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
