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

No one except Gala Hernandez, who had not been on the guest list.

How easy it would be to poison Miguel’s drink or his food. And even though Anton had promised that each musician and caterer would be inspected before entering his apartment, it might be possible for one of the hired help for tonight’s shindig to manage to smuggle in a weapon.

What about the guests themselves? J.J. asked herself as she continued smiling graciously while Miguel shmoozed with his constituents. Gala probably wasn’t the only person here who had finagled her way in, coming along as the date of an invited guest. However, considering that the woman wore a skintight red dress, J.J. doubted there was a concealed weapon on her.

Glancing over the throng of celebrators, J.J. searched for anyone who looked the least bit suspicious.As her gaze surveyed the room, she noticed Dom mixing and mingling, doing just what she was doing—hoping to spot potential trouble. Preventing a disaster of any kind would have been so much easier if the Dundee agency was in charge. Having to placate Miguel’s ego and allow Emilio and Roberto to make decisions they were not trained to make undermined the Dundee agents’ efficiency. Having to do things Miguel’s way made their job ten times more difficult.

J.J. recognized only a few people. Roberto had escorted Señora Fuentes and the two seemed quite chummy where they stood in the corner, sipping champagne and gazing into each other’s eyes. Across the room, seated on one of the three sofas, Josephina Santiago appeared deep in conversation with her nephew, Juan Esteban. Here and there, J.J. saw a vaguely familiar face, a few women she’d met at the country club earlier today and some people from campaign headquarters this morning. Emilio had phoned to tell them he and Dolores would not attend tonight since Dolores was still quite shaken by the snake prank at the club.

For a man who knew his life was in danger, Miguel appeared calm, cool and collected. Was he really not concerned about his own welfare or did he think he was invincible? Perhaps neither. He was a man with a mission that apparently meant more to him than anything else on earth. Even more than his own life?

When Gala Fernandez walked straight toward them, J.J. tensed. She tried to tell herself that the knot in her gut was there because she didn’t trust Gala, that she feared the woman was dangerous. But when Gala smiled at Miguel and placed her hand on his arm, J.J. realized she was jealous. The idea hit her like a bolt from the blue. She did not want this woman—or any other woman—touching Miguel in a familiar way.

This is totally unacceptable, she warned herself. It was only natural to feel protective of a client, but what she felt went way beyond the norm. She felt not only protective, but possessive. The inner primitive female inside her was screaming, Hands off, bitch, he’s my man.

“Good evening, Miguel.” Gala all but purred as she ran her hand down his arm. “I am utterly delighted to see you twice in one day.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Oh, get real, J.J. thought. How obvious could a woman be? She’d practically propositioned Miguel—and with his fiancée clinging to his arm. And clinging was just what J.J. was doing. Realizing she was holding on a little too tightly, she loosened her grasp.

“Señorita Hernandez, you look lovely tonight.” Miguel’s arm around J.J.’s waist tautened, drawing her closer. “Almost as lovely as my beautiful Jennifer.” As if it were the most natural action in the world, he leaned down and kissed J.J.’s temple.

Skyrockets went off in her belly, surprising her. No, actually shocking her. Good grief, she had to get a grip. What was wrong with her? Feeling jealousy over a man she barely knew. Going weak in the knees because he kissed her forehead.

Gala’s smile vanished for a moment, but she recovered quickly and replaced the genuine smile with a phony one. “You are a very fortunate woman, Señorita Blair, to have such a devoted fiancé.”

“I am the lucky one.” Miguel lifted J.J.’s hand and held it over his heart.

“If you will excuse me, I see my date is looking for me.” Gala quietly slipped away and hurried over to a short, stout man in his midforties, someone she had apparently taken advantage of in order for her to attend tonight’s dinner party. Poor fool. He probably had no idea what a sucker he was.

“You laid it on a little thick, didn’t you?” J.J. removed her hand from Miguel’s.

“I beg your pardon?”

When those golden-brown eyes of his settled on her face, a troop of fluttering butterflies danced maddingly in her stomach.

“Does Gala Fernandez frighten you so much that you felt it necessary to fawn over me to warn her off?”

Miguel chuckled. “My dear Jennifer, the lovely and sexy Gala wants me very badly.” J.J.’s mouth dropped open. “The only thing is I’m not sure whether she wants to make love to me or to kill me.”

J.J. let out a relieved sigh. “Then you don’t trust her anymore than I do, do you?”

“No, I do not trust her. She is trying much too hard to insinuate herself into my life. Of course, it is possible that she finds me so irresistible that—”

J.J. playfully poked Miguel in the ribs with her elbow.

“What?” he asked guilelessly. “You doubt that a woman could find me irresistible?”

“Oh, no, I don’t doubt it for a moment. You can be charming and attentive and make a woman feel as if she’s the only woman in the world. In a moment of utter weakness, she just might find you completely irresistible.”

Leaning close—too close—his nose grazing her cheek, he whispered, “If only you were that woman, querida.”

While her heart beat ninety-to-nothing and tingling warmth spread up her neck to flush her cheeks, J.J. struggled to think of just the right response. But she was saved by Roberto and Zita’s appearance.

“Would you mind terribly if we left early?” Roberto asked.

“No, of course not,” Miguel replied. “Is everything all right?”

Zita Fuentes slipped her arm around Roberto’s waist. “Everything is perfectly fine. But I have a slight headache and Roberto has kindly offered to take me home.”

Yeah, right, she had a headache. Surely Miguel didn’t buy that old excuse. It was obvious that these two wanted to go somewhere to be alone. Although they weren’t making a public spectacle of themselves, it was apparent they could barely keep their hands off each other.

“Wait here,” Roberto said to his date. “I’ll get your purse and wrap and then we’ll leave.”

J.J. wondered if she should say something to Zita, something to soothe the awkward moment. After all, Miguel had to realize that one of his best friends was going to take this woman home and make love to her. If Miguel had feelings for Zita or she for him, one or both of them must be slightly embarrassed and perhaps even upset.

“I was surprised that Señor Casimiro has a jazz ensemble here tonight.” J.J. said the first thing that popped into her head. The cool jazz number the group was playing right now had caught her attention. The alto sax moaned the melody of “The Good Life” as the piano, bass and drums played softly in the background.

“Anton loves jazz,” Miguel replied. “He plays the piano and sometimes sits in with the group. He has very eclectic tastes in almost everything, especially in music.”

Suddenly Zita’s gaze zeroed in on J.J.’s left hand. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened into a perfect oval of surprise. “Your ring is lovely.” She looked at Miguel. “You chose it for her, of course.”

“Of course.” Miguel looked like a man who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

“I don’t know what is keeping Roberto.” Zita glanced around the room, avoiding direct eye contact with either Miguel or J.J.

Poor woman, J.J. thought. She’s in love with Miguel and it’s breaking her heart seeing him engaged to someone else. But the question that plagued J.J. was—did Miguel love Zita? If he did, wouldn’t he have shared the truth with her, that his engagement to J.J. was not real?

“It appears he has been waylaid by someone near the buffet table,” Miguel said. “If you’d like, I can go rescue him.”

When Miguel turned, intending to go toward the buffet table, J.J. clasped his arm, momentarily halting him. He gave her a puzzled glance, then sighed and nodded when he apparently remembered her cautioning him not to leave her side this evening.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Zita said. “I will go and wait for him in the foyer, away from all this noise.” She rubbed her right temple. “I am afraid my headache has become worse.”

“I’m so sorry,” Miguel said sincerely.

“Perhaps Señor Casimiro has some aspirin or—” J.J. offered.

“I’ll be all right, thank you.” Zita all but ran away from them.

J.J. glared at Miguel.

“Why are you looking at me as if I were an ax murderer?” Miguel asked.

“Just how involved are you with Señora Fuentes?”

“Lower your voice, please. We don’t want anyone overhearing you. You sound very much like a jealous woman.”

J.J. huffed. She was not jealous. She had simply asked a logical question. “It’s obvious the lady is upset that you’re engaged,” J.J. said quietly. “I think I have a right to know—”

“Zita and I are not lovers,” Miguel said. “We have not even dated.”

“But?”

“But I had given some thought to courting her and I believe she found the idea quite agreeable.”

“Are you in love with her?” Oh, God! She couldn’t believe she’d asked him that.

Grasping her around the waist, he pulled her close and whispered, “Retract your claws, little she-cat.Your jealousy is showing.”

J.J. gasped aloud, which made Miguel laugh. Several people near them turned to see what was going on.

Miguel shrugged and laughed again as he faced those inquisitive stares. “I am afraid I said something that caught my fiancée off guard and embarrassed her. You know how young ladies can be when we men are too blunt-spoken.”

The devil! The charming, smooth-talking devil.

Forcing herself to smile at the onlookers, she didn’t withdraw when Miguel led her toward the balcony, where several other couples were dancing or gazing up at the moon. She balked when they reached the double set of open French doors.

“You might consider the possibility that I’ll be tempted to toss you over the balcony railing if we go out there,” J.J. said for his ears only.

“I will take my chances. I very much want to hold you in my arms right now. Besides, if we don’t dance at least one dance, everyone will wonder why not.”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Why don’t we eat first, then dance?”

As if she hadn’t spoken, he led her out onto the balcony and pulled her into his arms. “First we dance. We can eat later.”

“Of course, querido. Whatever you say. After all, you’re my lord and master and I would never want to do anything to displease you,” J.J. told him in English, a phony smile plastered on her face.

“Quite a few people in Mocorito speak English. We wouldn’t want anyone here tonight to realize you were speaking to me in such a sarcastic manner.”

J.J. kept quiet as Miguel led her into the dance. She didn’t protest when he pulled her so close that her breasts pressed against his chest. Being this close to him was hypnotic. Like all his other attributes, Miguel’s dancing was flawless. As the music wove itself around them and their bodies moved slowly and rhythmically under the starry, tropical sky, it was all J.J. could do to keep her wits about her. This was like a scene from some old forties movie—an American heiress being wooed by a South American playboy. Only Miguel wasn’t actually a playboy and although she would someday inherit several Ashford millions, she wasn’t a true heiress, not in the traditional sense.

When one tune ended, another began almost immediately, which probably explained why Miguel didn’t release her. The moment the music started again, a bluesy rendition of “You Don’t Know What Love Is,” he reached down and tilted her chin with his crooked index finger. Standing there in his arms, she looked up at him.

Be still my heart.

When had she ever been this foolish? Not even as a teenager had she fallen so hard and so fast for a guy.

“After this dance, we can go through the buffet line,” he told her. “I would rather take you home early, but since I…we are the guests of honor, we can hardly be one of the first couples to leave, can we?”

She managed to nod her head, temporarily rendered mute by the surge of passion heating her from the inside out. She had to put a stop to her raging hormones and do it ASAP. This guy was good. Damn good. He knew just what to say and do to seduce a woman, to make her feel as if she was special. But she knew better. She meant nothing to Miguel. For goodness sake, she was his bodyguard. Letting herself fall under his spell could prove dangerous for both of them.

All he wants is for you to be his latest conquest. One more notch on his bedpost. Once he’s had you—

What the hell was she thinking? No way was she going to give in to temptation.

“Why don’t we cut this dance short?” J.J. suggested. “I really am starving and that boiled shrimp looked delicious.”

He eased her out of his arms, but grabbed her hand when she started to walk away. She paused and fell into step beside him as they left the balcony.

“You may have my share of the shrimp and cocktail sauce,” Miguel told her. “I do not like shrimp. I made myself sick on shrimp as a teenager and have avoided eating it ever since.”

“I did that with popcorn when I was a kid and I was twenty before I could stand the smell of the stuff.”

Miguel squeezed her hand as they entered the buffet line of half a dozen people. “You realize that we are sharing confidences, stories of our childhoods.” He smiled. “It is what lovers do to become better acquainted.”

“We are—” She’d been about to say, “we are not lovers,” but he squeezed her hand really hard, warning her to be careful what she said. “We are becoming better acquainted every minute we’re together.”

Miguel lifted a plate and handed it to J.J., then picked up one for himself. The people ahead of them in line offered to let them prepare their plates first, but she and Miguel declined simultaneously.

Then, just as J.J. reached out to the platter of boiled shrimp, someone called out loudly, “Do not eat anything else! Five people have become very sick in the past few minutes.”

J.J. froze to the spot for a half second, then she stood on tiptoe so that she could discern the identity of the speaker. Dr. Juan Esteban made his way through the shocked crowd, coming directly toward them. She scanned the room, searching for Dom. Standing head and shoulders above three-fourths of the men and women there, he was easy to spot. Her gaze locked with Dom’s and a silent understanding passed between them. What if someone poisoned the food?

“I have called for an ambulance,” Dr. Esteban told Miguel. “Five people have become deathly sick—vomiting and diarrhea—in the past few minutes. One of the ladies has fainted.”

“Could it be food poisoning?” Miguel asked.

“That would be my first guess. Have you eaten anything? You or Señorita Blair?”

“No, we haven’t eaten a bite.” J.J. put her plate down on the buffet table, then grabbed Miguel’s plate and put it atop hers.

“I must go with those who are sick to the hospital. There could be others,” Juan said. “In case there are, I will send another ambulance to be on standby.”

“What is wrong?” Anton Casimiro approached them, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead and creasing his plump cheeks.

“We fear food poisoning,” Miguel said. “Several people have become violently ill.”

“That cannot be!” Anton’s round face turned beet-red. “I have used these caterers before and never has anything like this happened.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Miguel assured his friend.

“It is probably only one dish,” Juan said. “Otherwise everyone who has eaten would be ill and everyone is not.”

“All the food should be left right where it is,” J.J. told them. “Each dish will have to be analyzed to find out which one was either spoiled or tampered with on purpose.”

Anton’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you suggesting someone deliberately poisoned a specific dish? Whatever would make you think such a thing, señorita?”

“Jennifer is a great fan of murder-mystery novels,” Miguel hurried to explain.

“Murder?” Anton gasped.

Off in the distance the sound of sirens shrilled loud and clear.

“The ambulance should arrive any moment.” Juan turned and rushed back into the bedroom to see about his patients.

“I believe it might be a good idea to explain to everyone what has happened,” Dom Shea said as he came up beside Miguel. “If we could figure out which dish is the culprit, we could narrow down those who might yet become ill.”

“I will make an announcement,” Anton said. “This is my home, my party…”

While Anton spoke to his guests, Dom asked Miguel, “Do you have a favorite food?”

“What?”

“Did your host ask about a favorite food he could provide for you tonight?”

“No.” Miguel shook his head.

“Would he or the caterers, or anyone for that matter, know you would be sure to eat one thing in particular tonight?”

“I can think of nothing. I enjoy a wide variety of food, but there is nothing on the buffet table tonight that is a particular favorite.”

“But there is something that is not a favorite,” J.J. said. “How many people know you hate shrimp and won’t touch a bite of it?”

“What?” Miguel and Dom asked.

“If you were not the target—”

Dom cursed under his breath. “It makes sense, after the other two incidents today.”

“What are you talking about? How does not poisoning me, but poisoning others make sense?” By the time the words were out of his mouth, realization dawned on Miguel. “Mother of God! They are striking out at my friends and supporters, at the very people I would do anything to protect.”

“They’re showing you how vulnerable your people are,” Dom said.

“If you won’t withdraw from the presidential race out of fear for your own life, then perhaps you will do it to protect others,” J.J. told Miguel.

“Before we run with this theory and know for sure that’s what’s going on, we need to have the shrimp and the cocktail sauce tested,” Dom said. “Tonight, if possible. I’ll make a phone call and have someone come and pick up the remaining shrimp and sauce.”

Miguel nodded. “I should go to the hospital and check on those who were stricken. If any one of them were to die…To put myself in danger is one thing, but to put others in danger…”

“This isn’t your fault,” J.J. told him. “Stop beating yourself up about it. And whatever you do, don’t make any decisions about your candidacy tonight. If you think your supporters would want you to withdraw from the race to protect them, then you aren’t thinking straight.”

“You two go on to the hospital and find out how seriously ill the poison victims are,” Dom said. “My guess is that the intent was not to kill anyone, only to make quite a few people sick. Enough to send a warning message.”

J.J. hated the pained expression on Miguel’s face. This was a man who cared for others, cared deeply. Right now, he was feeling guilty, taking the blame for what had happened upon himself. She couldn’t let him do that. She wasn’t sure why it was so important to her to support and encourage Miguel, but it was.

She slipped her arm through his. “I’ll call down and have Carlos bring the car around, then we’ll go straight to St. Augustine’s. And once we find out that everyone is going to be all right, I’m taking you straight home.” She turned to Dom. “You’ll stay here and guard the food, especially the shrimp and sauce, until the proper person takes samples of everything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dom grinned.

“She is rather bossy, is she not?” Miguel said, then looked at J.J. appreciatively. “It is good for a man to have a fiancée who can take care of him when the situation calls for it. Feel free, querida, to continue issuing me orders tonight. I believe you know better than I do what is best for me.”

Moisture glistened in J.J.’s eyes. Damn him! He’d done it again. Said just the right thing to touch her heart and make her want to wrap her arms around him.

Chapter 8

J.J. and Miguel waited at the hospital for news about the people who had taken ill at Anton’s dinner party. When all was said and done there were fifteen altogether. Eight men and seven women. Within an hour after she and Miguel arrived at the hospital, both Emilio and Roberto appeared. Dom had telephoned Emilio and he in turn had contacted Roberto. The two men had approached Miguel with different opinions on what he should do and how he should handle the situation.

“You must make a statement to the press immediately,” Roberto had said.

“No, no, that is the wrong thing to do,” Emilio had told them. “Wait until Juan tells us what the situation is, if anyone has died or if everyone will survive.”

“You must make it clear to the people of Mocorito tonight that you will not be intimidated, that nothing can convince you to remove yourself from the presidential race.” Roberto had glowered at Emilio, as if daring Emilio to contradict him.

Without blinking an eye, Emilio had shot back, “He cannot do that. It would send the wrong message. What if the people believe Miguel is not concerned for the welfare of those closest to him, that he is willing to risk other people’s lives?”

While the two had argued, J.J. had persuaded Miguel to walk to the chapel with her. She supposed that eventually Roberto and Emilio would realize Miguel wasn’t still there listening to them squabble, but she really didn’t care. All that mattered right now was helping Miguel, doing whatever she could to relieve the stress he felt and ease the guilt eating away at him.

Though the small hospital chapel was devoid of the niceties of a real church, the small statue of the Madonna on one side of the altar and the large painting of Jesus on the cross hanging behind the altar gave the sparsely decorated room a spiritual feel. She wasn’t Catholic, but she had attended services several times with various Catholic friends. She had been raised a Protestant, her father Baptist, her mother Presbyterian. It had always seemed to her that there was something profoundly reverent about a church, no matter what the denomination.

She sat beside Miguel on the first bench in a single row of six wooden benches. After he had lit candles for Juan’s patients, he had taken a seat and closed his eyes. J.J. knew he was praying and that fact touched her deeply. After quite some time, she reached over and clasped his hand. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“What would you do?” he asked.

“What would I do if I were you? Is that what you are asking me?”

“Yes.”

“I would wait. I would not make any hasty decisions. We don’t have all the facts.”

“And if the worst happens, if someone dies and we know for certain someone poisoned the shrimp or the sauce?” He took a deep breath, then released it slowly.

“If our worst fears are confirmed, then you must decide what you are most afraid of on a personal level—of innocent people being killed or of the Federalist Party maintaining power and slowing the progress of Mocorito, possibly even taking your country back in time instead of forward.”

“The many or the few,” he said sadly. “You do not mince words, do you, Jennifer?”

“One of my many faults,” she admitted, then said in English, “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

He frowned. “Do I have the right to sacrifice others for a cause I believe in with my whole heart?”

It was a difficult question. One to which she had no answer. What would she do, if she were in Miguel’s shoes? What if a family member’s life or the life of a friend hung in the balance, and she alone had the power to decide their fate?