Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love. Beverly Barton

citizens lived. Dolores and Emilio had purchased a home in Ebano only six months ago and Juan Esteban lived there with his aunt in one of the older sections of the area that had been updated in recent years.

      Once inside the limousine, Miguel had expected Jennifer to move as far away from him as possible. But she didn’t. She remained at his side, although several inches separated them.

      “You put on quite a performance, Señorita Blair,” Roberto said, an odd tone to his voice.

      Miguel glowered at him.

      “You object, Roberto?” she asked, using his first name, as she would have done had she truly been Miguel’s fiancée. “I would think you would approve of the fine acting job I did. We don’t want the people to suspect that I’m not only a fraud, but that I am Miguel’s bodyguard.”

      “I apologize if it appeared I was criticizing,” Roberto said.

      “It sounded that way to me, too,” Miguel told him.

      “Then I apologize to both of you. I meant it as a compliment, although I admit I was surprised that an American woman, especially one trained as a bodyguard, could so effectively present herself as a lady of breeding.”

      Jennifer’s laughter stopped Miguel from chastising his friend. Undoubtedly she found Roberto’s comment amusing.

      “You can thank my mother for that aspect of my personality. You see Lenore Ashford Whitney is a lady of breeding and nothing would please her more than to know I am capable of presenting myself as a carbon copy of her when the situation calls for it.”

      Miguel studied her closely. Those seductive blue-lavender eyes. That mane of shiny black curls. The pouty pink lips. The oval-shaped face, the tiny nose and the translucent, creamy complexion. If he allowed himself the luxury, he could easily fall under her spell. And if other matters were not far more important in his life, he would set about seducing the beautiful Jennifer.

      Suddenly, without any warning, a loud bang reverberated through the limousine. The car bounced, then skidded off the road, onto the shoulder and crashed into the ditch. The wreck happened so quickly that there was no time to think, only to react. As the limo came to a jarring halt, Miguel reached out and grabbed a tumbling J.J. seconds before his left shoulder slammed painfully against the crushed back door.

       Chapter 5

      “Phase one has begun,” he told his comrade. “I just received a phone call telling me that Miguel Ramirez’s limousine has wrecked. It seems a tire blew out and the vehicle is now in a ditch.”

      Hector Padilla smiled broadly, the corners of his thick black mustache lifting. “Perhaps if Miguel is not afraid for himself, he will soon realize that those near and dear to him are in danger. Since we have no proof his fiancée is a fraud, we can’t use that against him. Not yet. And now that she has appeared on television with him, the people seemed to be quite taken with her.”

      “If Miguel truly cares more for others than himself, then convincing him that the lives of others are in danger because of him could be more effective than trying again to eliminate him.”

      “With the American bodyguards on duty around the clock, it will be more difficult to strike Miguel himself, so your plan to show him how vulnerable others are was quite brilliant.”

      “Thank you, Hector. You know there is no one in Mocorito who wishes to see you reelected more than I do.”

      Hector laughed. “Despite our being friends, I am no fool. What you want, more than anything else, is to see Miguel Ramirez defeated.”

      “The man does not deserve to be president. He is an upstart. The bastard son of a whore, a man with delusions of grandeur.”

      Placing his hand on his good friend’s shoulder, Hector asked, “And when is the next incident set to occur?”

      “There will be a minor incident at the luncheon, if Ramirez makes it to the country club. I have arranged for an unpleasant surprise for his guests. But tonight, at Anton Casimiro’s party, we have something more significant planned.”

      J.J. found herself on top of Miguel after the crash. Everything had happened so quickly that it took her a couple of seconds to get her bearings. The first thing that struck her was her awkward position—her body intimately pressed against Miguel’s and his arms securely holding her, one hand cupping her hip.

      “What the hell happened?” Miguel spoke first.

      “I believe a tire blew out, Señor Ramirez,” Carlos said.

      “Is everyone all right?” Roberto asked. “Miguel? Señorita Blair?”

      “I am unharmed,” Miguel replied. He ran his hands over J.J. with gentle familiarity, as if the two were actually a couple. “How are you, Jennifer?”

      Looking him square in the eyes, she lifted herself up and off him. Then when she had firmly planted her behind in the seat beside him, she responded. “None the worse for wear.”

      “I think perhaps we should call a wrecker,” Miguel said.

      “Good idea.” J.J. scooted across the seat and opened the door. “Everyone stay put. I’m going to check the tires, see if one of them did blow out and try to determine the cause.”

      “Do you suspect foul play?” Roberto asked.

      “I assume this limousine is kept in excellent condition,” J.J. said. “That being the case, the odds that a tire just blew out are slim to none. I’ll bet money that someone using a long-range, high-powered rifle shot the tire.”

      “If that is the case, then why aim at the tire and not at me?” Miguel asked.

      “These windows are tinted.” J.J. swirled an index finger around, indicating the darkened windows. “Firing into the vehicle could have resulted in a death, but not necessarily your death.”

      J.J. hopped out of the car and onto the rocky, uneven ground. Immediately the heels of her shoes dug into the soft, sandy soil. Damn! On any other assignment, she’d be wearing a pair of sensible shoes, but here she was dressed to the nines and forced to climb out of the ditch in two-and-a-half-inch heels. After briefly inspecting all four tires and taking a closer look at the one flat tire, she surmised that her theory about a rifle shot blowing the tire had been correct.

      But something didn’t add up here. Carlos had been driving the speed limit, which wasn’t much more than a slow crawl in afternoon traffic. Why would anyone shoot out a tire and cause a minor accident that was unlikely to result in any major damage to the occupants of the limo? If Miguel was the target, why not shoot at him while he was entering or exiting the television station? Unless “they” knew he was being protected by a bodyguard, who might have taken the bullet in his place. How was it possible that Miguel’s enemies knew she was his bodyguard and not his fiancée? She had been told that only Miguel and his two closest associates knew the truth. Roberto was here with them, but that didn’t rule him out as a suspect, did it? And Emilio was family. However, family had been known to betray family.

      Of course, her theory that Miguel’s enemies knew who she really was and why she was posing as Miguel’s fiancée was only that—a theory.

      As J.J. mulled over the possible scenarios and scanned the area, trying to figure out from which direction the bullet had come, she suddenly noticed that dozens of cars had stopped on the highway and people were heading in their direction. She cursed under her breath.

      A rapid barrage of questions flew in her direction. Insistent, concerned questions that demanded answers.

      “Is Señor Ramirez all right?”

      “Is there anything I can do to help?”

      “Has an ambulance been called?”

      Before J.J. could respond, Miguel did exactly what she’d told him not to do. He emerged from the limousine, climbed out of the ditch and came straight