Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love: Ramirez's Woman / Her Royal Bodyguard / Protecting the Princess

“Only our blessed Father in Heaven can help them now,” Roberto said. “They are both dead.”

Crossing himself, Miguel whispered a hasty, heartfelt prayer.

“We must go. Now!” Emilio grabbed Miguel’s arm.

Knowing at this point that his best course of action was to take cover and wait for the police, he allowed his friends to guard him as they crossed the square to reach the big black limousine waiting for them.

Carlos hopped out and opened the back door. “Are you all right, Señor Ramirez?” the chauffeur asked, true concern evident in his voice and his facial expressions.

Miguel patted him on the back. “I am fine, Carlos.”

Once inside the limo, Emilio said, “The Federalists were behind this assassination attempt. I would stake my life on it. There is no other explanation.”

“We cannot make accusations without proof,” Roberto cautioned. “If it was the Federalists, then we will find the proof and tell the people. But it could have been a disgruntled citizen, someone out to kill a politician.”

Shaken and angry, Miguel agreed with his two best friends. “Emilio is right. I believe the Federalists sent someone to kill me because they fear that Hector Padilla cannot win reelection. But, you, too, are right, Roberto. We cannot make accusations without proof.”

“From now on, you must have a bodyguard with you at all times,” Emilio said. “I tried to tell you from the very beginning that you would not be safe without protection.”

“How can I parade around with a bodyguard at my side when my opponent has never resorted to using armed men to protect him?” Miguel balked at the thought of showing any weakness. “Padilla has made a point of telling the people that under his leadership, the president has no need for bodyguards as El Presidente of old had, back in the days when the government leadership changed at the drop of a hat and dictators and presidents alike were murdered on a regular basis.”

“Miguel is right. He can show no sign of weakness. The Federalists would use it against him,” Roberto said. “We must find another way to protect him, one that does not require a bodyguard.”

“By not taking heed, you will not only put Miguel’s life at risk, but jeopardize our party’s chance to take power. We will lose the opportunity for a representative of the people to govern this country.” Emilio glowered at Roberto.

“Do not argue, my friends,” Miguel said. “I believe I know a solution to our problem.”

Both men turned to Miguel, their expressions questioning.

“I was lucky today, but I may not be so lucky a second time. Two good men were killed because they were with me. I cannot show weakness by hiring an armed bodyguard, some burly man who will remind the people of the past. But if a beautiful young woman were in my company, day and night, no one would suspect her of being my protector. They would simply say how fortunate Miguel is to have such a lovely companion. If necessary, we can even pass her off as my fiancée, so as not to upset the female voters.”

“Are you suggesting we hire a female bodyguard?” Roberto asked.

“That is a brilliant idea,” Emilio said.

“There are no female bodyguards in Mocorito.” Roberto threw up his hands in exasperation.

“But I am quite certain that there are female bodyguards in America,” Miguel told them. “We will simply contact Will Pierce and ask him to arrange for one to be brought here as soon as possible.”

“The CIA cannot send one of their agents here,” Roberto said. “The Americans must appear to have no interest in this election. If they provide you with a—”

“I am sure Will can arrange something through an independent agency.” Miguel narrowed his gaze thoughtfully. “I will suggest he find me a tall, elegant blonde. Everyone knows that I have a weakness for blondes.”

Chapter 1

J. J. Blair zipped in and out of Atlanta traffic on her glacier-white Harley, loving the feel of riding the big, roaring brute. For a woman who was five-two and weighed a hundred and seven pounds soaking wet, the FXD/FXDI Super Glide Custom was big, even though it was actually one of the smaller motorcycles that Harley Davidson built. However, it fit her and her needs to perfection. She never felt more herself, more free and in control than when astride her customized hog. It had taken her three years to put aside enough money to pay cash for this sweet baby—a cool fifteen thousand, once she added all the extras. Two months ago, after purchasing her dream machine, she’d sold her old reliable FXR, the bike she’d bought used six years ago when she’d run away from her old life in Mobile, Alabama.

Having worked off her last case for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency only four days ago, she had thought she might have a full week to kick back and relax. But Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, had phoned her late yesterday evening to inform her that their boss, Sawyer McNamara, needed her to show up for a meeting first thing in the morning.

All Daisy had said was, “The job is in Mocorito, so I figure since you and Dom speak Spanish fluently, you two will be assigned to this case.”

“Know any details?” J.J. had asked.

“Nope.”

J.J. did speak Spanish fluently, as well as French and some Italian. She also knew a little German, Japanese and Russian, but not enough to do more than order a meal or ask where the restroom was. Her father, Rudd Blair, had been a career soldier, so, as a kid, she’d lived all over, at least until her parents had divorced when she was eleven. Her teachers had been amazed at how adept she’d been at picking up foreign languages. But her mother Lenora had said fiddlesticks, her people, the Ashfords of Mobile, were all brilliant and Jennifer Joy was half Ashford, wasn’t she?

As J.J. drove into the underground garage of the building that housed the Dundee Agency, which leased the entire sixth floor, she tried to remember what she knew about Mocorito.

Mocorito was a small island nation off the coast of South America, the population a mixture of races, but the strong Spanish influence of the earliest settlers dominated the country. Okay, so she remembered that much from either high school social studies or from having read something more recently. She wasn’t sure which. One thing for sure—her father had never been stationed there.

After removing her shiny purple helmet and shaking loose her black curls, she unzipped her purple leather jacket and headed for the bank of elevators.

Hadn’t she heard something on the ten o’clock news last night about Mocorito? She’d been in the kitchen making herself a cup of hot cocoa while the news was on and had returned to the living room just in time to catch the last snippets of the story. The presidential election was coming up in a few weeks and somebody had taken a potshot at one of the candidates. Yeah, that’s what it was. Some guy named Romero or Rodriguez. No, no. Ramirez. That was it.

As the elevator zoomed upward, J.J. groaned. Surely that incident didn’t have anything to do with this new Dundee assignment. After all, why would a South American presidential candidate hire a security firm based in the U.S.?

When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor, J.J. exited straight into the heart of the Dundee Agency, where she had been employed for the past three years. After leaving Mobile over six years ago, she’d traveled around the country on her FXR for a couple of years, picking up odd jobs here and there and trying to figure out who she was and what she wanted to do when she grew up. Then four years ago she’d wound up in Atlanta. Back in the South. But not the South in which her mother had been reared as one of the privileged Ashfords of Mobile, with hot and cold running servants, membership in all the exclusive clubs and an air of snobbery acquired over generations. No, Atlanta was part of the new South, having shed the past like a snake shedding dead skin.

She had worked for nearly a year at a local martial arts studio, where she’d finally acquired her black belt. Although she’d enjoyed that job, it hadn’t been challenging enough for her. When she’d met an Amazonian redhead in a coffee shop near her apartment and discovered that the lady—Lucie Evans—worked for a private security and investigation agency based in Atlanta, she’d made inquiries about employment. Lucie had set up an interview for her the very next week, and, as luck would have it, one of their agents had just resigned.

J.J. had taken to the world of private security like a duck to water. Being trained in the martial arts and having served in the army as a second lieutenant after graduation from college had helped her zip through the six-week training course that Dundee required. Being one of only three women agents at Dundee, she had expected some ribbing, maybe even harassment from the men, but what she’d gotten was acceptance and camaraderie. Even the CEO, Sawyer McNamara, had told her that her looks were deceiving, that she had shown everyone during her training sessions that she was more than qualified for the job despite being a petite bombshell. Sawyer’s comment had come shortly after she’d equaled his impressive shooting on the firing range. Her father had taught her how to use a gun when she was twelve and over the years, she had practiced relentlessly to perfect her skills.

Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, also known as Ms. Efficiency, glanced up from her desk located in a glass cubicle in the center hub of the office complex and smiled at J.J.

“Morning,” Daisy said. “Love the purple jacket. Is it new?”

J.J. did a feminine twirl. “I splurged on this and a pair of boots to match.” She lifted her jean-clad leg high enough for Daisy, who leaned over her desk, to see the supple leather boots.

“Don’t you look good enough to eat,” a deep masculine voice commented. “Like a delicious purple grape.”

Laughing, both J.J. and Daisy turned to face Domingo Shea, Dundee’s Latin lover. Some women might take his remark as a sexist comment, but J.J. knew Dom well enough to take what he’d said as the compliment he’d meant it to be. Dom and she were friends, comrades-in-arms and drinking buddies who often played cards with several other agents on a fairly regular basis.

“Well, good morning to you, too, Mr. Tall, Dark and Politically Incorrect.” J.J. grinned at the drop-dead-gorgeous Texas heartthrob. Dom was one of those men who took your breath away because he was so good-looking. Jet-black hair that he’d been wearing a bit long and shaggy lately only added to his macho appeal. And when he gazed at a woman with those sharp black eyes, more often than not she melted into a puddle at his feet. Then there was that body. God almighty, what a bod. Six-three, muscular and lean.

“Are you here for the meeting this morning?” Dom asked.

J.J. nodded.

“Vic’s coming in, too, for the same meeting,” Daisy told them. “It seems he knows people in Mocorito from back in his spook days.”

J.J. glanced at the clock on the wall behind Daisy’s desk. “We’re a little early. Is Sawyer here yet?”

“He’s in his office with the door closed,” Dom said. “He’s holed up in there with Lucie. Some little disagreement concerning her expense account on her last assignment.”

J.J. groaned. “There’s no such thing as a little disagreement between Lucie and Sawyer.”

“No, with those two, it’s always all-out warfare.” Dom glanced down the hall toward the CEO’s office, which was behind the glass-enclosed office of his private secretary. “Who’s the guy sitting there in Ms. Davidson’s office? Somebody waiting for Sawyer?”