J.J. woke with a start. Sunlight flooded the room, telling her that it was well past dawn and that she had overslept. Without thinking, she tossed back the cotton blanket and slid to the edge of the chaise lounge as she sat up and stretched.
“Good morning,” Miguel said.
J.J. froze. Oh, God. In her early-morning haze, she had forgotten all about him.
Daring a glance in the direction of his deep voice, which came from the sitting room, she saw him standing in the doorway. Fully clothed in a lightweight charcoal-gray pinstriped suit, pale gray shirt and burgundy tie, he looked like a successful businessman—or a political candidate dressed for success. And here she was, his bodyguard, wearing a flimsy fluff of lavender silk that clung to every curve and bared way too much flesh. Reaching behind her in as nonchalant a way as possible, she felt around on the back of the chaise for her matching robe. It wasn’t there. Damn, it was probably lying on the floor.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Seven-fifteen,” he replied as he walked into the bedroom.
No, don’t, she wanted to shout. Go away. Don’t come any closer. But instead she squared her shoulders and offered him a half-hearted smile.
“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”
He came closer and closer. Her heart caught in her throat. Although she wasn’t naked, she felt as vulnerable as if she were. She had shared a bedroom with a client before, but she’d always slept in more appropriate attire—usually baggy sweat pants and T-shirt. And she’d never had a client who struck every female chord within her.
When Miguel walked past her, she let out a deep breath, but that relieved sigh was short-lived. From the corner of her eye, she saw him bend over and reach down for something, then suddenly he came up behind her and draped her sheer silk robe over her shoulders. When his big hands grazed her naked shoulders, she gasped.
He ran his hands across her shoulders, slowly, sensuously. She shuddered.
“While you dress and prepare yourself for the day, I’ll put away the blanket and return the pillow to my bed,” he told her as he gave her upper arms a gentle squeeze. “We cannot have Ramona or the other girls thinking we have had a lover’s quarrel on your first night here, can we?”
J.J. swallowed. “No, we certainly do not want that.”
She pulled away from him and hurried to the closet. Before closing the door, she peeked back into the bedroom. Miguel folded the blanket and placed it in the intricately carved walnut cabinet on the far side of the room, then he picked up the pillow and tossed it onto his bed.
Stop wasting time staring at the man, she told herself. If he knew he had her rattled, she’d lose the upper hand with him. And that was something she couldn’t allow to happen. Let a man like Miguel—like her father and all macho chauvinists—know they had any kind of hold over you and they would use it against you. She’d learned that the only way to deal with such a man was to show him that not only did he not intimidate her, but that his blatant masculinity had no effect on her whatsoever. Let the airheaded, silly women who needed a big, strong man to lean on feed those men’s huge egos.
After closing the door, J.J. sorted through her choice of clothes. Damn, she had no idea what was on today’s agenda and since she was not officially acting as Miguel’s bodyguard, she could hardly wear her standard outfit of slacks, button-down shirt and jacket. Oh, no, on this assignment, she had to dress as if she were the candidate’s fiancée and she’d have to carry her weapon—which Miguel was supposed to furnish—in a handbag. How inconvenient was that? The extra time it would take her to open the bag and get her hands on the gun could mean the difference between life and death for her or for Miguel.
What insanity! That a man’s ego might cost him his life didn’t make sense to her. That had been one of the things she’d never understood about her father. And no matter how much she had adored him—idolized him, really—she’d been forced to face a hard truth. Rudd Blair was one of those men to whom the birth of a female child was a disappointment.
J.J. cracked the door and peered out into the bedroom. Her gaze settled on Miguel’s wide shoulders. Forcing herself not to do a quick survey, she cleared her throat and called to him.
“What is on today’s agenda? How should I dress?”
Keeping his back to her, he replied, “We will attend a sort of pep rally this morning at the Nationalist headquarters, then I have a television interview at noon, followed by lunch with a group of supporters at the country club. Domingo will go with us for the rally, but then he will return here. This afternoon, I will be followed by a news crew as I tour St. Augustine’s pediatric ward. We will end the day with a dinner held in my honor at the home of one of my most famous and influential supporters, Anton Casimiro. Of course we will return here to change before going to dinner.”
“The Anton Casimiro, the famous opera tenor fromArgentina?”
“Yes, that Anton Casimiro.”
“I had no idea he was living in Mocorito.”
“He keeps a penthouse in downtown Nava,” Miguel told her. “Anton’s mother was born here in Nava and he has cousins in the city.”
“Oh.” Switching gears, returning to her original concerns about how to dress for the day, she asked, “Then will a simple suit be appropriate for today?”
“Yes, I should think that would be quite appropriate.”
J.J. closed the door and rummaged through her clothes, each outfit covered with a protective plastic bag. She had packed shoes and purses in another suitcase and jewelry in a smaller overnight case. The clothes she had chosen for this assignment reflected her mother Lenore’s tastes. Simple elegance. Understated, yet fashionable.
With all the necessary paraphernalia in hand, she trekked back into the bedroom and felt a great sense of relief when she found the room empty. The door to the sitting area was closed, so she assumed Miguel had done the gentlemanly thing and given her some privacy.
She’d taken a shower last night, so a quick sponge bath this morning should suffice. And being blessed with curly hair, which she kept cut fairly short, all she needed to do was brush the curls into place. Although she often didn’t wear any makeup, today she would. Lipstick. Blush. A bit of eye shadow. Just enough, but not too much. Makeup should always look natural, or so her mother had told her numerous times.
Before she stripped, she made sure the door was locked, then she bathed, brushed her teeth and put on her underwear. She hated pantyhose with a passion, so when forced to wear a dress or suit, she preferred wearing a garter belt and stockings. Yesterday she’d worn pantyhose on the flight from Atlanta to Caracas on the Dundee jet and from Caracas to Nava on a commercial flight. After peeling them off and tossing them away, she’d been doubly glad that she’d packed a couple of garter belts and a dozen pair of stockings in various shades to wear for the rest of the time she was in Mocorito.
Although she’d heard that men loved to see women in garter belts and stockings, she had never chosen to perform in that particular attire for any man. She wore them to please herself, not to satisfy some drooling male who treated women as nothing more than sex objects.
Out of the blue, an unwanted image flashed through her mind. Miguel in his pajama bottoms sitting in his bed, his back propped against the elaborately carved headboard, watching her as she removed her clothes, down to her bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. A foreboding shudder rippled up her spine. It would be a cold day in hell before she’d strip for any man, and that included Miguel Ramirez!
“Dr. Esteban, I am not sure what to do.” Juan’s nurse, Carmen, caught him between patients. “Señorita Fernandez insists on seeing you. She is waiting in your private office.”
“When did she arrive?”
“About five minutes ago, Carmen replied. “I told her you were