diego told her. “Killing him would be a last resort. If he is killed, the people could turn him into a martyr and revolt. No, we cannot risk that. What we want is for Ramirez to withdraw from the presidential election.”

“Why did you wait until only weeks before the election to—”

“Not until recently did we realize there was a chance he could win,” Diego replied. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Go home and sober up. And do not ever come back here telling me that you will no longer obey my orders. Have you forgotten that I could send you to prison, just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

“No, I have not forgotten.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

He released his painful hold on her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. Their gazes connected for a brief moment and she thought she saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes. God, was she losing her mind? There was no sympathy, no compassion in Diego Fernandez. At least not for her.

He tickled her under her chin. She gasped.

“Be a good girl and do as you are told,” Diego said. “I do not want to see you in prison. There are far better places for a beautiful woman such as you.”

She shivered at his touch and hated herself for actually being aroused. There had been a time when she had thought herself in love with Diego. Years ago when she had been just a girl, she had admired her best friend’s big brother from afar.

“If you please me, I will see that you become the mistress of someone very rich and powerful, perhaps one of Hector’s ministers.”

His words were like a slap in the face. What had she expected? Diego would never see her as she had once been—an innocent. A virgin, like Seina. No, he knew about her drug addiction years ago and about the men she had given herself to in order to support her habit.

“I am willing to do almost anything you ask,” Gala said. “But please, Diego, don’t make me a part of harming innocent people. Even I must draw the line somewhere.”

He grabbed her arm and escorted her out into the foyer and through the front door. When they stood on the portico, he forced her to face him.

“Did you have any luck with enticing Ramirez? Perhaps you will be of more use to us if you can become his lover.”

She started to tell Diego that there was no chance of Miguel Ramirez being unfaithful to his fiancée, that the man seemed hopelessly in love with the American woman.

“We spoke tonight at the party,” Gala said. “And flirted a little.” She had flirted; he had not. “A second meeting might prove more productive. A meeting where there are no snakes and no poison.”

Diego laughed. “Go home, Gala, and tomorrow we will figure out a way for you to come in contact with Ramirez again.”

A true friend would not have allowed her to drive herself home. After all, she had had much too much to drink. She wasn’t exactly falling-down drunk, but she was far from sober. However, Diego wasn’t a true friend. He wasn’t a friend at all. He was a master manipulator who had no qualms about using her.

Gala managed to open her car door and get inside, but it took her several tries to stick the key into the ignition switch. Finally, she got the car started, then pulled out of the driveway and into the street. Less than two blocks from the Fernandez mansion, she heard the screeching of brakes and horns honking. Her last coherent thought was, “Did I run through that stop sign?” Then suddenly she felt a jarring impact as another vehicle broadsided her.

Seina Fernandez hid in the dark, in a secluded nook at the back of the entrance hall. Trembling, her heart hammering inside her ears, she held her breath as Diego closed the front door and locked it. After he walked up the stairs, she crept out from her hiding place just enough to look up so that she could see if he had gone to his room. Then and only then did she release her breath.

Only a few minutes ago, she had come downstairs to ask Conchita to prepare her some warm milk because she had found it impossible to fall asleep tonight. After an argument with her mother over her upcoming engagement party, she had been heartsick and longed to go to Juan for comfort. But what excuse could she have given for leaving the house so late in the evening? Slipping away to see Juan was much easier during the day. Since neither her mother nor Diego suspected she was seeing another man, they did not keep close tabs on her during the daytime.

Her life was already plagued by problems she could not solve alone. And now? Dear God in heaven, what would she do now that she had heard what her brother had done? What he had forced poor Gala to do? She had never meant to eavesdrop, had had no idea to whom Diego was speaking so harshly when she passed by the front parlor.

Why, oh why, had she not gone on to the kitchen instead of stopping to listen, wondering who Diego’s late-night visitor was? How could she deal with this information, with the knowledge that her brother was involved in the plot to destroy Miguel? She had known, since their father’s death, that Diego despised their half-brother, but she had never dreamed he was capable of such despicable acts. This was not the Diego she knew and had loved all her life. Yes, he could be domineering and controlling, as their father had been, but never cruel, never dangerous.

How could Diego have involved her best friend Gala in his murderous plots? He was actually blackmailing Gala, using her past drug use against her. There had to be some way she could help her friend, some way she could stop Diego. If she went to him and talked to him? No, that would accomplish nothing. If Diego’s hatred had taken him over the edge into obsession, talk would not be enough to convince him how very wrong he was.

And speaking to their mother would be useless. She adored Diego so much that she would support him in whatever he chose to do, even if he killed Miguel with his bare hands. Perhaps she could not blame her mother for hating her husband’s illegitimate son. Perhaps she would feel the same if her husband had betrayed her. But try as she might, she could not hate Miguel. In truth, she admired him.

Should she go to Juan and tell him what she knew? He could then go to Miguel and warn him. But if she did that, would she not be betraying Diego? Would she not be choosing one brother over the other?

Dear God, what must I do? Please, help me make the right decision. I do not want to betray those I love, but how can I stand by and do nothing?

Miguel, J.J. and Dom arrived at Miguel’s home in the early-morning hours. Ramona met them at the door, concern in her weary, dark eyes. Miguel did his best to reassure his housekeeper that all was well, but knowing him as she did, she saw through his false optimism. He wanted to believe that today’s three incidents were the beginning and the end of his enemy’s scare tactics, but he knew better. Hector Padilla and his corrupt Federalist Party were running scared. Since all the independent polls showed Miguel winning the election by a wide margin, the opposition party had only one choice—either kill him or force him to drop out of the race. If they killed him, the people might turn him into a martyr and rebel against Padilla and his kind. The more Miguel thought about it—and he had been thinking of little else these past few hours—the more he realized that the best course of action for his enemies was to force him to withdraw his candidacy.

“Good night,” Dom said as he paused outside his bedroom door. “Try to get some rest. Both of you.”

“Good night.” J.J. looked at Dom. “If you hear anything—”

“I will let you know the minute I get a call about the lab results.”

J.J. nodded, then she grasped Miguel’s hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom suite on the other side of the house. She opened the door and turned on several lamps while he trudged to the liquor cabinet.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks, but you go ahead. I’m going to clean all this makeup off my face, sponge off and put on my pajamas.”

He nodded, then lifted a bottle of whiskey and poured himself half a glass. The liquor sailed down his throat, warming his esophagus on the way down, then hit his belly like a hot coal. He coughed a couple of times, then took another swig. His head ached, his stomach churned and his conscience nagged at him. How was it that a man with good intentions, with his heart in the right place, could cause harm to others? All Miguel had ever wanted was to make life better for the people of his country. Having grown up in poverty, the bastard son of a woman thought of as a whore, seeing daily the plight of people forgotten by their government, he had known, even as a child, that someday he would change things for the better.

After finishing off his drink and feeling the effects as a warming sensation that settled in his belly and took the edge off his nerves, Miguel sat down on the side of his bed and removed his shoes and socks. Just as he took off his jacket and tie, J.J. emerged from the bathroom. He took one look at her and became instantly aroused. She wore her lavender silk robe, loosely belted at the waist.As she walked across the room, she unintentionally revealed one calf and thigh and he caught a glimpse of the sexy black lace garter belt to which her black silk stockings were attached.

He swallowed hard.

The whiskey had helped a little. Sex would help a lot. Nothing relieved a man’s tension better than sex. Fast, furious, hot and wild sex.

With J.J.

Miguel closed his eyes and tried to erase the picture of her branded in his mind. But instead, his imagination went to work. He could see her coming toward him, removing her robe and standing in front of him wearing only her stockings, garter belt, bikini panties and bra. When she began stripping, removing her bra first, Miguel opened his eyes and cursed softly.

J.J. was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared into the walk-in closet. Miguel sighed heavily, then stood, removed his shirt and added it to the haphazard pile of clothing he had tossed on the floor. What he needed was another drink.

Lifting his arms over his head, he stretched his taut muscles. He thought he heard a soft gasp and when he lowered his arms and glanced over his shoulder, he saw J.J., in a pair of ivory satin pajamas, standing several feet away, staring at him. She came toward him, her hands outstretched.

“What should I do with these?” she asked, holding out the diamond earrings and necklace she had worn to Anton’s party.

“Put them wherever you want,” he told her. “You’ll be wearing them again in the days ahead.” He glanced down at the engagement ring he’d given her. “Don’t take that ring off. Keep it on day and night. It is a bad omen for a woman to remove her engagement ring before the wedding.”

J.J. simply nodded. No arguments. No reminders that their engagement was not real and that there would never be a wedding. She turned quickly and went back into the closet. While she was gone, Miguel poured himself another drink. If he couldn’t get laid, he’d get drunk. A stupid thing to do, maybe. But right now, for a few hours, he did not want to be a pillar of strength, the savior of Mocorito. All he wanted was to stop thinking, stop worrying, to cease to feel anything.

When she returned to the bedroom, J.J. paused several feet away from him and cleared her throat. With the second glass of whiskey in his hand, he turned to her.

“Is there something you want?” he asked.

“Isn’t that your second drink?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you think you should be drinking so much?”

“Yes, I think I should.”

“Miguel…” She took several tentative steps in his direction.

He held up a restraining hand. “No, do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Do not come any closer.”

At first she didn’t say anything, just stood there and stared at him. Then she turned around and walked over to his bed. His heartbeat accelerated. She turned down the covers. His sex hardened painfully. She reached out and grabbed one of the feather pillows. His mind screamed. Damn, damn, damn!

“You should go to bed and try to sleep,” she told him as she went to the armoire, opened it and removed a cotton blanket. “But if you would like to talk—”

“I believe we have already said all there is to say, have we not?” He brought the glass to his lips and downed a sizable amount of whiskey. He coughed, then blew out a hot breath.

“Miguel, please don’t drink any more.”

He grinned. “Do you have another remedy that will work better than liquor?”

She frowned. “On top of all your other problems, if you drink much more, you will wake up with a horrible headache.”

“I already have a headache,” he told her. “As a matter of fact, I have two headaches.”

She stared at him, her frown deepening. “I think you’ve already had too much to drink.”

Bossy American female! If she had no intention of giving him what he really needed, then to hell with her. He didn’t need her. Didn’t want her. Could do just fine without her.

Liar!

In an act of childish defiance, Miguel lifted the liquor bottle and filled the glass to the rim, then he saluted her with the glass and took another hefty swig.

She whirled around and marched over to the chaise lounge, placed the pillow at the top, then lay down and pulled the cotton blanket up to her neck.

Ignore her, he told himself. She has dismissed you completely.

With the glass held tightly in his slightly unsteady hand, Miguel opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The breeze was cooler than usual, a hint of rain in the air. A million and one thoughts raced through his mind, swirling about, tormenting him, driving him mad. He threw the glass over the balcony. Whiskey flew in every direction, some splattering on his naked chest. The glass hit the rocks below and shattered into pieces.

Miguel clutched the wrought-iron railing, then closed his eyes and prayed. He asked for guidance, for the ability to choose the correct path. And he begged for an hour or two of relief. If only he could stop thinking, stop worrying, stop caring so damn much.

He felt her presence behind him before he heard her soft footsteps or smelled the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. Why could she not leave him alone? Did she not know that her presence alone was driving him mad?

Her small hand touched his back. He tensed, every muscle in his body going stiff. As stiff as his sex.

“Miguel?”

He turned and faced her, but before she could say or do anything, he grabbed her, yanked her into his arms and kissed her. His mouth took hers with a hungry passion, the taste of her far sweeter than he had imagined. She neither fought him nor cooperated, but let him ravage her mouth as he ran his hands over her lush body. Then just as he ended the kiss and started to lift his head, she moaned softly and her mouth responded, kissing him back. Eager and greedy. Wild with need.

Chapter 9

J.J.’s bones dissolved into liquid and her body heated to the boiling point as she and Miguel shared a kiss to end all kisses. Fourth of July fireworks. Hurricane waves crashing against the shore. The thunder of her own heartbeat deafened her as electrical shock waves heated her blood. She couldn’t get close enough to him, couldn’t meld her body to his as tightly as she longed to do. Only the intimate joining of lovemaking could come close to uniting them in the way she needed to be part of him.

She had been in love once…or thought she had been. And she’d had great sex…or thought she had. But nothing J.J. had ever experienced came anywhere close to what she was feeling now. She had never known what real, honest-to-goodness yearning was until this very moment. Yearning so powerful that it obliterated everything else, reducing her to a purely emotional creature.

As she kept kissing him, tasting him, devouring him as he was her, she rubbed her hands over his shoulders and back, longing for the feel of his naked flesh beneath her fingertips. Rational thought was slipping away fast. If she didn’t hang on, didn’t force herself immediately to think about what she was doing, she would be lost.

But I want him, an inner voice pleaded. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone.

She couldn’t give herself to him. She could not surrender to the weakness overwhelming her. This wasn’t love. This was lust. Primitive animal magnetism, drawing two young, healthy primates together.

All right, so this was nothing more than uncontrollable passion. What was wrong with that? Just because she’d never had sex with a man she didn’t care for deeply, why couldn’t this be the first time?

J.J. pulled away, ending the ravaging kiss, but Miguel moaned and sought her mouth again, his hands cupping her hips and holding her mound against his erection. Her damp femininity throbbed. Wanting. Needing.

“No, please,” she spoke the words against his demanding mouth. “We can’t. I can’t.”

He kissed her again before easing his lips to her jaw and then down her neck, ending up by burrowing his head against her shoulder. When the tip of his tongue flicked repeatedly against her collarbone, she sighed.

“No, Miguel, this isn’t fair.”

Either not hearing her or completely ignoring her protest, he lowered his head to her left breast. Her entire body tensed with anticipation. His mouth covered the areola through the satin material of her pajama top and sucked until her nipple tightened into a pebble-hard point. While he suckled her greedily, she cupped the back of his head and held him in place at her breast. Spirals of desire spread out from her breasts and connected with the core of her body.

As the last coherent thought floated through her mind—put a stop to this now while you still can—Miguel dropped to his knees in front of her and kissed a damp path from her breast, over her midriff and across her navel. He paused, slid her pajama bottoms down a couple of inches, stuck his tongue into her navel and laved the small, deep indentation.

J.J. unraveled completely when his big hands grasped her hips and eased her pajamas farther down her hips.

Oh, mercy, mercy. She wanted this. Oh, how she wanted it. But she couldn’t let him do it. Could she?

“Miguel?” his name was nothing more than a pleading whisper.