Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love. Beverly Barton

Vic with his pensive glare. “I don’t think I need to answer that question, do I?”

      “Señor Ramirez needs a full-time bodyguard,” Sawyer said. “That’s where the Dundee Agency comes in.”

      J.J. narrowed her gaze as she focused on her boss. “Why doesn’t he already have bodyguards?”

      “Neither the presiding president nor his opponent have bodyguards,” Pierce explained. “In the past, before Mocorito was a democracy, the leader—either a president or a dictator or at one time the king—was always surrounded by a contingent of armed guards. President Padilla refuses to have bodyguards in order to show that he has nothing to fear from his people because they love him so much. Ramirez can hardly surround himself with guards and take the chance that he’ll be perceived as either weak or afraid.”

      “Why send us? Why not U.S. undercover agents?” J.J. asked.

      “We can’t send in any of our people,” Pierce said. “If it ever came out that we were backing Ramirez…well, let’s just say, we don’t want that to happen. And Ramirez has refused a regular bodyguard. The only way he’ll agree to having twenty-four-seven protection is if the bodyguard is female and is willing to pose as his lady friend.”

      J.J.’s mouth gaped open. “Are you saying that I’m supposed to pose as this guy’s latest paramour? Are we talking putting on a show for the public only or are we talking about being loveydovey in private, too?”

      Will Pierce frowned. All eyes turned to Sawyer.

      “Only Señor Ramirez, Mr. Pierce and Ramirez’s two closest confidantes will know the truth,” Sawyer said. “As far as everyone else is concerned—and that includes family, friends, supporters and any servants working in the house—you will be Ramirez’s girlfriend.”

      “His lover, you mean?” J.J. glared at Sawyer.

      “If you aren’t comfortable in that role, then Señor Ramirez might be willing to present you to everyone as his fiancée,” Pierce said.

      “Oh, that makes me feel a whole heap of a lot better.” J.J. bristled at the thought of having to fight off some Latin Romeo with whom she’d be forced to share a bedroom for the next few weeks.

      Dom chuckled. “You can take care of yourself and we all know it. Just lay down some ground rules with this Ramirez guy first thing. If he steps over the line, show him a few of your best moves. You can kick his butt. You’ve proved you’re capable of downing a guy twice your size.”

      “The election is in four-and-a-half weeks,” Pierce said. “Ramirez is the front-runner. We can’t allow anything to go wrong.”

      “While I’m playing kissy-kissy with the future el presidente, where will Dom and Vic be?”

      “Vic will be working undercover to help find out who tried to assassinate Ramirez.” Pierce glanced at Dom. “Mr. Shea will pose as a distant American relative who has come to Mocorito to cheer on his cousin in his bid for the presidency.”

      “Dom will be close by if you need him,” Sawyer told her. “He’ll be living in the same house and his job will be to find out if there’s anyone inside Ramirez’s organization who can’t be trusted.” He pinned her with his imposing glare. “J.J., your sole duty will be to protect Miguel Ramirez. Do whatever you have to do to keep him alive and do it without seeming to do it. You understand?”

      She nodded. “Cling to Ramirez’s arm, bat my eyelashes at him, giggle and smile and act all feminine, but if anyone tries to harm him, stop them without making it obvious that I’m actually a trained bodyguard who just saved the future president’s life.”

      “You’ll fly to Caracas by Dundee jet, then go first class into Nava, the capital city,” Sawyer explained. “Arrangements have already been made for J.J. and Dom to fly together. Vic will go in separately. Dom, you and Vic go home, pack your bags and meet back here by noon.” He turned to J.J. “You go shopping. Buy whatever you need to look totally feminine. Daytime wear, a couple of evening gowns, sportswear and…” Sawyer cleared his throat. “Some negligees, underwear…”

      “Say no more.” J.J. held up her hand in a stop gesture. “I get the idea.”

      “When y’all come back into the office, I’ll brief you, as a group, on what your roles will be. J.J., you and Dom will use your own names. Our government will do whatever is necessary to make sure any inquiries about one or all of you are handled through proper channels.”

      Understanding that they’d just been dismissed, Vic, Dom and J.J. headed for the door. Being the last of the threesome to exit, J.J. paused before leaving and asked, “What’s my budget for this wardrobe I’m supposed to buy during the next few hours?”

      She had asked Sawyer, but it was Will Pierce who answered. “Spend whatever you think is necessary, Ms. Blair. And get whatever you feel you’ll need to adequately do your job.”

      Miguel’s home in Nava had once belonged to his father’s cousin, Count Porfirio Fernandez, an extremely wealthy old man who had died unmarried and childless. Cesar Fernandez had inherited his uncle’s home, various properties throughout Mocorito and his millions. In turn, he had deeded the house to his illegitimate son and set up a trust fund for the child he hadn’t known existed until the boy was thirteen. Cesar had never acknowledged Miguel as his own flesh and blood, not legally or in any public way. He had taken care of him financially and sent him to the best schools, educating him in America, as generations of Fernandez men had been educated. But Miguel and his father had met only twice. The first time had been a brief visit at his father’s office in downtown Nava when Miguel was eighteen and leaving for Harvard. It was an unemotional exchange, with little said except an admonishment from his father to do well in his studies. Then, three years ago, when Cesar lay on his deathbed, Miguel had been called to the old man’s home. It was only then, on the day his father died, that Cesar’s legitimate son and daughter had learned of their half-brother’s existence. And it was only then that Cesar had mentioned Miguel’s mother.

      “Luz Ramirez was a very pretty girl, if I remember correctly,” Cesar had said. “You have her golden-brown eyes, but the rest of you is pure Fernandez.”

      That was the closest his father had come to acknowledging him.

      By anyone’s standards, Miguel was wealthy, but although he lived in this beautiful old home and used his trust fund for the upkeep and to pay the servants required to maintain the house and grounds, he had left the bulk of his fortune untouched. Occasionally he used the money to help others, whenever he saw a desperate need. Since returning to Mocorito after law school, he had worked tirelessly for the poor and downtrodden in his country, providing the general public with legal assistance, something few citizens could afford under Hector Padilla’s reign.

      Often he felt guilty for living so well, surrounded by luxury, here in this magnificent old home, but, God help him, since moving in eight years ago, he had grown to love every square foot of the palatial two-story mansion. This was a home meant to be shared with a wife and filled with the laughter of many children. He intended to marry someday, had hoped that by now he would have met the perfect woman, a lady who would not only love him, but love his dream for Mocorito’s future.

      Perhaps the lady with whom he planned to dine tonight would turn out to be that person. Emilio’s wife, Dolores, was hosting a small, intimate dinner party for six, here in Miguel’s home. After yesterday’s assassination attempt, Dolores had suggested canceling the dinner, but Miguel had insisted that they proceed as planned. So, Emilio, Dolores and Roberto, as well as Miguel’s old and dear friend, Dr. Juan Esteban, and the lovely Zita Fuentes were due to arrive at any moment.

      He had met Zita at a political rally several weeks ago, where she had pledged her support to his campaign. Since Zita was a wealthy widow, her support meant more than lip service. She had made a sizable donation that had helped pay for the television ads running day and night now that the election was a little over a month away. Zita was the type of woman who would make a traditional first lady: cultured, demure and subservient