Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love. Beverly Barton

She had known, since their father’s death, that Diego despised their half-brother, but she had never dreamed he was capable of such despicable acts. This was not the Diego she knew and had loved all her life. Yes, he could be domineering and controlling, as their father had been, but never cruel, never dangerous.

      How could Diego have involved her best friend Gala in his murderous plots? He was actually blackmailing Gala, using her past drug use against her. There had to be some way she could help her friend, some way she could stop Diego. If she went to him and talked to him? No, that would accomplish nothing. If Diego’s hatred had taken him over the edge into obsession, talk would not be enough to convince him how very wrong he was.

      And speaking to their mother would be useless. She adored Diego so much that she would support him in whatever he chose to do, even if he killed Miguel with his bare hands. Perhaps she could not blame her mother for hating her husband’s illegitimate son. Perhaps she would feel the same if her husband had betrayed her. But try as she might, she could not hate Miguel. In truth, she admired him.

      Should she go to Juan and tell him what she knew? He could then go to Miguel and warn him. But if she did that, would she not be betraying Diego? Would she not be choosing one brother over the other?

       Dear God, what must I do? Please, help me make the right decision. I do not want to betray those I love, but how can I stand by and do nothing?

      Miguel, J.J. and Dom arrived at Miguel’s home in the early-morning hours. Ramona met them at the door, concern in her weary, dark eyes. Miguel did his best to reassure his housekeeper that all was well, but knowing him as she did, she saw through his false optimism. He wanted to believe that today’s three incidents were the beginning and the end of his enemy’s scare tactics, but he knew better. Hector Padilla and his corrupt Federalist Party were running scared. Since all the independent polls showed Miguel winning the election by a wide margin, the opposition party had only one choice—either kill him or force him to drop out of the race. If they killed him, the people might turn him into a martyr and rebel against Padilla and his kind. The more Miguel thought about it—and he had been thinking of little else these past few hours—the more he realized that the best course of action for his enemies was to force him to withdraw his candidacy.

      “Good night,” Dom said as he paused outside his bedroom door. “Try to get some rest. Both of you.”

      “Good night.” J.J. looked at Dom. “If you hear anything—”

      “I will let you know the minute I get a call about the lab results.”

      J.J. nodded, then she grasped Miguel’s hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom suite on the other side of the house. She opened the door and turned on several lamps while he trudged to the liquor cabinet.

      “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

      “No, thanks, but you go ahead. I’m going to clean all this makeup off my face, sponge off and put on my pajamas.”

      He nodded, then lifted a bottle of whiskey and poured himself half a glass. The liquor sailed down his throat, warming his esophagus on the way down, then hit his belly like a hot coal. He coughed a couple of times, then took another swig. His head ached, his stomach churned and his conscience nagged at him. How was it that a man with good intentions, with his heart in the right place, could cause harm to others? All Miguel had ever wanted was to make life better for the people of his country. Having grown up in poverty, the bastard son of a woman thought of as a whore, seeing daily the plight of people forgotten by their government, he had known, even as a child, that someday he would change things for the better.

      After finishing off his drink and feeling the effects as a warming sensation that settled in his belly and took the edge off his nerves, Miguel sat down on the side of his bed and removed his shoes and socks. Just as he took off his jacket and tie, J.J. emerged from the bathroom. He took one look at her and became instantly aroused. She wore her lavender silk robe, loosely belted at the waist.As she walked across the room, she unintentionally revealed one calf and thigh and he caught a glimpse of the sexy black lace garter belt to which her black silk stockings were attached.

      He swallowed hard.

      The whiskey had helped a little. Sex would help a lot. Nothing relieved a man’s tension better than sex. Fast, furious, hot and wild sex.

      With J.J.

      Miguel closed his eyes and tried to erase the picture of her branded in his mind. But instead, his imagination went to work. He could see her coming toward him, removing her robe and standing in front of him wearing only her stockings, garter belt, bikini panties and bra. When she began stripping, removing her bra first, Miguel opened his eyes and cursed softly.

      J.J. was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared into the walk-in closet. Miguel sighed heavily, then stood, removed his shirt and added it to the haphazard pile of clothing he had tossed on the floor. What he needed was another drink.

      Lifting his arms over his head, he stretched his taut muscles. He thought he heard a soft gasp and when he lowered his arms and glanced over his shoulder, he saw J.J., in a pair of ivory satin pajamas, standing several feet away, staring at him. She came toward him, her hands outstretched.

      “What should I do with these?” she asked, holding out the diamond earrings and necklace she had worn to Anton’s party.

      “Put them wherever you want,” he told her. “You’ll be wearing them again in the days ahead.” He glanced down at the engagement ring he’d given her. “Don’t take that ring off. Keep it on day and night. It is a bad omen for a woman to remove her engagement ring before the wedding.”

      J.J. simply nodded. No arguments. No reminders that their engagement was not real and that there would never be a wedding. She turned quickly and went back into the closet. While she was gone, Miguel poured himself another drink. If he couldn’t get laid, he’d get drunk. A stupid thing to do, maybe. But right now, for a few hours, he did not want to be a pillar of strength, the savior of Mocorito. All he wanted was to stop thinking, stop worrying, to cease to feel anything.

      When she returned to the bedroom, J.J. paused several feet away from him and cleared her throat. With the second glass of whiskey in his hand, he turned to her.

      “Is there something you want?” he asked.

      “Isn’t that your second drink?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “Do you think you should be drinking so much?”

      “Yes, I think I should.”

      “Miguel…” She took several tentative steps in his direction.

      He held up a restraining hand. “No, do not.”

      “Do not what?”

      “Do not come any closer.”

      At first she didn’t say anything, just stood there and stared at him. Then she turned around and walked over to his bed. His heartbeat accelerated. She turned down the covers. His sex hardened painfully. She reached out and grabbed one of the feather pillows. His mind screamed. Damn, damn, damn!

      “You should go to bed and try to sleep,” she told him as she went to the armoire, opened it and removed a cotton blanket. “But if you would like to talk—”

      “I believe we have already said all there is to say, have we not?” He brought the glass to his lips and downed a sizable amount of whiskey. He coughed, then blew out a hot breath.

      “Miguel, please don’t drink any more.”

      He grinned. “Do you have another remedy that will work better than liquor?”

      She frowned. “On top of all your other problems, if you drink much more, you will wake up with a horrible headache.”

      “I already have a headache,” he told her. “As a matter of fact, I have two headaches.”

      She stared at him, her frown deepening. “I think you’ve already had too much