everyone all right?” Roberto asked. “Miguel? Señorita Blair?”
“I am unharmed,” Miguel replied. He ran his hands over J.J. with gentle familiarity, as if the two were actually a couple. “How are you, Jennifer?”
Looking him square in the eyes, she lifted herself up and off him. Then when she had firmly planted her behind in the seat beside him, she responded. “None the worse for wear.”
“I think perhaps we should call a wrecker,” Miguel said.
“Good idea.” J.J. scooted across the seat and opened the door. “Everyone stay put. I’m going to check the tires, see if one of them did blow out and try to determine the cause.”
“Do you suspect foul play?” Roberto asked.
“I assume this limousine is kept in excellent condition,” J.J. said. “That being the case, the odds that a tire just blew out are slim to none. I’ll bet money that someone using a long-range, high-powered rifle shot the tire.”
“If that is the case, then why aim at the tire and not at me?” Miguel asked.
“These windows are tinted.” J.J. swirled an index finger around, indicating the darkened windows. “Firing into the vehicle could have resulted in a death, but not necessarily your death.”
J.J. hopped out of the car and onto the rocky, uneven ground. Immediately the heels of her shoes dug into the soft, sandy soil. Damn! On any other assignment, she’d be wearing a pair of sensible shoes, but here she was dressed to the nines and forced to climb out of the ditch in two-and-a-half-inch heels. After briefly inspecting all four tires and taking a closer look at the one flat tire, she surmised that her theory about a rifle shot blowing the tire had been correct.
But something didn’t add up here. Carlos had been driving the speed limit, which wasn’t much more than a slow crawl in afternoon traffic. Why would anyone shoot out a tire and cause a minor accident that was unlikely to result in any major damage to the occupants of the limo? If Miguel was the target, why not shoot at him while he was entering or exiting the television station? Unless “they” knew he was being protected by a bodyguard, who might have taken the bullet in his place. How was it possible that Miguel’s enemies knew she was his bodyguard and not his fiancée? She had been told that only Miguel and his two closest associates knew the truth. Roberto was here with them, but that didn’t rule him out as a suspect, did it? And Emilio was family. However, family had been known to betray family.
Of course, her theory that Miguel’s enemies knew who she really was and why she was posing as Miguel’s fiancée was only that—a theory.
As J.J. mulled over the possible scenarios and scanned the area, trying to figure out from which direction the bullet had come, she suddenly noticed that dozens of cars had stopped on the highway and people were heading in their direction. She cursed under her breath.
A rapid barrage of questions flew in her direction. Insistent, concerned questions that demanded answers.
“Is Señor Ramirez all right?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Has an ambulance been called?”
Before J.J. could respond, Miguel did exactly what she’d told him not to do. He emerged from the limousine, climbed out of the ditch and came straight to her. Putting his arm around her waist, he faced the crowd of concerned citizens.
“We are all well,” Miguel told them in his most charming, yet authoritarian voice. “J.J. and I appreciate your concern. Our limousine had a flat tire and my driver was unable to stop the car from going into the ditch. We have called a wrecker, so everything is under control. I am afraid we are causing a traffic jam, so I want all of you to return to your cars and clear the roadway.”
One by one, the people returned to their vehicles, all except an elderly man who approached Miguel. J.J. moved to stand between them, but Miguel held her to his side. She glowered at him and whispered, “Let me do my job.”
“I know this man.” Miguel held out his hand to the silver-haired gentleman. “Uncle Tito, how good to see you. What brought you into the city today?”
“I am returning from a doctor’s visit,” Tito replied. “Señor Miguel. You are not harmed? You and your lady?”
Miguel shook hands with the old man. “We are fine.” He tightened his hold on J.J.’s waist. “Jennifer, I would like to introduce you to an old family friend, Tito Lopez. He is Emilio’s great-uncle. Uncle Tito, this is my fiancée, Señorita Jennifer Blair.”
Tito’s wrinkled face brightened. He nodded and smiled at her cordially. “It is my great pleasure to meet Miguel’s lady.” He looked to Miguel. “You are on your way to the club for a luncheon, are you not? Our little mother, Dolores, is hosting the event today. It is all she has talked about for weeks now. You cannot disappoint her. Please, allow me to drive you and the señorita to Ebano.”
“Thank you, Uncle Tito. We would be honored to have you drive us.”
J.J. grabbed Miguel’s arm and whispered, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Nonsense,” he replied in a hushed voice so that only she could hear. “I trust Uncle Tito implicitly.”
Groaning, J.J. accepted defeat, knowing that without creating an unpleasant scene—which would probably accomplish nothing—she had little choice but to go along with what Miguel wanted.
By the time they arrived at the Ebano Country Club, only ten minutes late, everyone there had heard about the accident, which was the story Miguel had told Roberto to issue to the media. Dolores met them at the entrance, tears glistening in her large, dark eyes. She waddled toward them the minute they exited Uncle Tito’s old car.
“Tell me that you are unharmed.” Dolores threw her arms around Miguel and hugged him as closely as her round belly would allow.
“I am fine.” He held her away from him, far enough to kiss her first on one cheek and then the other. “Jennifer and I are both unharmed. It was only a flat tire. I left Roberto with Carlos to wait for the wrecker.”
“Only a flat tire?” Dolores looked at J.J. “Is he telling me the truth?”
Miguel put his arms around Dolores’s shoulders and then J.J.’s. “Come along, ladies.We have kept our guests waiting long enough.”
Dolores did not protest, but she glanced in J.J.’s direction, the look in her eyes telling J.J. that the two of them would talk later.
When they entered the main dining room of the Ebano Country Club, the hundred-plus women assembled rose to their feet and applauded. J.J. found herself immediately swept up in the moment, becoming a part of the enthusiasm, reluctantly seeing Miguel through his admirers’ eyes. Their adoration was real, almost worshipful. How could this many women admire and support a man unless he had numerous redeeming qualities? Had she misjudged him? Or had he simply enchanted his female followers with his good looks and charm? Surely this many women weren’t all susceptible to such superficial qualities. But then again the Mocoritian women were different from American women. They were more old-fashioned, more accustomed to men ruling the roost, so to speak.
The group consisted of women of various ages, ranging
