"We should go now." Juan urged Seina to stand. "I will take you to my aunt's and then I must return to the hospital."
"Of course." Seina offered Miguel and J.J. a grateful smile.
"Juan, I would like a moment with you before you leave," Miguel said, then glanced at J.J. "Jennifer, perhaps you will show my sister the garden."
"Yes, of course." J.J. motioned to Seina. "If you'll come with me, we'll leave the gentlemen to discuss business."
As soon as the ladies were out of earshot, Miguel closed the pocket doors and turned to Juan. "I have decided to ask Mario Lamas to allot me fifteen minutes of airtime this evening in order for me to speak to the people of Mocorito on national television." Miguel reached out and clasped Juan's shoulder. "I want the people to know that I will not—that I cannot!—withdraw from the presidential race. No matter what."
"I had thought perhaps, after Carlos was murdered… But no, no, you are right, Miguel." Juan grabbed Miguel's hand and held it tightly. "If the Federalists are capable of poisoning people, of murder, of attempted assassination, then who is to say what else they are capable of doing. You are a brave man, my friend, to risk everything for this country of ours that you love so much. And you are very fortunate to have found a woman such as Jennifer, who is willing to stand by you and help you fight for what you believe in."
* * *
J.J. lifted the black lace shawl over her head as she entered St. Ignacio's Cathedral with Miguel that afternoon. They entered the church alone, after driving here in Miguel's antique Aston-Martin. Dom Shea had followed them in a rental car and he was now parked across the street, guarding the front entrance to the building. The centuries-old cathedral, with its stained-glass windows, statues of numerous saints, the Blessed Virgin and Jesus Christ and the fretwork rising from the walls to form arches across the three-story ceiling, resembled the interiors of numerous age-old churches across Mexico and South America. The utter silence within added to the atmosphere of deep spirituality that prevailed within these holy walls.
J.J. sat with Miguel as he prayed. She admired his deep faith in a higher power. It was to his credit that though he was a modern man, as he thought of himself, self-sufficient and powerful, he still believed in the miracle of prayer.
Facing a terrible dilemma, he had made a gut-wrenching decision. How did a man such as Miguel—an honorable man who loved his country and wanted the best for his people—live with the knowledge that he held the fate of millions in his hands?
As the moments passed, one quickly after the other, J.J. felt an overwhelming need to share in this moment with Miguel, to make some requests of her own.
Help him. Please help him. He is not asking anything for himself. Only for his people. Protect him and protect them from the evil threatening this nation. And let me do what is right, whatever will help Miguel the most.
After they'd spent nearly an hour in the cathedral, they walked outside, hand-in-hand, into the warm sunlight of an autumn afternoon in Nava. On the surface, this city, like the entire country, was an island paradise. But men's greed for power and wealth had once chained this country in bondage. Set free only in the latter half of the twentieth century, Mocorito now faced a return to slavery under an uncaring taskmaster.
Miguel Cesar Ramirez stood alone, his country's savior.
"This evening I will make an announcement on television to the people of my country," Miguel said as they walked toward his car.
J.J. knew without asking what he planned to tell the citizens of Mocorito.
"I want you there with me tonight."
"I'll be right at your side."
"And tomorrow morning, I want you to leave Mocorito."
"No, Miguel. I want—"
He opened the car door for her and when she whirled around to face him, he looked her right in the eyes and said, "If you truly wish to help me, you will go back to America."
She searched his face, studying his expression. Knowing what was in his heart, she realized she had only one real choice. "All right. I'll make arrangements to fly to Caracas in the morning and then on to the United States."
He helped her into the Aston-Martin, then rounded the hood and got in on the other side. "I will telephone Roberto and Emilio and ask them to meet us at campaign headquarters. I have already told Juan what I plan to do and I must tell the others."
"They will support your decision."
"Will they? Even not knowing the real threat that Hector Padilla poses to Mocorito?"
"Yes, even not knowing that if Padilla is reelected he plans to replace democracy with a dictatorship, they will support your decision not to back down, not to allow the Federalists to intimidate you."
Miguel started the car and eased out into the street. "We have only a few hours this afternoon and then tonight to be together." Increasing speed, Miguel zigzagged the little sports car through afternoon traffic, Dom just barely keeping up with them as he followed in the rental car.
J.J. didn't respond. She understood what he meant and knew, in that moment, that no matter what happened tomorrow, next week or next year, this afternoon and tonight she would be, in every sense of the word, Miguel Ramirez's woman.
* * *
As Diego drove through the gates, disregarding the guards who waved at him as he left the palace grounds, he could think of nothing except what he had overheard as he had hidden in the room behind Hector Padilla's office.
A plot to overthrow the democratic government and replace it with a dictatorship within weeks of Hector's reelection!
He had been played for a fool! Used as a tool to further a cause he did not believe in and would never willingly have supported. Hector had even mentioned him by name when he spoke to the other men, laughing about how easily Diego could be manipulated.
Diego Fernandez's hatred for his half-brother has blinded him to everything else, Hector had said. His stupidity has worked greatly to my advantage.
What was he going to do? He had broken the law, had taken part in criminal activities on behalf of the Federalist Party, had even blackmailed his sister's best friend. He could hardly go to the police, could he?
You can go to Ramirez, an inner voice told him. Go to him and tell him what Hector has planned.
The thought of joining forces with his father's bastard son sickened Diego. He hated Miguel Ramirez as much as he hated admitting he had been wrong. But it was that very hatred that had made him so easily manipulated by that son of a bitch Padilla.
He had to do something to stop Hector and his ungodly band of supporters. And he had to do something soon.
Think about what can be done. Consider all your options. There must be a way that you can do what must be done without destroying your own life.
* * *
In three hours they would go to the television station for Miguel to give his address to the nation. Everything had been done to prepare for those fifteen minutes when candidate Ramirez would tell the people of Mocorito that no power on earth could make him withdraw from the presidential race. J.J. had read his speech and wept, knowing what this decision had cost him on a purely personal level. If his life, his future alone was at stake, he would have walked away with many regrets. But understanding fully the enormous impact on the nation if he protected only those closest to him, he had done the only thing he could have done. He had chosen to save Mocorito.
Due to impending rain showers, possibly even a tropical storm brewing off the coast, the humidity had risen gradually during the day, and now dampness hung in the air like an invisible mist. J.J. removed her suit and hung it in the closet, then took off her shoes. Perspiration dotted her forehead and trickled between her breasts. On their ride home from campaign headquarters, with the top down on Miguel's car, J.J. had gotten hot and only now, after ten minutes in the air-conditioned coolness of the house, had she begun to cool off. A little.
But in another sense she was still hot. Burning hot. There was a fire of passion blazing inside her. She and Miguel had a few
precious hours to be together this afternoon and then again tonight. Tomorrow morning, she would take a ten o'clock flight from Mocorito to Caracas, and there board the Dundee jet for a flight home. Dom and Vic would remain in Mocorito, Dom as Miguel's bodyguard and Vic continuing to work undercover in conjunction with Will Pierce and the CIA.
"Jennifer?" Miguel called to her from the bedroom.
She walked out of the huge closet/dressing-room area, then halted in the doorway when she saw Miguel standing by the French doors overlooking the courtyard.
He had stripped off his shoes, socks and white shirt, and wore only his black dress slacks. His shoulders were broad, his back wide, his skin a polished bronze shimmering with perspiration in the shadowy light of the overcast afternoon.
Why was it that she felt her entire life—all thirty years—had been bringing her to this point in time, to this one cloudy, gray day in a country half a world away from home, with a man she had known only a few days?
"It is going to rain. Soon." Keeping his back to her, he spoke quietly, a hushed tone to his deep voice. "The wind is blowing very hard now."
Oh, Miguel, Miguel.
She walked across the room. Slowly. Her heart beating fast, her pulse racing. Everything feminine within her vibrated with a hunger she had never known, with a need to love and be loved in the most basic way a man and a woman can exchange that primitive emotion.
Why doesn't he turn around and hold out his arms to me? Why isn't he telling me how much he wants me?
When she came up behind him, she thought surely he would turn and embrace her. She stood there for several strained moments. Then unable to bear another moment without his touch, she went to him, pressed herself against his back and reached her arms around him. His muscles went taut.
"Make love with me, Miguel," she whispered as she laid her head on the back of his shoulder.
He sucked in a deep breath, then released it as he turned and took her into his arms. He held her there, close to him, embracing her, one big hand resting across her spine, the other cupping her hip. His mouth raked across her temple and came to rest against her ear.
"You will not regret giving yourself to me, querida?" he asked, as if his life depended on her answer.
"Oh, Miguel. No. Never."
He grasped her shoulders and forced her to face him. With his fingers biting into her flesh, he said, "This will change nothing. You will leave Nava in the morning. You understand, yes?"
"Yes, I understand." She would leave tomorrow morning. She would get on the plane to Caracas, but she would leave behind her heart. And if he honestly thought that their becoming lovers would change nothing, then he was seriously mistaken. It would change everything.
The tension in his grasp lessened gradually as he lowered his head and brought their lips together. His arms encompassed her again, a forceful yet gentle embrace that claimed her as surely as if he had branded her. She had never before wanted to belong to a man. Body and soul. But she longed to belong to Miguel, in every possible way. And she wanted him to be hers and hers alone. His devouring kiss told her how much he wanted her, how hungry he was for her, as she was for him. But there was a gentleness in the kiss and in the way he held her, as if he wanted her to know that he cherished her, that she was precious to him.
"I ache for you," he said as his lips lifted from hers, then quickly made their way down her throat.
She ran her hands over his naked back, raking her fingernails over his hot, damp flesh. "I ache for you, too." She pulled away, just enough to gain access to his chest. While he threaded his fingers through her hair, she spread kisses from collarbone to collarbone, then went lower to flick her tongue over first one and then the other of his tiny male nipples.
Miguel arched his back and moaned, deep and low, the sound guttural, like that of an animal.
Spurred on by his arousal bulging just below his waist, J.J. dropped to her knees and unzipped his slacks, then eased them and his black briefs down his hips until his jutting sex popped up in front of her. Powerful and pulsating, he was a temptation she could not resist. J.J. caressed him with her fingers and sighed when he growled his satisfaction. Taking the next step immediately, she ran the tip of her tongue down and back up, then repeated the process, tormenting him with a promise of fulfillment. She played with him, taking him into her mouth as he held her head in place, encouraging her eager lips and tongue to pleasure him.
Lost in the frenzy of giving him what he needed, J.J. became unbearably aroused, her femininity dripping with moisture, her nipples peaked and aching. Unexpectedly, Miguel eased himself from her mouth, then reached down and brought her up off her knees. Breathless and dazed with desire, she stared at him.
Smiling devilishly, he swooped her up into his arms and carried her to his bed. He placed her on her feet, then reached down to grasp the hem of her silk slip. When he maneuvered the slip up her thighs and over her hips, she lifted her arms into the air, assisting him in undressing her. She stood there on wobbly legs, wearing her white lace bra, bikini panties, silk stockings and garter belt. While she stared pleadingly into his dark eyes, begging him silently to end this torture, he touched her in the center of her chest, between her breasts, with the tip of his index finger, pushing her down onto the edge of the bed.
She sat there, tingling from head to toe, her feminine core clenching and unclenching with anticipation, as he knelt in front of her. First he undid the tabs on her garter belt, one by one, releasing their hold on her silk stockings. Then he lifted her right leg and slowly peeled off the first stocking, his hands gently seductive. After he rolled the first stocking below her knee, he painted a trail of damp kisses across the top of her thigh. She gasped. What a marvelous sensation. As he took the stocking down her calf, over her ankle and off her foot, his lips followed his hands. He lifted her foot and kissed each toe.
"Such a small, delicate foot," he said before placing it on the floor and turning to her other leg.
He repeated the process of removing her stocking from the left leg. By the time he tossed that stocking on the floor atop the other one, J.J. was quivering, every nerve in her body alert.
She held her breath when he looked at her breasts with longing and only after he unhooked her lace bra and brought the straps down her shoulders, did she breathe again. Her naked breasts rose and fell, the nipples tight and hard.
"Beautiful. Very beautiful."
He lifted her breasts in his palms, then covered them and squeezed tenderly. When his fingertips circled her areola, she thought she would die. Then when she whimpered, he gave her what she wanted. He flicked her nipples with his thumbs and that action released a firestorm of pure sensation inside her. She cried out.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, concern in his golden-brown eyes.
"No, no. Please, please, don't stop."
He tormented her nipples, with his thumb and forefinger. Then while he pinched one aching point, he brought his mouth down over the other and suckled her until she thought she wouldn't be able to bear another minute of such intense pleasure.
Keening, the sound vibrating in her throat, she tossed back her head and thrust her breasts forward. Miguel rose up over her and then turned her in the bed until she lay flat on her back. Looking up at him, she opened her mouth with silent awe.
"You're beautiful, too," she told him. "Very beautiful."
And very large and very aroused.
Smiling at her compliment, he hooked his fingers inside her panties and pulled them down over her hips. When he stopped and nuzzled her mound with his mouth, her hips lifted of their own volition. As soon as he threw her panties on the floor, he joined her on the bed.
They gazed into each other's eyes, the tension between them electric. His eyes still on hers, he mounted her, delving deep with the first lunge, taking her completely, filling her to the hilt. For half a second she felt stretched beyond her limits, but her body soon adjusted to accommodate him and then she simply felt complete.
And so the dance began, Miguel setting the rhythm. Deep, slow thrusts that made her body sing. She couldn't get close enough, couldn't touch him enough, kiss him enough, say his name enough. He was on her, around her, inside her and yet she wanted more of him. She wanted her flesh and bones to melt into his.
He whispered dark, erotic words and phrases, moaning his desire and his intentions against her breasts. Suddenly he increased the tempo. Fast, hard jabs. J.J. shuddered, her core tightened, preparing for release.
She clung to him, encouraging him with every breath, every movement, every moaned sigh. She repeated his name over and over again, like a worshipful chant. Her climax hit her, releasing the spring on her tightly wound sex, allowing her to come apart completely. She cried and gasped and dug her nails into his back.
And then he jackhammered into her, giving her a second orgasm when he came. He roared out his pleasure, the sound rumbling from deep inside him. And then, after the aftershocks had rippled through them, he fell to one side and stared up at the ceiling, his breathing hard and fast.
She lay beside him. Sated. Spent. Deliriously happy. And totally, irrevocably in love.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Dom sat with J.J., off camera, in a small, crowded room, as they waited for the moment the on-air commercial would conclude and the cameras would turn to Miguel. More nervous than she could remember ever being, J.J. had clasped and unclasped her hands a half-dozen times. She had rubbed her palms up and down her dress slacks until she feared she had thinned the gabardine. And she had glanced at the oval utility clock on the wall every two minutes. When she tapped one foot up and down, Dom reached over and placed his hand on her knee. She stopped immediately.
"You're making me nervous, honey," Dom said. "Calm down. He'll be all right."
Leaning toward Dom, she spoke in English as quietly as possible, hoping not to be overheard. "No, he won't be all right. He's aware that by swearing he will run for president, no matter what, he might be condemning other people like Carlos to death."
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