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

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.