Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love: Ramirez's Woman / Her Royal Bodyguard / Protecting the Princess. BEVERLY BARTON
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sort of big plans?” Pierce asked.
“The kind that involves taking over the military and local law-enforcement agencies nationwide.”
“That sounds like the current el presidente has plans for a dictatorship instead of a democracy.” Dom rested his elbows on the table as he cupped his fingers together.
“Bingo. Give the man a cigar.” Vic turned to Pierce. “Padilla has some rich and powerful supporters, but most of them aren’t aware of his plans to return the country to a dictatorship. One of his most loyal followers, a man who is using his money and influence to help Padilla, is Diego Fernandez, Ramirez’s half-brother.”
“That’s not a surprise,” Pierce said.
“Fernandez is being kept in the dark about the president’s plans for the future. He’s being easily manipulated because his hatred for Ramirez has blinded him to the truth.”
“Are you defending Fernandez?” Dom asked.
“Nope. Not me. Just stating facts. If Fernandez could be convinced that he’s being played for a fool, then he might turn against Padilla.”
“And just who is going to convince him?” Pierce scanned the bar, especially the tables nearest them.
“I’d say nobody here speaks enough English to understand anything we’ve said,” Vic told them. “Besides, the music is so damn loud, I can barely hear myself think.”
“What if we could place this information in the hands of Fernandez’s sister, Seina?” Dom suggested. “If we were one hundred percent sure we can trust Dr. Esteban, he could be given the information and we could ask him to feed it to his lady love.”
“Do we trust Esteban without reservations?” Vic looked at Pierce.
“Probably not. I’m not sure it would be wise to trust Esteban or Lopez or Aznar. We are almost certain that one of those three could be a traitor.”
“Almost certain? Could be?” Vic’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t dug up any dirt on Esteban, at least so far. His only sin seems to be having clandestine meetings with Seina Fernandez.”
“Then you think we should trust him with the information and ask him to pass it along to SeĊorita Fernandez?” Pierce glowered at Vic.
“I think Dom should talk it over with Ramirez,” Vic said, “and if he says do it, then we do it.”
“Ramirez is too close to Esteban to be able to—”
Dom interrupted Pierce in mid sentence. “It’s Ramirez’s frigging country, not yours or mine. I think he has more right than you do to make decisions that will affect not only him personally, but his fellow countrymen.”
Vic coughed, barely suppressing a grin.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Pierce said. “Sometimes I just need to be reminded that I’m not always right.”
The tension between Pierce and Dom subsided. The three men lifted their shot glasses and each took a hefty swig of the tequila.
Maria Bonita reminded J.J. of an upscale Mocoritian home, lavished with handmade tiles and what appeared to be miles of decorative wrought-iron. A mariachi band played traditional music and a dance floor was available. Not only did the members of the band dress in native costumes, but so did the waiters and waitresses. J.J. decided within minutes after their arrival that the food at this restaurant could not possibly surpass the incredible ambience.
Apparently Miguel was well-known here because the staff kowtowed to him as if he were already the president. Other customers waylaid him as their party passed by, everyone wanting to speak to him, shake his hand, kiss his cheek and wish him well. And as his fiancée, the attention spread to her.
Overwhelmed by the enthusiastic adoration showered on them, J.J. didn’t realize that the maître d’ was escorting them through the building, which was, in fact, an eighteenth-century hacienda, and out onto an enclosed patio. Their table for four was one of six tables placed around a central fountain.
“This place is unbelievable,” J.J. said in English.
“What did she say?” Aunt Josephina asked as she was seated.
“Oh, forgive me,” J.J. apologized in Spanish. “I was so impressed with this place that I reverted to my native tongue.”
“It is perfectly understandable, my dear Jennifer.” Aunt Josephina patted J.J.’s hand. “Maria Bonita has that effect on almost everyone the first time they come here.”
No sooner had Miguel and Juan taken their seats than a small, bearded man wearing what J.J. thought were the clothes of a cook—or in this case, a chef—came to their table and suddenly burst into song. Totally surprised by the man’s actions, J.J. gasped. Then, as she listened to him sing the romantic Latin ballad with such tenderness, she smiled at Miguel when he took her hand into his, showing her the appropriate affection a man would show his fiancée in a public place. No more. No less. After the little man sang two more ballads, he bowed, turned around and walked away.
“Who was that?” J.J. asked.
“That is Rolando,” Miguel told her. “He is one of the chefs here at Maria Bonita, but he once had aspirations of being a singer. Since he is half owner of the restaurant, he performs for the customers.”
“Especially customers he is fond of, as he is Miguel,” Aunt Josephina said.
For a brief period of time, J.J. almost forgot why she was here in Mocorito and that she was not really Miguel’s beloved fiancée. The wine was sheer perfection, the dinner conversation entertaining and the food was to die for. She ordered the boquinete Dulce Vita, which consisted of white snapper stuffed with shrimp and mushrooms and baked in a golden puff pastry. Sighing after finishing almost every bite, she shook her head when Miguel suggested dessert.
“But you must try the coconut ice cream,” Juan said. “They top it with Kahlua.” Laughing, he winked at her.
She had decided earlier that she liked Aunt Josephina very much and just this very second she decided she liked Juan, too, because she thought he was a genuinely nice person. Even though in her line of work, it paid to be suspicious of everyone, she wondered if she couldn’t mark Dr. Juan Esteban off her list of possible traitors.
“I would love to try the coconut ice cream,” J.J. said, “but I honestly don’t think I can eat another bite.”
“I will order the dessert.” Miguel smiled at her. “And we will share it.”
Flutters rippled through her stomach and trickled along her nerve endings. She longed to share more than dessert with Miguel.
“And we must order coffee, too.” Aunt Josephina glanced at the waiter, but like a well-brought-up lady of her day, she did not place the order.
Miguel ordered three servings of the coconut ice cream with Kahlua, and freshly brewed coffee for four.
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