Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  “Why don’t we cut this dance short?” J.J. suggested. “I really am starving and that boiled shrimp looked delicious.”

  He eased her out of his arms, but grabbed her hand when she started to walk away. She paused and fell into step beside him as they left the balcony.

  “You may have my share of the shrimp and cocktail sauce,” Miguel told her. “I do not like shrimp. I made myself sick on shrimp as a teenager and have avoided eating it ever since.”

  “I did that with popcorn when I was a kid and I was twenty before I could stand the smell of the stuff.”

  Miguel squeezed her hand as they entered the buffet line of half a dozen people. “You realize that we are sharing confidences, stories of our childhoods.” He smiled. “It is what lovers do to become better acquainted.”

  “We are—” She’d been about to say, “we are not lovers,” but he squeezed her hand really hard, warning her to be careful what she said. “We are becoming better acquainted every minute we’re together.”

  Miguel lifted a plate and handed it to J.J., then picked up one for himself. The people ahead of them in line offered to let them prepare their plates first, but she and Miguel declined simultaneously.

  Then, just as J.J. reached out to the platter of boiled shrimp, someone called out loudly, “Do not eat anything else! Five people have become very sick in the past few minutes.”

  J.J. froze to the spot for a half second, then she stood on tiptoe so that she could discern the identity of the speaker. Dr. Juan Esteban made his way through the shocked crowd, coming directly toward them. She scanned the room, searching for Dom. Standing head and shoulders above three-fourths of the men and women there, he was easy to spot. Her gaze locked with Dom’s and a silent understanding passed between them. What if someone poisoned the food?

  “I have called for an ambulance,” Dr. Esteban told Miguel. “Five people have become deathly sick—vomiting and diarrhea—in the past few minutes. One of the ladies has fainted.”

  “Could it be food poisoning?” Miguel asked.

  “That would be my first guess. Have you eaten anything? You or Señorita Blair?”

  “No, we haven’t eaten a bite.” J.J. put her plate down on the buffet table, then grabbed Miguel’s plate and put it atop hers.

  “I must go with those who are sick to the hospital. There could be others,” Juan said. “In case there are, I will send another ambulance to be on standby.”

  “What is wrong?” Anton Casimiro approached them, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead and creasing his plump cheeks.

  “We fear food poisoning,” Miguel said. “Several people have become violently ill.”

  “That cannot be!” Anton’s round face turned beet-red. “I have used these caterers before and never has anything like this happened.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Miguel assured his friend.

  “It is probably only one dish,” Juan said. “Otherwise everyone who has eaten would be ill and everyone is not.”

  “All the food should be left right where it is,” J.J. told them. “Each dish will have to be analyzed to find out which one was either spoiled or tampered with on purpose.”

  Anton’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you suggesting someone deliberately poisoned a specific dish? Whatever would make you think such a thing, señorita?”

  “Jennifer is a great fan of murder-mystery novels,” Miguel hurried to explain.

  “Murder?” Anton gasped.

  Off in the distance the sound of sirens shrilled loud and clear.

  “The ambulance should arrive any moment.” Juan turned and rushed back into the bedroom to see about his patients.

  “I believe it might be a good idea to explain to everyone what has happened,” Dom Shea said as he came up beside Miguel. “If we could figure out which dish is the culprit, we could narrow down those who might yet become ill.”

  “I will make an announcement,” Anton said. “This is my home, my party…”

  While Anton spoke to his guests, Dom asked Miguel, “Do you have a favorite food?”

  “What?”

  “Did your host ask about a favorite food he could provide for you tonight?”

  “No.” Miguel shook his head.

  “Would he or the caterers, or anyone for that matter, know you would be sure to eat one thing in particular tonight?”

  “I can think of nothing. I enjoy a wide variety of food, but there is nothing on the buffet table tonight that is a particular favorite.”

  “But there is something that is not a favorite,” J.J. said. “How many people know you hate shrimp and won’t touch a bite of it?”

  “What?” Miguel and Dom asked.

  “If you were not the target—”

  Dom cursed under his breath. “It makes sense, after the other two incidents today.”

  “What are you talking about? How does not poisoning me, but poisoning others make sense?” By the time the words were out of his mouth, realization dawned on Miguel. “Mother of God! They are striking out at my friends and supporters, at the very people I would do anything to protect.”

  “They’re showing you how vulnerable your people are,” Dom said.

  “If you won’t withdraw from the presidential race out of fear for your own life, then perhaps you will do it to protect others,” J.J. told Miguel.

  “Before we run with this theory and know for sure that’s what’s going on, we need to have the shrimp and the cocktail sauce tested,” Dom said. “Tonight, if possible. I’ll make a phone call and have someone come and pick up the remaining shrimp and sauce.”

  Miguel nodded. “I should go to the hospital and check on those who were stricken. If any one of them were to die…To put myself in danger is one thing, but to put others in danger…”

  “This isn’t your fault,” J.J. told him. “Stop beating yourself up about it. And whatever you do, don’t make any decisions about your candidacy tonight. If you think your supporters would want you to withdraw from the race to protect them, then you aren’t thinking straight.”

  “You two go on to the hospital and find out how seriously ill the poison victims are,” Dom said. “My guess is that the intent was not to kill anyone, only to make quite a few people sick. Enough to send a warning message.”

  J.J. hated the pained expression on Miguel’s face. This was a man who cared for others, cared deeply. Right now, he was feeling guilty, taking the blame for what had happened upon himself. She couldn’t let him do that. She wasn’t sure why it was so important to her to support and encourage Miguel, but it was.

  She slipped her arm through his. “I’ll call down and have Carlos bring the car around, then we’ll go straight to St. Augustine’s. And once we find out that everyone is going to be all right, I’m taking you straight home.” She turned to Dom. “You’ll stay here and guard the food, especially the shrimp and sauce, until the proper person takes samples of everything.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dom grinned.

  “She is rather bossy, is she not?” Miguel said, then looked at J.J. appreciatively. “It is good for a man to have a fiancée who can take care of him when the situation calls for it. Feel free, querida, to continue issuing me orders tonight. I believe you know better than I do what is best for me.”

  Moisture glistened in J.J.’s eyes. Damn him! He’d done it again. Said just the right thing to touch her heart and make her want to wrap her arms around him.

  Chapter 8

  J.J. and Miguel waited at the hospital for news about the people who had taken ill at Anton’s dinner party. When all was said and done there were fifteen altogether. Eight men and seven women. Within an hour after she and Miguel arrived at the hospital, both Emilio and Roberto appeared. Dom had telephoned Emilio and he in turn had contacted Roberto. The two men had approached Miguel with different opinions on what he should do and how he should handle the situation.

  “You must make a statement to the press immediately,” Roberto had said.

 
“No, no, that is the wrong thing to do,” Emilio had told them. “Wait until Juan tells us what the situation is, if anyone has died or if everyone will survive.”

  “You must make it clear to the people of Mocorito tonight that you will not be intimidated, that nothing can convince you to remove yourself from the presidential race.” Roberto had glowered at Emilio, as if daring Emilio to contradict him.

  Without blinking an eye, Emilio had shot back, “He cannot do that. It would send the wrong message. What if the people believe Miguel is not concerned for the welfare of those closest to him, that he is willing to risk other people’s lives?”

  While the two had argued, J.J. had persuaded Miguel to walk to the chapel with her. She supposed that eventually Roberto and Emilio would realize Miguel wasn’t still there listening to them squabble, but she really didn’t care. All that mattered right now was helping Miguel, doing whatever she could to relieve the stress he felt and ease the guilt eating away at him.

  Though the small hospital chapel was devoid of the niceties of a real church, the small statue of the Madonna on one side of the altar and the large painting of Jesus on the cross hanging behind the altar gave the sparsely decorated room a spiritual feel. She wasn’t Catholic, but she had attended services several times with various Catholic friends. She had been raised a Protestant, her father Baptist, her mother Presbyterian. It had always seemed to her that there was something profoundly reverent about a church, no matter what the denomination.

  She sat beside Miguel on the first bench in a single row of six wooden benches. After he had lit candles for Juan’s patients, he had taken a seat and closed his eyes. J.J. knew he was praying and that fact touched her deeply. After quite some time, she reached over and clasped his hand. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “What would you do?” he asked.

  “What would I do if I were you? Is that what you are asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would wait. I would not make any hasty decisions. We don’t have all the facts.”

  “And if the worst happens, if someone dies and we know for certain someone poisoned the shrimp or the sauce?” He took a deep breath, then released it slowly.

  “If our worst fears are confirmed, then you must decide what you are most afraid of on a personal level—of innocent people being killed or of the Federalist Party maintaining power and slowing the progress of Mocorito, possibly even taking your country back in time instead of forward.”

  “The many or the few,” he said sadly. “You do not mince words, do you, Jennifer?”

  “One of my many faults,” she admitted, then said in English, “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

  He frowned. “Do I have the right to sacrifice others for a cause I believe in with my whole heart?”

  It was a difficult question. One to which she had no answer. What would she do, if she were in Miguel’s shoes? What if a family member’s life or the life of a friend hung in the balance, and she alone had the power to decide their fate?

  “You can give the people the right to choose for themselves.” She paused, then looked him right in the eye. “I would definitely wait until I had all the facts, then if what we suspect is true, I would take this information to the people it concerns the most. Put their fate in their own hands. Speak with your family, closest friends and most avid supporters first and ask them what they want you to do. Then, if and when circumstances warrant it, go directly to the people in a radio or television broadcast.”

  The corners of his lips lifted in a half-hearted smile. “You are a very wise woman for one so young.”

  “Thank you.” Everything in her longed to comfort Miguel. It was all she could do to stop herself from wrapping her arms around him and telling him she would make everything all right for him.

  When the closed chapel door opened, J.J. shifted in her seat so she could glance over her shoulder. She nudged Miguel. “It’s Dr. Esteban.”

  Miguel shot to his feet, still clasping her hand and inadvertently dragging her up with him. “Please, tell me you have good news.”

  “I have good news,” Juan said. “Several of the patients are severely dehydrated and they will all be sore from the retching, but it appears all fifteen will recover completely. Probably by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank God.” Miguel grabbed J.J. and hugged her fiercely.

  She threw her arms around his neck and laughed when he lifted her off her feet.

  “Take him home, Señorita Blair,” Juan said. “See to it that he gets a good night’s rest.”

  “Yes, thank you, doctor, I’ll do just that.”

  Juan nodded. “I must return to my patients.”

  “I will call first thing tomorrow to check on everyone,” Miguel said as he set J.J. back on her feet.

  “Come on, let’s follow doctor’s orders.” J.J. tugged on Miguel’s hand.

  Just as they exited the chapel and had walked no more than ten feet, Dom came around the corner.

  “Emilio told me he thought I could find you two in the chapel,” Dom said.

  “Have you heard the good news?” J.J. asked.

  “Yes, just before I showed up, Dr. Esteban had informed Emilio and Roberto that everyone was going to live.”

  “Do you have any news for us about the food?” Miguel asked.

  Dom shook his head. “It will be tomorrow sometime before we know anything for sure. Will Pierce will call me as soon as his people know anything. They took samples of all the food at Casimiro’s buffet table before the police arrived.”

  “Good. Good.” Miguel clenched his jaw.

  “You don’t trust the police?” J.J. asked.

  “Some of them, I do. But many of the higher-ranking officials here in Nava are loyal to Padilla. They are, how do you say it in America? On his payroll.”

  “Then one of your first official acts as president should be to clean house in the police department here in the capital city.” J.J. glanced at Dom. “Are there any reporters downstairs?”

  “Hordes,” Dom replied. “That’s why I had Carlos take the limo around to the back entrance to wait for us.”

  “Shouldn’t I make some kind of statement tonight?” Miguel asked.

  “Let Emilio or Roberto make it for you,” J.J. said. “Have them say that you are well and greatly relieved that all those who got food poisoning at the dinner party are going to be all right. Leave it at that. For now.”

  Miguel put his arm around her shoulders. “You are quite adept at public relations, querida. You would make a most admirable first lady.”

  Dom lifted his eyebrows speculatively, the expression on his face clearly asking if there was something intimate going on between her and Miguel. She chose to pretend she hadn’t noticed that inquiring look.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Diego was furious. She knew he would be, but she did not give a damn. Within a few minutes of learning that fifteen people had been poisoned at Anton Casimiro’s dinner party, Gala had begun feeling guilty. Although she hadn’t known that the vial hidden in her designer handbag had been filled with poison, she had suspected as much. What she hadn’t suspected was that whoever had retrieved the vial from her purse had used it to doctor one of the food items at the buffet table. She had assumed it would be used in Miguel Ramirez’s champagne. Not caring what political party ruled Mocorito, what did it matter to her if Diego and his friends eliminated the Nationalist Party’s candidate? But poisoning fifteen people was something else. If they had died, it would have been mass murder.

  “I came to tell you that I will not do any more of your dirty work.” Gala glared at Diego. Even though she was still afraid of him and the power he held over her, the liquor she had consumed before coming to his home had infused her with false bravado.

  “Lower your voice.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her with him into the front parlor. After flipping on a lamp, he shoved her into the nearest chair and came down over her, bracing his hands on either armr
est. “My mother and sister are upstairs asleep and several of the servants are still up and stirring in the back of the house.”

  “You should have told me that you planned to poison innocent people. I would never have helped you do such a despicable thing.”

  Diego laughed, then put his face up to hers. “No one died from the poison. Killing innocent people was not our goal. We simply wanted, once again, to show Miguel that he cannot protect his friends, family and supporters.”

  “And if convincing him that your people can harm those he cares about does not stop him, what will you do then?” she asked. “You should kill him. Hire another assassin. Don’t harm innocent people.”

  “We do not want Ramirez dead,” Diego told her. “Killing him would be a last resort. If he is killed, the people could turn him into a martyr and revolt. No, we cannot risk that. What we want is for Ramirez to withdraw from the presidential election.”

  “Why did you wait until only weeks before the election to—”

  “Not until recently did we realize there was a chance he could win,” Diego replied. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Go home and sober up. And do not ever come back here telling me that you will no longer obey my orders. Have you forgotten that I could send you to prison, just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  “No, I have not forgotten.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

  He released his painful hold on her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. Their gazes connected for a brief moment and she thought she saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes. God, was she losing her mind? There was no sympathy, no compassion in Diego Fernandez. At least not for her.

  He tickled her under her chin. She gasped.

  “Be a good girl and do as you are told,” Diego said. “I do not want to see you in prison. There are far better places for a beautiful woman such as you.”

  She shivered at his touch and hated herself for actually being aroused. There had been a time when she had thought herself in love with Diego. Years ago when she had been just a girl, she had admired her best friend’s big brother from afar.