Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love: Ramirez's Woman / Her Royal Bodyguard / Protecting the Princess. BEVERLY BARTON

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СКАЧАТЬ with numerous bars. Seedy, dangerous hellholes from the looks of them. What better place to meet an agent working undercover without anyone recognizing either of you or giving a damn who you were. The minute Dom entered Pepe’s, loud music and even louder customer clatter engulfed him. As he moved deeper into this filthy den of iniquity, searching for Vic Noble, the stench of body odor and the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke assailed him. After searching for several minutes, he spotted Vic at a back corner table, a scantily clad señorita standing at his side, rubbing his shoulder and giving him a glimpse of her ample breasts as she leaned over him.

      “Mind if I join you?” Dom asked in English.

      Vic shoved the bosomy woman aside and gestured to the wooden chair across the table from him. The dismissed lady grumbled loudly in Spanish, most of her words a combination of curses, as she walked away to seek other prey.

      Dom sat. He eyed the half-filled shot glass in front of Vic. “Tequila?”

      “Want one?”

      “Nope.”

      “Pierce is at the bar now, getting a bottle for the three of us.”

      “Will Pierce is sitting in on this meeting?”

      Vic nodded. “Our government is going to want to know what I found out.”

      “And what would that be?”

      “Wait for Pierce,” Vic said. “But I’ll tell you right now that once the big boys in D.C. hear about this, they will move heaven and earth to get Ramirez elected.”

      Pierce made his way through a bevy of client-seeking prostitutes and a couple of staggering drunks, barely managing to keep hold of the bottle of tequila and the two shot glasses he held.

      When he reached their table, he slammed the bottle and glasses down, then yanked out a chair beside Vic, turned it backward and straddled the seat with his long legs. “Lovely place you chose for our meeting.”

      “Thanks,” Vic said. “I thought the two of you would appreciate the decor and the atmosphere.”

      “So, what’s this important information you’ve unearthed?” Dom asked.

      Pierce removed the screw-on cap from the cheap tequila and poured the liquor into the two empty shot glasses, then added enough to Vic’s glass to fill it.

      Vic leaned over the table and said in a low voice. “If the current president is reelected, he and his people have big plans for Mocorito.”

      “What sort of big plans?” Pierce asked.

      “The kind that involves taking over the military and local law-enforcement agencies nationwide.”

      “That sounds like the current el presidente has plans for a dictatorship instead of a democracy.” Dom rested his elbows on the table as he cupped his fingers together.

      “Bingo. Give the man a cigar.” Vic turned to Pierce. “Padilla has some rich and powerful supporters, but most of them aren’t aware of his plans to return the country to a dictatorship. One of his most loyal followers, a man who is using his money and influence to help Padilla, is Diego Fernandez, Ramirez’s half-brother.”

      “That’s not a surprise,” Pierce said.

      “Fernandez is being kept in the dark about the president’s plans for the future. He’s being easily manipulated because his hatred for Ramirez has blinded him to the truth.”

      “Are you defending Fernandez?” Dom asked.

      “Nope. Not me. Just stating facts. If Fernandez could be convinced that he’s being played for a fool, then he might turn against Padilla.”

      “And just who is going to convince him?” Pierce scanned the bar, especially the tables nearest them.

      “I’d say nobody here speaks enough English to understand anything we’ve said,” Vic told them. “Besides, the music is so damn loud, I can barely hear myself think.”

      “What if we could place this information in the hands of Fernandez’s sister, Seina?” Dom suggested. “If we were one hundred percent sure we can trust Dr. Esteban, he could be given the information and we could ask him to feed it to his lady love.”

      “Do we trust Esteban without reservations?” Vic looked at Pierce.

      “Probably not. I’m not sure it would be wise to trust Esteban or Lopez or Aznar. We are almost certain that one of those three could be a traitor.”

      “Almost certain? Could be?” Vic’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t dug up any dirt on Esteban, at least so far. His only sin seems to be having clandestine meetings with Seina Fernandez.”

      “Then you think we should trust him with the information and ask him to pass it along to SeĊorita Fernandez?” Pierce glowered at Vic.

      “I think Dom should talk it over with Ramirez,” Vic said, “and if he says do it, then we do it.”

      “Ramirez is too close to Esteban to be able to—”

      Dom interrupted Pierce in mid sentence. “It’s Ramirez’s frigging country, not yours or mine. I think he has more right than you do to make decisions that will affect not only him personally, but his fellow countrymen.”

      Vic coughed, barely suppressing a grin.

      “Yeah, you’re right,” Pierce said. “Sometimes I just need to be reminded that I’m not always right.”

      The tension between Pierce and Dom subsided. The three men lifted their shot glasses and each took a hefty swig of the tequila.

      Maria Bonita reminded J.J. of an upscale Mocoritian home, lavished with handmade tiles and what appeared to be miles of decorative wrought-iron. A mariachi band played traditional music and a dance floor was available. Not only did the members of the band dress in native costumes, but so did the waiters and waitresses. J.J. decided within minutes after their arrival that the food at this restaurant could not possibly surpass the incredible ambience.

      Apparently Miguel was well-known here because the staff kowtowed to him as if he were already the president. Other customers waylaid him as their party passed by, everyone wanting to speak to him, shake his hand, kiss his cheek and wish him well. And as his fiancée, the attention spread to her.

      Overwhelmed by the enthusiastic adoration showered on them, J.J. didn’t realize that the maître d’ was escorting them through the building, which was, in fact, an eighteenth-century hacienda, and out onto an enclosed patio. Their table for four was one of six tables placed around a central fountain.

      “This place is unbelievable,” J.J. said in English.

      “What did she say?” Aunt Josephina asked as she was seated.

      “Oh, forgive me,” J.J. apologized in Spanish. “I was so impressed with this place that I reverted to my native tongue.”

      “It is perfectly understandable, my dear Jennifer.” Aunt Josephina patted J.J.’s hand. “Maria Bonita has that effect on almost everyone the first time they come here.”

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