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

“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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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