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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 to drink.”
Bossy American female! If she had no intention of giving him what he really needed, then to hell with her. He didn’t need her. Didn’t want her. Could do just fine without her.
Liar!
In an act of childish defiance, Miguel lifted the liquor bottle and filled the glass to the rim, then he saluted her with the glass and took another hefty swig.
She whirled around and marched over to the chaise lounge, placed the pillow at the top, then lay down and pulled the cotton blanket up to her neck.
Ignore her, he told himself. She has dismissed you completely.
With the glass held tightly in his slightly unsteady hand, Miguel opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The breeze was cooler than usual, a hint of rain in the air. A million and one thoughts raced through his mind, swirling about, tormenting him, driving him mad. He threw the glass over the balcony. Whiskey flew in every direction, some splattering on his naked chest. The glass hit the rocks below and shattered into pieces.
Miguel clutched the wrought-iron railing, then closed his eyes and prayed. He asked for guidance, for the ability to choose the correct path. And he begged for an hour or two of relief. If only he could stop thinking, stop worrying, stop caring so damn much.
He felt her presence behind him before he heard her soft footsteps or smelled the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. Why could she not leave him alone? Did she not know that her presence alone was driving him mad?
Her small hand touched his back. He tensed, every muscle in his body going stiff. As stiff as his sex.
“Miguel?”
He turned and faced her, but before she could say or do anything, he grabbed her, yanked her into his arms and kissed her. His mouth took hers with a hungry passion, the taste of her far sweeter than he had imagined. She neither fought him nor cooperated, but let him ravage her mouth as he ran his hands over her lush body. Then just as he ended the kiss and started to lift his head, she moaned softly and her mouth responded, kissing him back. Eager and greedy. Wild with need.
Chapter 9
J.J.’s bones dissolved into liquid and her body heated to the boiling point as she and Miguel shared a kiss to end all kisses. Fourth of July fireworks. Hurricane waves crashing against the shore. The thunder of her own heartbeat deafened her as electrical shock waves heated her blood. She couldn’t get close enough to him, couldn’t meld her body to his as tightly as she longed to do. Only the intimate joining of lovemaking could come close to uniting them in the way she needed to be part of him.
She had been in love once…or thought she had been. And she’d had great sex…or thought she had. But nothing J.J. had ever experienced came anywhere close to what she was feeling now. She had never known what real, honest-to-goodness yearning was until this very moment. Yearning so powerful that it obliterated everything else, reducing her to a purely emotional creature.
As she kept kissing him, tasting him, devouring him as he was her, she rubbed her hands over his shoulders and back, longing for the feel of his naked flesh beneath her fingertips. Rational thought was slipping away fast. If she didn’t hang on, didn’t force herself immediately to think about what she was doing, she would be lost.
But I want him, an inner voice pleaded. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone.
She couldn’t give herself to him. She could not surrender to the weakness overwhelming her. This wasn’t love. This was lust. Primitive animal magnetism, drawing two young, healthy primates together.
All right, so this was nothing more than uncontrollable passion. What was wrong with that? Just because she’d never had sex with a man she didn’t care for deeply, why couldn’t this be the first time?
J.J. pulled away, ending the ravaging kiss, but Miguel moaned and sought her mouth again, his hands cupping her hips and holding her mound against his erection. Her damp femininity throbbed. Wanting. Needing.
“No, please,” she spoke the words against his demanding mouth. “We can’t. I can’t.”
He kissed her again before easing his lips to her jaw and then down her neck, ending up by burrowing his head against her shoulder. When the tip of his tongue flicked repeatedly against her collarbone, she sighed.
“No, Miguel, this isn’t fair.”
Either not hearing her or completely ignoring her protest, he lowered his head to her left breast. Her entire body tensed with anticipation. His mouth covered the areola through the satin material of her pajama top and sucked until her nipple tightened into a pebble-hard point. While he suckled her greedily, she cupped the back of his head and held him in place at her breast. Spirals of desire spread out from her breasts and connected with the core of her body.
As the last coherent thought floated through her mind—put a stop to this now while you still can—Miguel dropped to his knees in front of her and kissed a damp path from her breast, over her midriff and across her navel. He paused, slid her pajama bottoms down a couple of inches, stuck his tongue into her navel and laved the small, deep indentation.
J.J. unraveled completely when his big hands grasped her hips and eased her pajamas farther down her hips.
Oh, mercy, mercy. She wanted this. Oh, how she wanted it. But she couldn’t let him do it. Could she?
“Miguel?” his name was nothing more than a pleading whisper.
“Yes, querida?” His hands paused in their task.
“We can’t do this. You know we can’t. We met only yesterday. We’re strangers. This is all wrong. You know it is.” There, she had been sensible and called a halt to this madness.
He nuzzled her mound through the thin satin barrier. “If it’s so wrong, why does it feel so right?”
“Because we’re acting and reacting from an adrenaline rush,” she told him, as she caressed the back of his head. “Danger, fear, intense emotions all combined to heighten our senses. Wanting sex to diffuse tension is the most natural thing in the world.”
“I agree.” He kissed her mound. She trembled. “The sex would be good. It would be very good for both of us.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, but—”
He made his way up her body, inch by inch, his hot breath searing her through the satin and his big hands working their way up and over her buttocks. When he rose to his full height, he looked down at her, his golden eyes smoldering.
“You are not a virgin?” he asked.
“No, but that doesn’t mean—”
“You have been with other men, why not with me?”
“I don’t love you. I don’t even know you.”
He cradled her buttocks with his palms and pressed her firmly against his pulsating sex. “What better way to become acquainted than to make love? I promise that you will not be disappointed. I have been told I am an excellent lover.”
“Ah—! What a macho, male, he-man thing to say.” His words had been like a bucket of cold water dumped on her head. She shoved against his chest until he released her. “Just when I was beginning to like you, you have to go and be a…a…a man!”
Miguel chuckled. “Sí, señorita, I am indeed a man. A man who very much wants to make love to you.”
“You want sex,” she told him, avoiding eye contact. “Any woman would do.”
Frowning, his gaze narrowed as he glared at her. “You do not truly believe that, do you? If sex with any woman was all I wanted, there are dozens of women I could have. I could pick up the telephone and make a call and any one of them would come to me now, in the middle of the night. But I do not want any of those women. I want you.”
J.J. stiffened her spine. She believed him. About the dozens of willing women and about him wanting only her. “I’m your bodyguard. My job is to guard you and protect you, to keep you alive during the election campaign. Having sex with you would be unprofessional.”
“What are you so afraid of, Jennifer?” Although he no longer touched her, he caressed her with his seductive gaze.
She swallowed, then looked up at him. “The truth?”
“Yes, the truth.”
“I’m afraid that I’ll become fond of you, that I’ll care for you, and I’ll get my heart broken.”
“Querida.” He held his hand out, as if he intended to touch her.
She moved backward, just out of his reach. “I do not have casual, meaningless affairs. The only relationship you and I have now or will ever have is a farce. I’m your pretend fiancée. And that’s all.”
He dropped his hand to his side. His defeated expression told her that she had finally gotten through to him. “You should go in to bed now,” he told her. “I will stay out here for a while longer.”
“Will you be all right?” That’s it, Jennifer Joy, fawn over the man. Didn’t you just tell him that you weren’t in love with him, that you didn’t care for him except as a client?
He turned his back to her and looked down at the dark garden below, illuminated only by the moonlight. “I will be fine. Go to bed.”
Reluctantly, wondering if she was a fool for rejecting a man she so desperately wanted, J.J. went back into the bedroom. She looked down at the chaise and then over to the huge king-size bed. Images of Miguel and her sharing that bed, the two of them naked, thrashing about, making love, flashed through her mind. She groaned as she lay down and pulled the cotton blanket up over her.
How long would Miguel stay outside? Would she still be awake when he went to bed? She closed her eyes and tried to think of anything other than the tall, dark, handsome man standing alone on the balcony. But despite her best efforts to erase all thoughts of him, he filled her mind. And her own traitorous body reminded her of the pleasure his mouth and hands had given her.
Miguel had made certain that he was showered, shaved and dressed before J.J. awoke. He had been exceptionally quiet, trying to not disturb her. He knew she had spent restless hours tossing and turning on the chaise lounge, just as he had in the massive king-size bed. He had finally fallen asleep sometime shortly before dawn and rested for a couple of hours. When he’d left his bedroom suite, J.J. had been awake, but she’d been pretending to be asleep. He understood that she was as reluctant as he to discuss what had transpired between them in the early hours of this morning.
He would leave things as they were. For now. In the clear light of day, he could think more clearly, more rationally. Having a love affair with his American bodyguard might give him immense physical pleasure, but at what price, not only to him, but to her? Was his life not already complicated enough without adding an ill-fated romance to the mix?
When he entered the dining room, Ramona, who was busy overseeing the dishes being brought into the room by the kitchen help, spoke to him.
“Good morning, Señor Ramirez.” He could tell that she wanted to ask him something, possibly question him about the dinner party last night.
“Have you heard about what happened at Anton Casimiro’s party?” Miguel asked. “About some of his guests having food poisoning?”
