Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love: Ramirez's Woman / Her Royal Bodyguard / Protecting the Princess. BEVERLY BARTON
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Bess, as everyone in the Ashford family referred to the woman, was now eighty-six and living in an assisted-living facility paid for by Lenore Ashford Whitney.
J.J. hated barriers of any kind—social, economic, race or religion. And sex. Her mother had been a snob, her father sexist. She prided herself on being neither. That was one reason she could not allow herself to judge Miguel without getting to know him better. He deserved to be judged on his merits and flaws alone and not on some preconceived idea J.J. had of him.
Wondering what Ramona had brought for her to eat, J.J. removed the white linen cloth from the silver tray. Cheese, bread, grapes, wine and some sort of cake that looked sinfully rich. She grabbed the grapes and nibbled on them as she strolled into the bedroom. This room intrigued her, and for more than one reason. She had no intention of this area becoming a battleground tonight or in the nights ahead.
What makes me think he’s going to try something? she asked herself.
The answer came immediately. He’s a man, isn’t he?
But I don’t think he likes me any more than I like him.
Maybe not, but that unnerving charge of awareness you felt wasn’t a one-sided thing. That sensation of I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-and-have-you-here-and-now tore through his gut just like it did yours.
She’d seen that look in his eyes. Had he seen it in hers? If so, he would make his first move tonight.
The bedroom was as large as the sitting room, but where the latter had been decorated in warm, earthy shades, the decor in this room reflected peace, tranquility and age-old charm. Everything in the room, from bed linens to lamp shades, reflected the simple elegance and color scheme of the ivory stucco walls. Color came from the rich glow of the dark wooden floors, accent pieces, and dark wooden bedside tables. The king-size bed was modern in size and structure, but an intricately carved wooden arch made a dramatic antique headboard.
The bed was large enough that she could actually lie beside Miguel and never touch him. Yeah, sure, like she was going to take the chance that he wouldn’t touch her.
Scanning the twenty-by-twenty room, J.J. sought and found an alternative place for her to sleep. A large, comfy chaise lounge, covered in ivory damask, sprawled languidly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. All she needed to make the chaise her bed was a pillow and a blanket. Both items would be easy to discard come morning, to keep the servants unaware that she had not shared a bed with Miguel.
Finishing off the grapes, J.J. returned to the sitting room and hurriedly ate part of the cheese and bread, then lifted the glass of wine and carried it with her as she headed for the bathroom. Would she have time for a leisurely soak in the massive marble tub before Miguel came upstairs for the night? Nope. Better not risk it. A quick shower would have to suffice.
She entered the walk-in closet, set her glass on top of a highboy to her left, then bent over and opened one of her suitcases. Without giving much thought as to which peignoir set to wear, she yanked up a lavender silk gown and matching robe from the large bag. She hurriedly turned around and grabbed her wineglass on the way back into the bedroom. When she entered the bathroom and hung the gown and robe over the vanity chair, she sighed as the light hit the almost iridescent silk. At home she slept in pajamas in the winter and an oversize T-shirt in the summer. Since it was rare that a man ever saw her in her sleepwear, she didn’t own anything really sexy, certainly nothing like the items she had purchased with her corporate charge card.
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