J.J. let out a relieved sigh. “Then you don’t trust her anymore than I do, do you?”
“No, I do not trust her. She is trying much too hard to insinuate herself into my life. Of course, it is possible that she finds me so irresistible that—”
J.J. playfully poked Miguel in the ribs with her elbow.
“What?” he asked guilelessly. “You doubt that a woman could find me irresistible?”
“Oh, no, I don’t doubt it for a moment. You can be charming and attentive and make a woman feel as if she’s the only woman in the world. In a moment of utter weakness, she just might find you completely irresistible.”
Leaning close—too close—his nose grazing her cheek, he whispered, “If only you were that woman, querida.”
While her heart beat ninety-to-nothing and tingling warmth spread up her neck to flush her cheeks, J.J. struggled to think of just the right response. But she was saved by Roberto and Zita’s appearance.
“Would you mind terribly if we left early?” Roberto asked.
“No, of course not,” Miguel replied. “Is everything all right?”
Zita Fuentes slipped her arm around Roberto’s waist. “Everything is perfectly fine. But I have a slight headache and Roberto has kindly offered to take me home.”
Yeah, right, she had a headache. Surely Miguel didn’t buy that old excuse. It was obvious that these two wanted to go somewhere to be alone. Although they weren’t making a public spectacle of themselves, it was apparent they could barely keep their hands off each other.
“Wait here,” Roberto said to his date. “I’ll get your purse and wrap and then we’ll leave.”
J.J. wondered if she should say something to Zita, something to soothe the awkward moment. After all, Miguel had to realize that one of his best friends was going to take this woman home and make love to her. If Miguel had feelings for Zita or she for him, one or both of them must be slightly embarrassed and perhaps even upset.
“I was surprised that Señor Casimiro has a jazz ensemble here tonight.” J.J. said the first thing that popped into her head. The cool jazz number the group was playing right now had caught her attention. The alto sax moaned the melody of “The Good Life” as the piano, bass and drums played softly in the background.
“Anton loves jazz,” Miguel replied. “He plays the piano and sometimes sits in with the group. He has very eclectic tastes in almost everything, especially in music.”
Suddenly Zita’s gaze zeroed in on J.J.’s left hand. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened into a perfect oval of surprise. “Your ring is lovely.” She looked at Miguel. “You chose it for her, of course.”
“Of course.” Miguel looked like a man who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
“I don’t know what is keeping Roberto.” Zita glanced around the room, avoiding direct eye contact with either Miguel or J.J.
Poor woman, J.J. thought. She’s in love with Miguel and it’s breaking her heart seeing him engaged to someone else. But the question that plagued J.J. was—did Miguel love Zita? If he did, wouldn’t he have shared the truth with her, that his engagement to J.J. was not real?
“It appears he has been waylaid by someone near the buffet table,” Miguel said. “If you’d like, I can go rescue him.”
When Miguel turned, intending to go toward the buffet table, J.J. clasped his arm, momentarily halting him. He gave her a puzzled glance, then sighed and nodded when he apparently remembered her cautioning him not to leave her side this evening.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Zita said. “I will go and wait for him in the foyer, away from all this noise.” She rubbed her right temple. “I am afraid my headache has become worse.”
“I’m so sorry,” Miguel said sincerely.
“Perhaps Señor Casimiro has some aspirin or—” J.J. offered.
“I’ll be all right, thank you.” Zita all but ran away from them.
J.J. glared at Miguel.
“Why are you looking at me as if I were an ax murderer?” Miguel asked.
“Just how involved are you with Señora Fuentes?”
“Lower your voice, please. We don’t want anyone overhearing you. You sound very much like a jealous woman.”
J.J. huffed. She was not jealous. She had simply asked a logical question. “It’s obvious the lady is upset that you’re engaged,” J.J. said quietly. “I think I have a right to know—”
“Zita and I are not lovers,” Miguel said. “We have not even dated.”
“But?”
“But I had given some thought to courting her and I believe she found the idea quite agreeable.”
“Are you in love with her?” Oh, God! She couldn’t believe she’d asked him that.
Grasping her around the waist, he pulled her close and whispered, “Retract your claws, little she-cat.Your jealousy is showing.”
J.J. gasped aloud, which made Miguel laugh. Several people near them turned to see what was going on.
Miguel shrugged and laughed again as he faced those inquisitive stares. “I am afraid I said something that caught my fiancée off guard and embarrassed her. You know how young ladies can be when we men are too blunt-spoken.”
The devil! The charming, smooth-talking devil.
Forcing herself to smile at the onlookers, she didn’t withdraw when Miguel led her toward the balcony, where several other couples were dancing or gazing up at the moon. She balked when they reached the double set of open French doors.
“You might consider the possibility that I’ll be tempted to toss you over the balcony railing if we go out there,” J.J. said for his ears only.
“I will take my chances. I very much want to hold you in my arms right now. Besides, if we don’t dance at least one dance, everyone will wonder why not.”
“I’m hungry,” she said. “Why don’t we eat first, then dance?”
As if she hadn’t spoken, he led her out onto the balcony and pulled her into his arms. “First we dance. We can eat later.”
“Of course, querido. Whatever you say. After all, you’re my lord and master and I would never want to do anything to displease you,” J.J. told him in English, a phony smile plastered on her face.
“Quite a few people in Mocorito speak English. We wouldn’t want anyone here tonight to realize you were speaking to me in such a sarcastic manner.”
J.J. kept quiet as Miguel led her into the dance. She didn’t protest when he pulled her so close that her breasts pressed against his chest. Being this close to him was hypnotic. Like all his other attributes, Miguel’s dancing was flawless. As the music wove itself around them and their bodies moved slowly and rhythmically under the starry, tropical sky, it was all J.J. could do to keep her wits about her. This was like a scene from some old forties movie—an American heiress being wooed by a South American playboy. Only Miguel wasn’t actually a playboy and although she would someday inherit several Ashford millions, she wasn’t a true heiress, not in the traditional sense.
When one tune ended, another began almost immediately, which probably explained why Miguel didn’t release her. The moment the music started again, a bluesy rendition of “You Don’t Know What Love Is,” he reached down and tilted her chin with his crooked index finger. Standing there in his arms, she looked up at