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

J.J.’s mouth gaped open. “Are you saying that I’m supposed to pose as this guy’s latest paramour? Are we talking putting on a show for the public only or are we talking about being loveydovey in private, too?”

Will Pierce frowned. All eyes turned to Sawyer.

“Only Señor Ramirez, Mr. Pierce and Ramirez’s two closest confidantes will know the truth,” Sawyer said. “As far as everyone else is concerned—and that includes family, friends, supporters and any servants working in the house—you will be Ramirez’s girlfriend.”

“His lover, you mean?” J.J. glared at Sawyer.

“If you aren’t comfortable in that role, then Señor Ramirez might be willing to present you to everyone as his fiancée,” Pierce said.

“Oh, that makes me feel a whole heap of a lot better.” J.J. bristled at the thought of having to fight off some Latin Romeo with whom she’d be forced to share a bedroom for the next few weeks.

Dom chuckled. “You can take care of yourself and we all know it. Just lay down some ground rules with this Ramirez guy first thing. If he steps over the line, show him a few of your best moves. You can kick his butt. You’ve proved you’re capable of downing a guy twice your size.”

“The election is in four-and-a-half weeks,” Pierce said. “Ramirez is the front-runner. We can’t allow anything to go wrong.”

“While I’m playing kissy-kissy with the future el presidente, where will Dom and Vic be?”

“Vic will be working undercover to help find out who tried to assassinate Ramirez.” Pierce glanced at Dom. “Mr. Shea will pose as a distant American relative who has come to Mocorito to cheer on his cousin in his bid for the presidency.”

“Dom will be close by if you need him,” Sawyer told her. “He’ll be living in the same house and his job will be to find out if there’s anyone inside Ramirez’s organization who can’t be trusted.” He pinned her with his imposing glare. “J.J., your sole duty will be to protect Miguel Ramirez. Do whatever you have to do to keep him alive and do it without seeming to do it. You understand?”

She nodded. “Cling to Ramirez’s arm, bat my eyelashes at him, giggle and smile and act all feminine, but if anyone tries to harm him, stop them without making it obvious that I’m actually a trained bodyguard who just saved the future president’s life.”

“You’ll fly to Caracas by Dundee jet, then go first class into Nava, the capital city,” Sawyer explained. “Arrangements have already been made for J.J. and Dom to fly together. Vic will go in separately. Dom, you and Vic go home, pack your bags and meet back here by noon.” He turned to J.J. “You go shopping. Buy whatever you need to look totally feminine. Daytime wear, a couple of evening gowns, sportswear and…” Sawyer cleared his throat. “Some negligees, underwear…”

“Say no more.” J.J. held up her hand in a stop gesture. “I get the idea.”

“When y’all come back into the office, I’ll brief you, as a group, on what your roles will be. J.J., you and Dom will use your own names. Our government will do whatever is necessary to make sure any inquiries about one or all of you are handled through proper channels.”

Understanding that they’d just been dismissed, Vic, Dom and J.J. headed for the door. Being the last of the threesome to exit, J.J. paused before leaving and asked, “What’s my budget for this wardrobe I’m supposed to buy during the next few hours?”

She had asked Sawyer, but it was Will Pierce who answered. “Spend whatever you think is necessary, Ms. Blair. And get whatever you feel you’ll need to adequately do your job.”

Miguel’s home in Nava had once belonged to his father’s cousin, Count Porfirio Fernandez, an extremely wealthy old man who had died unmarried and childless. Cesar Fernandez had inherited his uncle’s home, various properties throughout Mocorito and his millions. In turn, he had deeded the house to his illegitimate son and set up a trust fund for the child he hadn’t known existed until the boy was thirteen. Cesar had never acknowledged Miguel as his own flesh and blood, not legally or in any public way. He had taken care of him financially and sent him to the best schools, educating him in America, as generations of Fernandez men had been educated. But Miguel and his father had met only twice. The first time had been a brief visit at his father’s office in downtown Nava when Miguel was eighteen and leaving for Harvard. It was an unemotional exchange, with little said except an admonishment from his father to do well in his studies. Then, three years ago, when Cesar lay on his deathbed, Miguel had been called to the old man’s home. It was only then, on the day his father died, that Cesar’s legitimate son and daughter had learned of their half-brother’s existence. And it was only then that Cesar had mentioned Miguel’s mother.

“Luz Ramirez was a very pretty girl, if I remember correctly,” Cesar had said. “You have her golden-brown eyes, but the rest of you is pure Fernandez.”

That was the closest his father had come to acknowledging him.

By anyone’s standards, Miguel was wealthy, but although he lived in this beautiful old home and used his trust fund for the upkeep and to pay the servants required to maintain the house and grounds, he had left the bulk of his fortune untouched. Occasionally he used the money to help others, whenever he saw a desperate need. Since returning to Mocorito after law school, he had worked tirelessly for the poor and downtrodden in his country, providing the general public with legal assistance, something few citizens could afford under Hector Padilla’s reign.

Often he felt guilty for living so well, surrounded by luxury, here in this magnificent old home, but, God help him, since moving in eight years ago, he had grown to love every square foot of the palatial two-story mansion. This was a home meant to be shared with a wife and filled with the laughter of many children. He intended to marry someday, had hoped that by now he would have met the perfect woman, a lady who would not only love him, but love his dream for Mocorito’s future.

Perhaps the lady with whom he planned to dine tonight would turn out to be that person. Emilio’s wife, Dolores, was hosting a small, intimate dinner party for six, here in Miguel’s home. After yesterday’s assassination attempt, Dolores had suggested canceling the dinner, but Miguel had insisted that they proceed as planned. So, Emilio, Dolores and Roberto, as well as Miguel’s old and dear friend, Dr. Juan Esteban, and the lovely Zita Fuentes were due to arrive at any moment.

He had met Zita at a political rally several weeks ago, where she had pledged her support to his campaign. Since Zita was a wealthy widow, her support meant more than lip service. She had made a sizable donation that had helped pay for the television ads running day and night now that the election was a little over a month away. Zita was the type of woman who would make a traditional first lady: cultured, demure and subservient to her husband’s wishes. Having been married very young to a millionaire industrialist, she had been trained to be the perfect wife for a professional.

He couldn’t say that it had been love at first sight for him, but he had been quite attracted to the lady. Black-eyed and auburnhaired, the tall, slender Zita possessed an appealing air of elegance and sophistication. However, now that the U.S. government had arranged to send him a female bodyguard who would pose as his girlfriend, he could hardly begin courting Zita Fuentes. But after the election was over, and his fake relationship with the Dundee agent had ended, he would initiate his plan to woo the alluring widow. He only hoped that making his affair with another woman so public wouldn’t ruin his chances with Zita.

“Miguel,” a sweet, feminine voice called his name from the open French doors leading from the house to the patio where Miguel stood enjoying the serenity of the enclosed garden.

He smiled and turned to greet a very pregnant Dolores Lopez, his second cousin, who was as dear to him as any sister could be. “You look lovely tonight.”

She tsked-tsked and shook her head. “You are wonderful to lie to me. I know I look more and more like a hippopotamus every day.”

Emilio, only a few inches taller than his five-six wife, came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist. He patted her protruding belly. “But you are my little hippopotamus and the prettiest mother-to-be in the world.”

She turned and kissed her husband on the cheek, then focused on Miguel. “We are the first to arrive, are we not? I would not want to neglect my duties as your hostess. But you really should have a wife, Miguel. When you are elected president, you will need a first lady.”

“I believe Miguel can handle his own love life,” Emilio said, always eager to defend the man who had been his best friend since the two were boys.

“I’m not so sure of that.” Dolores walked over and kissed Miguel on both cheeks. “He is thirty-five and still unmarried.”

Miguel slipped his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and hugged her to his side. “I promise you that as soon as this election is over, I will get down to the serious business of finding myself a wife.”

“A wife for you and a first lady for Mocorito,” a gruff male voice called from behind them.

All three acknowledged Miguel’s good friend, RobertoAznar, who joined them on the patio. Roberto, a staunch Nationalist, was Miguel’s campaign fund-raiser, and Emilio was the campaign manager, overseeing every detail of their quest to win the election.

“I will leave you men to talk politics,” Dolores said. “I need to speak to Ramona to make sure dinner will be ready at precisely seven-thirty.” As she headed toward the open French doors, she asked Miguel, “Did the florist deliver the arrangements I ordered?”

“Yes, yes,” Miguel replied. “The flowers are perfect, the dinner table is perfect and we all know that Ramona’s meal will also be perfect.”

“But of course,” Dolores said. “However, I simply must see to everything myself.”

Once Dolores disappeared inside the house, Emilio spoke quietly, as if he were afraid his wife would overhear. “I do not like keeping secrets from Dolores. This business of an American bodyguard posing as your lady friend is something we should tell my wife. Otherwise, she’ll worry herself sick that you’re involved with some American floozy.”

“The fewer people who know, the better,” Roberto said. “I am very fond of Dolores, but you know as well as I do that she cannot keep a secret. If we tell her, we might as well tell the world and that would defeat the purpose of having a female bodyguard in the first place.”

Miguel clamped his hand down on Emilio’s shoulder. “In this case, Roberto is right. As much as I love Dolores, I can’t trust her with this information. It would be bad enough if the public were to discover I had a bodyguard, but think how the voters would react to learn that I have a woman guarding me.”

“I know, I know,” Miguel replied. “But once this woman from the Dundee Agency shows up, Dolores will make it her business to become acquainted with her. She guards your back like a fierce mama tiger.”

Dom and J.J. took a taxi from the airport to Miguel Ramirez’s home in the oldest and one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Nava. Huge brick and stucco mansions lay behind iron gates, every impressive structure and sprawling lawn well-maintained. Only the very rich and powerful could afford to live here.

“I thought this Ramirez guy came from humble beginnings,” J.J. whispered to Dom, speaking quietly on the off chance the cabdriver understood English. “These are rich folks’ homes.”

“He inherited the place from a relative,” Dom said. “Didn’t you read the bio on Ramirez that Daisy gave you?”

“I didn’t have time to do more than skim it before we left. It took me four hours of intensive shopping to find a suitable wardrobe for this assignment.” She adjusted the neckline on the simple beige crepe-knit dress she’d worn on the plane. “I must have missed the part about him living in a palace.”

The cabby turned off the street onto a brick driveway that led to a breathtaking two-story, white stucco house, with a red-tiled roof and a veranda that appeared to span the circumference of the mansion.

Speaking in Spanish, the cabby said, “Is Señor Ramirez expecting you? If not, you will not be able to get in to see him without passing inspection.”

“Miguel is my cousin,” Dom replied. “I live in Miami and when he was visiting there this past spring, he invited me to come for a visit.”

“A cousin, you say.” The cabby’s mouth opened in a wide, friendly smile as he parked the car and turned around to look at Dom and then at J.J. “This lovely lady, she is your wife?”

“No, she’s a friend of mine and of Miguel’s,” Dom said. “Her family has entrusted me with her care while we are visiting here.”

The cabby looked J.J. over thoroughly, then nodded. “It is good that her father did not allow her to travel alone. Too many young women are acting like men these days, ruining their reputations and making them unsuitable for marriage.”

J.J. had to bite her tongue to keep from making a comment, but when her eyes widened and she clenched her teeth, Dom grinned, knowing full well that she was more than a little irritated.

After they got out of the cab, Dom helped the driver take their suitcases to the veranda, then he tipped the guy generously. “We’ll just leave our luggage here for now,” Dom said. “Thanks.”

As the cabby drove away, Dom rang the doorbell. “Get ready for the performance of your life.”

“My playing a lovesick fool will require an Academy-awardwinning performance.”

A heavyset, middle-aged woman opened the door. Without any expression on her slightly wrinkled, makeup-free face, she sized up the two guests.

“I am Domingo Shea,” he said in Spanish. “I am Señor Ramirez’s cousin from Miami. And this—” he indicated with a sweep of his hand “—is Señorita Jennifer Blair.”

“You are expected?” the woman asked.

“Yes, I believe he’s expecting us tomorrow,” Dom told her. “But we were able to get away earlier than anticipated. I do hope our early arrival will not be an inconvenience.”

“Please, come inside and I will announce you.”

Dom and J.J. waited in the massive, marble-floored foyer. Overhead a huge chandelier shimmered with what appeared to be a hundred tiny lights, all reflecting off the crystal gems. A wide, spiral, marble staircase led from the foyer to the second level, the wrought-iron banisters circling the open landing.

“This is some place,” Dom said. “I can’t imagine any presidential mansion being more impressive.”

“Actually, it reminds me a little of my Grandmother Ashford’s place in Mobile.”

“Poor little rich girl.”

“My mother is rich. My stepfather is rich. Me, I’m just an ordinary woman who works for a living.”

Moments turned to minutes as they waited. And waited. And waited. After a good ten minutes had passed, a tall attractive man, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a thin, dark moustache, appeared and greeted them. J.J. guessed his age to be somewhere around forty. Mentally reviewing the photos she’d been shown of the people closest to Ramirez, she realized that this was Roberto Aznar.

“You have arrived a day early.”Aznar seemed genuinely agitated.

“I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“No. No problem. I’m sure the servants can prepare your rooms tonight. I’ll ask Ramona to see that your bags are taken upstairs and if you’d like to freshen up—”

“We’d like to see Miguel,” Dom said.

“Yes, well…you see, he has guests. He’s giving a small dinner party for—”

“Wonderful.” J.J. sighed. “I’m starving. You know how airline food is. Like cardboard, even in first class. Please, be a dear and lead us to the dining room.” J.J. slipped her arm through Roberto’s, much to his astonishment. “Besides, I know Miguel will be thrilled to see us. I’m sure he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.”

Dom followed as Roberto led J.J. down the hall and into the dining room. The table sat twenty, but this evening the guests were placed at the far end of the table, the two men and two women flanking the head of the table where Miguel Ramirez presided.

When Roberto entered, bringing J.J. with him and Dom coming in behind them, Ramirez rose from his chair.

Impressive, J.J. thought. The man’s photographs didn’t do him justice. He was one-hundred-percent male, from his wide shoulders to his lean hips and long legs. He was handsome without being pretty. His bronze skin was a shade darker than Dom’s, but he had the same blue-black hair, only his was cut conservatively short and neatly styled. But it was his unique golden-brown eyes that captured J.J.’s attention. Large, expressive eyes, the color of dusty topaz.

“Your cousin Dom has arrived a day early,” Roberto said. “And look who he has brought with him.”

Ramirez hesitated for a moment as he studied J.J. Then he smiled, scooted back his chair and walked hurriedly around the table and straight to her. He opened his arms in an expression of welcome, then reached down and grasped both of her hands in his.

“Querida, it is so good to see you again.” He kissed first one hand and then the other. “Please, come in and let me introduce you to everyone.”

They stood there in the dining room, just beyond the threshold and stared at each other, his gaze locked on her face. J.J.’s heart skipped a beat. Uh-oh, that wasn’t a good sign. As a general rule, most men didn’t have this effect on her, but when one did, that meant she was in trouble. She had hoped the man she would be protecting wouldn’t set off a frenzy of crazed butterflies in her belly. So much for hoping. The little buggers were doing a Saint Vitus dance in her stomach right now.

He led J.J. farther into the room, then paused while the others stared at her.

A very pregnant, black-haired woman glanced from J.J. to Miguel. “Who are these people?”

Dom spoke up first. “I’m Miguel’s cousin, Domingo Shea, from Miami.”

“And this is Jennifer.” Miguel’s voice embraced her name. “She is—”

“I am Miguel’s fiancée,” J.J. said, deciding on the spur of the moment that she did not intend to spend the next month being treated like a mistress. Then she turned and looked Miguel right in the eyes, daring him to contradict her. “That is, if your proposal is still good and you still want me.” She batted her eyelashes.

His eyes widened in surprise, but, barely missing a beat, he replied. “Of course, I still want you, querida. More than ever.”

Chapter 2

The lady was not what he’d been expecting. No six-foot Viking goddess. No cool, sophisticated Grace Kelly blonde. Not even a hard-as-nails, pro-wrestler-type female with a killer look in her eyes. No, Jennifer Blair was none of those things. What she was was a petite, raven-haired beauty with an hourglass figure and the most striking blue-violet eyes Miguel had ever seen.And the way she’d taken charge of the moment—accepting a fictitious marriage proposal in front of an audience—told him she expected to run the show. Call him old-fashioned, call him a macho pig, but he preferred his women to defer to him in all things. And that included his female bodyguard. Miguel chuckled to himself as he held the lady’s small, delicate hands. She didn’t look as if she could swat a fly, let alone protect a man more than twice her size.

“Querida, let me introduce you to everyone.” Miguel slipped his arm around her tiny waist and led her farther into the room. Without glancing back, he said, “Come along, Dom.”

Dolores glowered at J.J., so much so that he felt his cousin’s hostility as if it were a viable thing. “You asked this woman to marry you and you have told no one here about her? I find that very strange.”

Emilio cleared his throat, then said hastily. “Miguel told me about Miss Blair, but he swore me to secrecy. Otherwise, you know I would have told you.”

“Dolores, don’t be upset with Emilio,” Miguel said, falling hurriedly into the act that he would have to perpetuate for the next few weeks. “I met Jennifer on my trip to Miami. She is a friend of Dom’s and he introduced us. We had a whirlwind romance and I—” The words caught in his throat. Lying about loving a woman was something he’d never done. “We fell in love and I asked her to marry me. But we agreed that she would wait to give me an answer, that we would put some time and distance between us to make sure what we felt was…real love.”

Skewering J.J. with her cynical gaze, Dolores came toward her. Dolores knew Miguel the way a sister knows her brother, so convincing her that he was in love with this American woman would not be easy.

“You have decided that you love Miguel and wish to be his wife?” Dolores asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” J.J. replied, keeping her phony smile in place.

Emilio wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and hugged her to him. “Then congratulations are in order, are they not? We should ask Ramona to bring in champagne…er…uh…and sparkling cider for you, my sweet.”

“I did not know we had a cousin in Miami.” Naturally, the ever-skeptical Dolores was not convinced that J.J. and Dom were genuine. His cousin’s feminine instincts had warned her that something wasn’t quite right about the situation, that something was rotten in Nava tonight.

“He is my cousin, not yours.” When Miguel tightened his hold around J.J.’s waist, he realized that his actions had told her that he was tense, that already the lies were bothering him. “He is from the other side of the family. The son of one of Papá Tomas’s cousins.”

“Hmm…” Dolores glanced from Dom to J.J. “Have you had dinner?”

A collective sigh permeated the room. Miguel loosened his tenacious hold about J.J.’s waist. Dolores’s cordiality did not mean she had accepted these strangers on face value, but it did mean she was giving them the benefit of the doubt and would allow them to prove themselves to her.

“As a matter of fact, we haven’t.” Dom went around the room, shaking hands and making nice. When he paused by the chair where the elegant redhead sat, the woman stopped glaring daggers at J.J. and smiled at Dom.

“And who is this enchanting creature?” Dom asked.

Not waiting for a proper introduction, she spoke for herself, “I am Zita Fuentes and am I delighted to make your acquaintance, Señor Shea.” She cut Miguel to the quick with a withering glare.

“If you all will entertain Dom, I need a moment alone with Jennifer.” Not giving anyone a chance to halt him by word or action, Miguel grasped J.J.’s arm and all but dragged her out of the dining room.

Once outside in the hall, she jerked free and stopped dead still. “Do not ever pull that Me-Tarzan-You-Jane routine with me again.”

Totally exasperated with this woman, Miguel groaned. “Lower your voice. Sound carries in this old house, especially in the hallways.”

She looked him square in the eye and said softly, “Then let’s go somewhere more private. We should set up the ground rules for this charade immediately. That way, we’ll both know where we stand and what to expect from the other person.”

“Agreed. Come with me.”

He did not touch her again; instead he allowed her to fall into step beside him as he led her away from the dining room. A few minutes later, he opened the massive double doors to the mahogany-paneled library with bookcases on three sides that reached to the top of the fourteen-foot ceiling.

“Would you care to sit, Ms. Blair?” He indicated one of the two leather chairs flanking the fireplace, in which a warm blaze emitted delicious heat on this unseasonably cool October evening. Here in Mocorito the temperatures seldom dropped below the high sixties.

“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.