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

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November 2009

Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

Featuring

Ramirez’s Woman by Beverly Barton

Her Royal Bodyguard by Joyce Sullivan

Protecting the Princess by Carla Cassidy

Sleeping with the Sheikh

Featuring

The Sheikh’s Bidding by Kristi Gold

Delaney’s Desert Sheikh by Brenda Jackson

Desert Warrior by Nalini Singh

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

It’s a choice between honour and passion…

DETERMINED TO PROTECT, FORBIDDEN TO LOVE

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

DETERMINED TO PROTECT, FORBIDDEN TO LOVE

BEVERLY BARTON

JOYCE SULLIVAN

CARLA CASSIDY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RAMIREZ'S WOMAN

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

For my brilliant editor and dear friend,

leslie Wainger

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay down,” Emilio told him.

“Has anyone been hit?” Miguel asked.

“I do not know,” Emilio replied.

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

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

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

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

“Not until we help Rodolfo and—”

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

Crossing himself, Miguel whispered a hasty, heartfelt prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men turned to Miguel, their expressions questioning.

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

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

“That is a brilliant idea,” Emilio said.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

“Know any details?” J.J. had asked.

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J.J. nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A new agent?” J.J. looked at Daisy.

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

“Any chance of that happening?” Dom asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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