www.millsandboon.co.uk

      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