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.
“If you please me, I will see that you become the mistress of someone very rich and powerful, perhaps one of Hector’s ministers.”
His words were like a slap in the face. What had she expected? Diego would never see her as she had once been—an innocent. A virgin, like Seina. No, he knew about her drug addiction years ago and about the men she had given herself to in order to support her habit.
“I am willing to do almost anything you ask,” Gala said. “But please, Diego, don’t make me a part of harming innocent people. Even I must draw the line somewhere.”
He grabbed her arm and escorted her out into the foyer and through the front door. When they stood on the portico, he forced her to face him.
“Did you have any luck with enticing Ramirez? Perhaps you will be of more use to us if you can become his lover.”
She started to tell Diego that there was no chance of Miguel Ramirez being unfaithful to his fiancée, that the man seemed hopelessly in love with the American woman.
“We spoke tonight at the party,” Gala said. “And flirted a little.” She had flirted; he had not. “A second meeting might prove more productive. A meeting where there are no snakes and no poison.”
Diego laughed. “Go home, Gala, and tomorrow we will figure out a way for you to come in contact with Ramirez again.”
A true friend would not have allowed her to drive herself home. After all, she had had much too much to drink. She wasn’t exactly falling-down drunk, but she was far from sober. However, Diego wasn’t a true friend. He wasn’t a friend at all. He was a master manipulator who had no qualms about using her.
Gala managed to open her car door and get inside, but it took her several tries to stick the key into the ignition switch. Finally, she got the car started, then pulled out of the driveway and into the street. Less than two blocks from the Fernandez mansion, she heard the screeching of brakes and horns honking. Her last coherent thought was, “Did I run through that stop sign?” Then suddenly she felt a jarring impact as another vehicle broadsided her.
Seina Fernandez hid in the dark, in a secluded nook at the back of the entrance hall. Trembling, her heart hammering inside her ears, she held her breath as Diego closed the front door and locked it. After he walked up the stairs, she crept out from her hiding place just enough to look up so that she could see if he had gone to his room. Then and only then did she release her breath.
Only a few minutes ago, she had come downstairs to ask Conchita to prepare her some warm milk because she had found it impossible to fall asleep tonight. After an argument with her mother over her upcoming engagement party, she had been heartsick and longed to go to Juan for comfort. But what excuse could she have given for leaving the house so late in the evening? Slipping away to see Juan was much easier during the day. Since neither her mother nor Diego suspected she was seeing another man, they did not keep close tabs on her during the daytime.
Her life was already plagued by problems she could not solve alone. And now? Dear God in heaven, what would she do now that she had heard what her brother had done? What he had forced poor Gala to do? She had never meant to eavesdrop, had had no idea to whom Diego was speaking so harshly when she passed by the front parlor.
Why, oh why, had she not gone on to the kitchen instead of stopping to listen, wondering who Diego’s late-night visitor was? How could she deal with this information, with the knowledge that her brother was involved in the plot to destroy Miguel? She had known, since their father’s death, that Diego despised their half-brother, but she had never dreamed he was capable of such despicable acts. This was not the Diego she knew and had loved all her life. Yes, he could be domineering and controlling, as their father had been, but never cruel, never dangerous.
How could Diego have involved her best friend Gala in his murderous plots? He was actually blackmailing Gala, using her past drug use against her. There had to be some way she could help her friend, some way she could stop Diego. If she went to him and talked to him? No, that would accomplish nothing. If Diego’s hatred had taken him over the edge into obsession, talk would not be enough to convince him how very wrong he was.
And speaking to their mother would be useless. She adored Diego so much that she would support him in whatever he chose to do, even if he killed Miguel with his bare hands. Perhaps she could not blame her mother for hating her husband’s illegitimate son. Perhaps she would feel the same if her husband had betrayed her. But try as she might, she could not hate Miguel. In truth, she admired him.
Should she go to Juan and tell him what she knew? He could then go to Miguel and warn him. But if she did that, would she not be betraying Diego? Would she not be choosing one brother over the other?
Dear God, what must I do? Please, help me make the right decision. I do not want to betray those I love, but how can I stand by and do nothing?
Miguel, J.J. and Dom arrived at Miguel’s home in the early-morning hours. Ramona met them at the door, concern in her weary, dark eyes. Miguel did his best to reassure his housekeeper that all was well, but knowing him as she did, she saw through his false optimism. He wanted to believe that today’s three incidents were the beginning and the end of his enemy’s scare tactics, but he knew better. Hector Padilla and his corrupt Federalist Party were running scared. Since all the independent polls showed Miguel winning the election by a wide margin, the opposition party had only one choice—either kill him or force him to drop out of the race. If they killed him, the people might turn him into a martyr and rebel against Padilla and his kind. The more Miguel thought about it—and he had been thinking of little else these past few hours—the more he realized that the best course of action for his enemies was to force him to withdraw his candidacy.
“Good night,” Dom said as he paused outside his bedroom door. “Try to get some rest. Both of you.”
“Good night.” J.J. looked at Dom. “If you hear anything—”
“I will let you know the minute I get a call about the lab results.”
J.J. nodded, then she grasped Miguel’s hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom suite on the other side of the house. She opened the door and turned on several lamps while he trudged to the liquor cabinet.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks, but you go ahead. I’m going to clean all this makeup off my face, sponge off and put on my pajamas.”
He nodded, then lifted a bottle of whiskey and poured himself half a glass. The liquor sailed down his throat, warming his esophagus on the way down, then hit his belly like a hot coal. He coughed a couple of times, then took another swig. His head ached, his stomach churned and his conscience nagged at him. How was it that a man with good intentions, with his heart in the right place, could cause harm to others? All Miguel had ever wanted was to make life better for the people of his country. Having grown up in poverty, the bastard son of a woman thought of as a whore, seeing daily the plight of people forgotten by their government, he had
