“Six of one, half a dozen of the other.” Dom, a former navy SEAL, knew as well as J.J. and Daisy that a good percentage of the Dundee staff, past and present, had come from various government agencies.
“A new agent?” J.J. looked at Daisy.
Ms. Efficiency shook her head. “We’re fully staffed at present and not looking to hire, unless Mr. Dundee decides he wants to expand the business.”
“Any chance of that happening?” Dom asked.
“How would I know?” Daisy smiled coquettishly, deepening the cheek dimples in her heart-shaped face.
Dom leaned his six-three frame over the office manager’s desk. “Because, Daisy, my darling, you know everything there is to know around here. Don’t you realize we’re all aware of that fact that you’re the one who really runs the DundeeAgency and not Sawyer.”
Daisy giggled. “That silver tongue of yours must come from a combination of Latin charm and Irish blarney.”
Before Dom got a chance for a response, Sawyer’s office door flew open and Lucie Evans stormed out, tromped through Ms. Davidson’s office and came barreling down the hall, hellfire in her smoky brown eyes.
“That man infuriates me!” Lucie paused at Daisy’s cubicle.
“Like that’s a news flash,” Dom said under his breath.
“What’s he done now?” Daisy asked sympathetically.
Lucie took a deep breath, then let it out with a loud, exasperated whoosh. “Nothing he hasn’t done before and nothing he won’t do again. He’s questioning a twenty-dollar charge on my expense account. It’s ridiculous and I told him so. I’m sick and tired of this crap. I have half a mind to quit.”
Dom laughed. “Now, Lucie, you and I both know that you are not going to quit, because that’s exactly what Sawyer wants you to do and you’d walk over hot coals to keep from letting him have his way, now wouldn’t you?”
Lucie huffed. “Yes, you’re right. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of quitting.”
“Besides, you enjoy making his life miserable far too much to quit and leave the man in peace,” Daisy added.
Lucie smiled, glanced at her friends, and then laughed.
Vic Noble joined the others. “Did I just miss a good joke?” he asked.
Lucie leaned over and kissed Vic on the cheek. “Why can’t Sawyer be a sweetheart like you?”
Vic chuckled quietly. “You two been at it again, huh?”
“Considering you’re ex-CIA, you wouldn’t happen to know a discreet assassin I could hire to eliminate a certain pain in the ass, would you?”
“You don’t want Sawyer dead,” Vic told her. “You’d miss tormenting the man far too much.”
A roar of good-natured laughter rose up inside and around Daisy’s cubicle.
The laughter died the minute a deep, authoritarian voice called loudly from down the hall. “Dom. J.J. Vic.” Standing outside his current secretary’s office—the boss went through secretaries on the average of two a year—Sawyer McNamara motioned for them with a commanding flick of his big hand. Dressed to the nines like a model out of GQ, he looked like a wealthy businessman. But those who knew him well understood that beneath that handsome, stylish facade beat the heart of a deadly warrior.
“The master calls,” Lucie said. “You’d better run or he’ll threaten to send y’all to obedience school, along with me.”
Everyone chuckled, but quickly left Lucie with Daisy and headed down the hall toward the boss’s office. Once the three of them were inside, Sawyer closed the door and made introductions
“Will, these are the three agents I’ve chosen for the job,” Sawyer told their visitor. “Vic Noble is a former CIA contract agent.” Vic nodded. “Dom Shea is a former navy SEAL.” Dom smiled. “And this is J.J. Blair. She’s an expert marksman and is proficient in the martial arts. Dom and J.J. both speak Spanish like natives.”
Mr. Pierce studied the threesome for a full minute, then nodded. “I’m Will Pierce, with the CIA.” His gaze met with Vic’s for a split second. “You may or may not know that yesterday afternoon, someone tried to assassinate Miguel Cesar Ramirez, the Nationalist Party candidate for president of Mocorito. Unofficially, the United States government wants to see Ramirez elected. He’s a new breed of Mocoritian. A man of the people, but educated in the U.S. He graduated from Harvard Law School and has numerous American friends.”
“Our interest in this election wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Mocorito is in possession of more oil than any other country in the western hemisphere, would it?” Vic asked.
Will pinned 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 to her husband’s wishes. Having been married very young to a millionaire industrialist, she had been trained to be the perfect wife for a professional.
He couldn’t say that it had been love at first sight for him, but he had been quite attracted to the lady. Black-eyed and auburnhaired, the tall, slender Zita possessed an appealing air of elegance and sophistication. However, now that the U.S. government had arranged to send him a female bodyguard who would pose as his girlfriend, he could hardly begin courting Zita Fuentes. But after the election was over, and his fake relationship with the Dundee agent had ended, he would initiate his plan to woo the alluring widow. He only hoped that making his affair with another woman so public wouldn’t ruin his chances with Zita.
“Miguel,” a sweet, feminine voice called his name from the open French doors leading from the house to the patio where Miguel stood enjoying the serenity of the enclosed garden.
He smiled and turned to greet a very pregnant Dolores Lopez, his second cousin, who was as dear to him as any sister could be. “You look lovely tonight.”
She tsked-tsked and shook her head. “You are wonderful to lie to me. I know I look more and more like a hippopotamus every day.”
Emilio, only a few inches taller than his five-six wife, came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist. He patted her protruding belly. “But you are my little hippopotamus and the prettiest mother-to-be in the world.”
She turned and kissed her husband on the cheek, then focused on Miguel. “We are the first to arrive, are we not? I would not want to neglect my duties as your hostess. But you really should have a wife, Miguel. When you are elected president, you will need a first lady.”
“I believe Miguel can handle his own love life,” Emilio said, always eager to defend the man who had been his best friend since the two were boys.
“I’m not so sure of that.” Dolores walked over and kissed Miguel on both cheeks. “He is thirty-five and still unmarried.”
Miguel slipped his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and hugged her to his side. “I promise you that as soon as this election is over, I will get down to the serious business of finding myself a wife.”
“A wife for you and a first lady for Mocorito,” a gruff male voice called from behind them.
All three acknowledged Miguel’s good friend, RobertoAznar, who joined them on the patio. Roberto, a staunch Nationalist, was Miguel’s campaign fund-raiser, and Emilio was the campaign manager, overseeing every detail of their quest to win the election.
“I will leave you men to talk politics,” Dolores said. “I need to speak to Ramona to make sure dinner will be ready at precisely seven-thirty.” As she headed toward the open French doors, she asked Miguel, “Did the florist deliver the arrangements I ordered?”
“Yes, yes,” Miguel replied. “The flowers are perfect, the dinner table is perfect and we all know that Ramona’s meal will also be perfect.”
“But of course,” Dolores said. “However, I simply must see to everything myself.”
Once Dolores disappeared inside the house, Emilio spoke quietly, as if he were afraid his wife would overhear. “I do not like keeping secrets from Dolores. This business of an American bodyguard posing as your lady friend is something we should tell my wife. Otherwise, she’ll worry herself sick that you’re involved with some American floozy.”
“The fewer people who know, the better,” Roberto said. “I am very fond of Dolores, but you know as well as I do that she cannot keep a
secret. If we tell her, we might as well tell the world and that would defeat the purpose of having a female bodyguard in the first place.”
Miguel clamped his hand down on Emilio’s shoulder. “In this case, Roberto is right. As much as I love Dolores, I can’t trust her with this information. It would be bad enough if the public were to discover I had a bodyguard, but think how the voters would react to learn that I have a woman guarding me.”
“I know, I know,” Miguel replied. “But once this woman from the Dundee Agency shows up, Dolores will make it her business to become acquainted with her. She guards your back like a fierce mama tiger.”
Dom and J.J. took a taxi from the airport to Miguel Ramirez’s home in the oldest and one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Nava. Huge brick and stucco mansions lay behind iron gates, every impressive structure and sprawling lawn well-maintained. Only the very rich and powerful could afford to live here.
“I thought this Ramirez guy came from humble beginnings,” J.J. whispered to Dom, speaking quietly on the off chance the cabdriver understood English. “These are rich folks’ homes.”
“He inherited the place from a relative,” Dom said. “Didn’t you read the bio on Ramirez that Daisy gave you?”
“I didn’t have time to do more than skim it before we left. It took me four hours of intensive shopping to find a suitable wardrobe for this assignment.” She adjusted the neckline on the simple beige crepe-knit dress she’d worn on the plane. “I must have missed the part about him living in a palace.”
The cabby turned off the street onto a brick driveway that led to a breathtaking two-story, white stucco house, with a red-tiled roof and a veranda that appeared to span the circumference of the mansion.
Speaking in Spanish, the cabby said, “Is Señor Ramirez expecting you? If not, you will not be able to get in to see him without passing inspection.”
“Miguel is my cousin,” Dom replied. “I live in Miami and when he was visiting there this past spring, he invited me to come for a visit.”
Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love Page 2
