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

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.