by Phoebe Conn
“He’s cute,” Libby admitted flippantly. “He’s also hobbling around on crutches, so all I’m doing is serving ice cream.” She pulled open the big Sub Zero freezer and found half a dozen containers of ice cream. “See something you like?”
“Santos,” Patricia squealed and clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Leave him alone,” Libby threatened through clenched teeth.
“You do want him!” She removed a container of strawberry ice cream.
There were two containers of vanilla, which Libby regarded as too uninteresting to eat without chocolate syrup, toasted almonds and whipped cream. There was pistachio, which she’d never liked, lemon sherbet and a dark chocolate. She took the chocolate and looked for bowls. The kitchen and pantry had everything anyone could ever require. All she had to do was locate it.
Patricia found a spoon and scooped up a bite from the carton. “This tastes like ice cream at home.”
“What were you expecting, something different? There’re probably only a few ways to make ice cream.”
“Yeah, I suppose it’s all in the flavoring,” Patricia stressed in a sexy purr. “I didn’t mean to spoil your fun. This is enough for me. Go on back to Santos. Do you want a wake-up call?”
“No, I don’t. Good night.”
Patricia peeked into Santos’s room on her way back to bed. “Ask Libby for a massage, and you’ll be so relaxed you’ll be unwilling to leave your bed for a week.”
“I better not. I’ve got places to be,” he replied.
Libby hadn’t bothered with Julian’s silver tray and carried in the bowls of ice cream with the spoons tucked into her jacket pocket. “I hope you like chocolate.”
“I always had it in my condo. Now I have Tomas order it.”
“Are all your groceries delivered?” Libby handed him his bowl and spoon and returned to her place on the foot of his bed. She made it a point not to lick her spoon.
“It’s a lazy way to live, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but I can’t imagine you pushing a shopping cart.”
“I didn’t go to the store in a suit of lights,” he argued. “In jeans, a sweatshirt and cap, I could be anybody.”
Libby took tiny bites to make her ice cream last. “You’d still look better than most men.”
“Thank you, but when I don’t want people to recognize me, I can fade into the crowd.”
“I’m used to being part of the crowd. You’re right, though. Everyone is moving along, lost in their own thoughts, and a lot goes unnoticed.”
Santos set his empty bowl on the nightstand and took a drink of water. “That’s how we’ll have to work on the wedding. We’ll help it all come together and let Rafael blow it apart.”
He’d become a little too keen on the intrigue for her taste. “From what I’ve heard, the Aragon family has plenty of drama of its own. You don’t need my family for spice.”
“True. Now finish your ice cream and come here.”
Libby took even smaller bites and looked up at him through her lashes. Her low voice had a husky edge. “I only wanted to talk. My mom and dad are sleeping down the hall.”
“Lock the door and come here.” He patted the space beside him with a firmer beat.
Libby swallowed the last slippery bite. “I might get too rough and hurt you.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Libby stood and set her bowl in his and picked them up. “That’s your whole story, isn’t it? Good night.”
She was gone before Santos realized what had happened. He was a matador, so he ate risk for lunch, but it wasn’t tattooed on his chest. He struggled to get out of bed and picked up the crutches he’d leaned against the wall. If Libby wanted to argue, then he intended to present his side out in the hall if he had to. He had on jogging shorts and a T-shirt, so he was well enough dressed to leave his room.
He opened his door as Libby came back up the stairs from the kitchen. “What are you doing out of bed?” she asked.
“Looking for you.” When she reached him, he pulled her into his arms and balanced on his crutches, swayed dangerously close to falling. She braced her arm against the doorjamb to hold him and smothered her laughter against his chest. They made it back into his room without waking the whole house. She was careful not to shove him too hard, took his crutches and pushed him toward the bed.
He waited for her to set the crutches aside and grabbed her arm before she could move away and pulled her down beside him. HeeHeHeHH hugged her tight. “Stay with me a little longer.”
He’d left room for her beside him and loosened his hold. Intending to go, she picked up his book to smack back in his hand. While she couldn’t read the Spanish title, she recognized the author’s name. “You read Stephen King?”
“Sure. I don’t have the patience for books that go nowhere, and his stories fly.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Surprised to discover they had similar tastes in reading, she replaced the book on the nightstand and relaxed against him. He always smelled so damn good, while she never bothered with perfume. She hadn’t locked the door when she came in but wouldn’t let things get out of hand.
She raised herself on her elbow. “There isn’t much to do for the wedding except wait. Maybe we could go sightseeing tomorrow. Manuel drove Maggie and me around, so we saw a lot of Barcelona, but we didn’t stop anywhere. Will you come with us?”
“Let’s worry about tomorrow in the morning.” He wound his fingers in her hair to draw her into a slow, chocolate-flavored kiss.
She leaned over him for another kiss. He moaned, a soft growl deep in his throat, and the unlocked door began to look like a problem after all. Maybe just another kiss or two or three, she thought. He kept his hands on her back, tracing lazy circles that promised his more intimate touch would be unforgettable. Maybe it was only the Latin-lover technique, but he was so damn good at it. Of course, he’d practiced with the likes of Ana Santillan, and, with that jarring thought, she sat up.
She coiled her hair around her hand. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Why?” He regarded her with a sly, satisfied smirk as though she’d never be able to come up with a credible reason.
“I doubt you’re into long-distance relationships, and Minneapolis is a long way from here.”
“Minnesota? The Great Lakes?”
“You’ve got it.”
He slid a fingertip down her cheek. “If I take you sightseeing, you’ll owe me a tour, but we don’t need to make travel plans tonight. Just stay with me awhile longer. I promise to be good.”
Even knowing it would be a huge mistake, she liked him too much not to cuddle a bit. She lay down and rested her head on his shoulder. She was tired and meant to go to her own room in a few minutes, but she was so comfortable with him, she drifted off. She dreamed of traveling through a beautiful golden countryside, but just as in Stephen King’s novels, everything swiftly went wrong. Jarred awake, she gasped for breath.
“What’s wrong now? A bad dream?” he asked.
She scrambled off his bed and stood leaning against the foot. Most dreams faded the instant she woke, but this one lingered in vivid hues. “Yes. We were talking about sight-seeing, and I dreamed I’d gone with a group, five or six of us. We were riding in a big horse-drawn cart though fields of gorgeous golden grain, something you’d see in a painting. When we reached the old castle we’d intended to visit, we went into the café for something to eat, and one of the boys lit a cigarette. I told him he was polluting the air for the rest of us. The others laughed at me. I went to the restroom, which was primitive, to say the least, and when I came out, they were all gone. It was late afternoon, and I faced a long walk home alone in the dark.” She raked her hair away from her face and twisted the ends into a tight coil. His look of concern made her feel very foolish.
“The whole thing was silly. I’m sorry if I woke you. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be afraid of my mother. You can’t spook her twice.”
> She was out the door before he could stop her. He lay back and analyzed her dream easily enough. He’d only kissed her a few times, and she was already afraid he’d leave her stranded. He always made certain his dates got home safely, but Minnesota was a long way to go. Libby was awfully pretty, but he’d not repeat his father’s mistake with her mother. At least he didn’t smoke.
Chapter Five
When Libby returned to the house after her run the next morning, Santos was on the patio, speaking with a man she didn’t recognize. She swung wide to enter the house without bothering them, but Santos gestured for her to join them and introduced Javier Cazares.
The detective rose to greet her. “My pleasure, Miss Gunderson. I hope you’re enjoying Spain.”
“Thank you, I am. What have you discovered?” Eager to hear, she drew a chair close.
Javier consulted his notebook and addressed his remarks to Santos. “I’ve found no evidence any of the women you’ve dated had anything to do with the mirror incident. Rosalba Valdez has moved to Paris and wasn’t in Spain last weekend. Claudia Garcia was out with a date.” He paused to push up his glasses. “I told her I was writing an article about you and had come across her name. She doubted you’d remember her.”
Libby sat up. “Would you rather I go inside?”
Santos shook his head. “No. Maybe you’ll hear something I’ll miss. Go on, Javier, who else did you contact?”
“I tried to speak with Francesca Muñoz, but her roommate told me she’d gone to Granada a week ago to visit her grandmother. I found her at the Granada number. Lucy Sereno has married an attorney and moved to Madrid. Maria Morin regularly volunteers at a children’s hospital across town and was there Sunday until late evening.” He looked up. “She’s dating a doctor on the staff, and they were together. The last name on your list, Lourdes Canales, died in a traffic accident in Switzerland last year.”
“Lourdes is dead? I hadn’t heard. We didn’t date long. She was more interested in my father than me, which wasn’t anything new.”
“You’re not serious,” Libby interjected.
He shrugged. “We were only eighteen years apart. He was rich and famous, and I was a good-looking kid. Most women preferred him.”
His flippant assessment of women’s preferences didn’t fool her. He had to have been hurt if women regularly stepped over him to meet Miguel. She reached out to take his hand. “Were they just after his money?”
“No. Ask your mother about him and see how she describes him.”
Stunned by his coldly worded suggestion, she dropped his hand. “There’s no reason to torture her.” She began to wonder about Ana Santillan’s taste in men and was smart enough not to ask. “What about the protesters? Did you find any promising leads?”
Javier turned a page in his notebook. “They’re a varied group with few ties other than their opposition to bullfighting. I spoke with several men who’d been arrested during earlier protests. They wanted to congratulate whomever had flashed the mirror at Santos but had no idea who it might be. As for the women who frequently protest, they usually escape arrest, and I was unable to get their names. Next Sunday, I’ll be prepared with my camera and have more to report.”
“Thank you,” Santos responded.
Javier bid them good-bye and left on the path circling the house.
“I don’t mean to be unkind, but does he remind you of a ferret?” Libby whispered.
Santos leaned in. “The first time we spoke in person, that’s exactly what I thought. It’s the narrow face and glasses that magnify his eyes.”
“And sharp nose,” Libby added.
“And scratchy voice, as though he lives underground.”
She leaned into his kiss. It was more a good-morning gesture, not the full, passionate kind. Still, she enjoyed it immensely.
Patricia came out the backdoor, saw what Santos and Libby were up to and walked on down to the shore. Victoria was walking along the water, and she waved to her and caught up.
Rafael asked Peter to come into the den, meaning to get the dreaded conversation over and done before Maggie even knew he was there. “Would you like coffee, or something stronger?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” The taunting painting of Miguel was the size of a museum exhibit. Peter turned his back on it and sat on the sofa. “While I appreciate the effort, there’s no need to ask for my blessing. Maggie has always known her own mind, and I respect that, but you’re not the man I’d have chosen for her.”
Rafael would have been more comfortable standing, but rather than tower over Peter, he took one of the black leather chairs so their eyes would meet. “I understand, but Maggie and I love each other, and I’ll make her happy.”
“You can only try,” Peter advised.
Rafael smiled. “I intend to succeed. I want to tell you a story. You’re an attorney; perhaps you can offer advice.”
“I’m not familiar with Spanish law.”
“Nevertheless, hear me out. There was a young man who was very close to his younger sister. They had no parents, and their grandmother raised them. When the sister was sixteen, she was raped by a young man, who made a joke of it. The brother called him out. The rapist pulled a knife, and in the following fight, the rapist was killed. The brother was charged with murder and spent six years in prison. Is that what would have happened in America?”
Peter sighed wearily and looked down at his hands. “It’s a difficult question, and I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but a lot would depend on the identities of the dead man and the survivor and how much sympathy could be generated for each. A talented prosecutor might convince a jury the defendant was lowlife scum and guilty. An even more talented defense attorney might convince a jury the deceased was a scumbag and the defendant a hero for defending his sister’s honor. Unfortunately, justice isn’t always meted out fairly.”
“Whose side would you take?”
“I’m a defense attorney. I would have made the brother a hero and given him a parade when he was acquitted.” Peter’s eyes were an intense blue and filled with apprehension. “Please tell me that isn’t your story.”
Rafael shrugged. “I’m afraid it is. I worked in the prison hospital and discovered I have a talent for medicine, so those six years weren’t wasted.”
Peter winced. “Does Maggie know?”
“I told her when we first met. She took my side too.”
“I could use a drink. Is there any scotch?”
“Chivas Regal.” Rafael got up and poured him a drink.
Peter tossed it down in a single gulp and set the glass on the coffee table. “There’s no reason to tell Linda. She already feels as though we’re losing Maggie to a world she rejected twenty-five years ago. At least Miguel’s dead. I wouldn’t have come with her if he’d still been alive.”
“That would have been a very serious mistake.”
Peter stood. “Maybe, maybe not. Don’t believe you can predict a woman’s behavior. They veer off on tangents without warning, usually when you least expect it.”
Rafael rose and offered his hand. “Thank you.”
Peter shook his hand firmly. “What would you have done if I’d forbidden the match?”
“Maggie and I would have married anyway.”
Peter shook his head. “It wouldn’t be wise to confide that either.”
“I understand.” Rafael opened the door and stood aside. There was still a whole lot he wasn’t revealing, but for now, his murder conviction would be enough. Having survived that onerous chore, he left and would wait to see Maggie later.
Linda had brought a tailored suit in a luscious apricot shade, but she looked through the clothes at the boutique and pulled out the skirt with the floral pattern Libby had tried on. “This is pretty.”
Patricia was holding a dress with alternating bands of white and bright pink eyelet mixed with a pink floral fabric. “Why don’t you buy it? I want to try on this.”
“Is that too brigh
t, Maggie?” her mother asked.
“No, not at all. We’ll be on the beach with the ocean for a backdrop, and whatever Patricia wants will be fine.”
Carmela joined them at her enthusiastic best. “What a beautiful family you have. Are you dressing for a special occasion?”
“No,” Maggie insisted quickly. “We’re planning a dinner together.”
“How wonderful. Please let me know if you need another size.”
Linda waited until the clerk had walked away and then whispered, “Is the wedding a secret for some reason?”
Maggie answered just as softly. “Yes, Santos and Rafael are well-known, and we don’t want any tacky press coverage.”
“I see. What are you going to wear, Libby?”
Libby waited for Patricia to choose, and once her sister had bought the colorful pink-and-white dress, she chose a long lime-green skirt and scooped-neck top that would pick up the green in Patricia’s dress. She was so tall she usually stood out, but for the wedding, she wanted to fade into the background. There had never been a competition between the sisters, probably because their looks and personalities were so different. Now, knowing Santos had grown up in his father’s very long shadow made him easier to understand, if not resist. She smiled as they walked back up the beach, carrying their packages, but Santos was never more than a blink away from her mind. She remembered his luscious kisses and licked her lips. She’d never felt such a strong attraction to another man, and repeatedly warning herself he was Mr. Wrong just wasn’t working.
Santos joined the Gundersons for lunch. He took his place at the head of the table and slid his crutches under his chair. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
“Please don’t apologize,” Linda insisted. “I hadn’t seen Miguel since we separated in college, and I should have expected you to resemble him.”
Maggie praised the seafood salad to quickly guide the conversation away from Santos. “Tomas is such a wonderful chef, but I keep changing my mind about what to ask him to prepare for the wedding dinner.”