by Phoebe Conn
She quickly dried her tears on the back of her hand and straightened up. “I’m sorry. I thought I could visit Miguel without making a fool of myself. You must be Magdalena.”
“Yes. Would you like to come downstairs and have something to drink? Miss…?”
“No, but thank you. I’m Ana Santillan, one of your father’s former favorites. There are so many of us, I’m surprised we haven’t worn out the carpet with our visits. Forgive me; I shouldn’t have said that.”
Maggie recognized her now. “You’re even prettier than you are on magazine covers. Please don’t apologize. I know my father hasn’t led an exemplary life.”
“Oh, but he has, only it hasn’t been the type of example most would admire.” She shifted her tooled leather bag on her shoulder. “Be careful with Santos. He’s falling in love with you.”
Maggie was too stunned to reply and watched silently as Ana hurried toward the back staircase. She’d only arrived yesterday, so what could Santos possibly have said to give Ana such a ridiculous notion, and when had he done it? Did her father pass along his girlfriends to Santos when he tired of them? Even worse, until he’d fallen ill, did they share the same women? Surely fathers didn’t become involved in a ménage a trois with their sons. Unfortunately, with Miguel, she couldn’t be certain.
Santos didn’t appear for dinner, but Fox joined them. He was dressed in a gray suit with a red tie, but his scowl marred his handsome appearance. He sat beside Maggie, spoke not a word and remained focused on his plate for the entire meal. One of the twins studied him rather than eat and Maggie assumed she must be Connie. Maggie didn’t feel much like eating, either, but the cook had produced a delicious roast, and she needed protein for courage.
Her grandmother ignored Fox but repeatedly cautioned the twins to watch their posture. Cirilda spoke at length on a charming English play she’d seen with friends that afternoon. “We were lucky to find tickets available at the last minute,” she explained and smirked proudly.
Maggie rested her fork across her plate. Apparently her aunt lacked the manners to include her, but she was relieved not to have to spend any more time than she absolutely must with her. “I love the theater,” she offered.
“Do you?” Cirilda remarked. “I doubt I’ll be going to another production any time soon.”
“How unfortunate,” Fox muttered under his breath. “I’m finished, Señora Aragon; may I be excused?”
“Of course. You’ve added so little to the evening, you’ll not be missed.”
The twins looked at Maggie, their eyes wide. Maggie shook her head to warn off a revolt. Cirilda’s fork scraped her plate. Maggie hadn’t heard how her grandfather had died, but it wouldn’t surprise her to learn he’d leapt from the roof rather than stay married to Carmen.
She checked her watch frequently. Spaniards dined later than she was used to, and it was nearly eleven before her grandmother left the table to signal the end of the meal, leaving her only a few minutes to freshen up before Rafael arrived.
She dashed upstairs to brush her teeth, and the twins were right on her heels. “You ought to wear perfume,” Connie urged. “Then if you get all sweaty dancing, you’ll still smell good.”
“I don’t usually wear perfume,” Maggie responded. Her teeth were sparkling white, and that would have to be enough.
“I’ll get you some!” Perry cried, and she dashed next door to their room and returned with a tiny atomizer and sprayed the scent over Maggie’s hair before she could stop her.
Maggie let the fragrance settle, then brushed out as much as she could. “Please don’t do that again,” she begged. “Rafael wears enough scent for us both.”
“He smells like Papa,” Connie offered. “So does Santos when he takes the time, but I’ve never seen anyone faint from desire around here.”
Maggie laughed. “Are you sure you’re only thirteen?”
The girls leaned close to brag in unison, “We’re a very mature thirteen.”
“Yes, you are.” She paused only a moment to primp in the mirror and then left the twins to go downstairs by herself. Mrs. Lopez had just welcomed Rafael in, and the housekeeper turned to send Maggie a harshly disapproving glance.
Rafael’s black silk shirt and trimly tailored pants were perfect for dancing, and she again wished she had something more appropriate to wear. “Are we just going to watch others dance tonight?” she asked as they walked down the front steps.
“We can watch or dance too, whatever you would like.” He held the door as she slid into his black Mercedes sedan.
She thought it an odd choice for him. It was comfortable, but more suited to a family man than a bachelor who wished to impress his dates. “You’re not married, are you?” she asked and immediately regretted it. “Not that I think you are, but we weren’t really introduced, and I…”
He laughed. “No, I have never been married. No woman in her right mind would marry a matador before he’d earned his fortune. The funeral costs alone would be prohibitive.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“Of course, but unless a bull is loose in the streets, neither of us is likely to die tonight.”
“I hope not,” Maggie agreed. “At least not before we’ve seen the dancing.”
He reached over to squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take very good care of you.”
His hand was warm and left hers too soon. She drew in a deep breath, thought about the time difference between Spain and Arizona and realized she hadn’t bothered to call Craig since she’d arrived. He probably wasn’t expecting her to call anyway. Still, she felt strangely untethered from her usual life.
“Did you leave a man at home?” Rafael asked.
“What?” She gasped. “I’m sorry, you simply startled me. What makes you ask?”
“I want to know you. Is the question too personal?”
“No, not at all.” She paused, uncertain how to be both truthful and concise.
“A simple yes or no will do. Perhaps you have many men?”
She laughed with him. “No, I prefer one at a time, but I doubt the man I was seeing is waiting for me.”
“You don’t sound heartbroken.”
“No, I’m not. We may have been together too long as it was.” Rafael probably had a whole flock of women circling him, but she didn’t care to know.
“Did he like to dance?” he asked.
“No, but he enjoyed watching me.”
“What man wouldn’t? The best flamenco clubs are in Madrid and the Sacromonte caves in Granada have excellent tablaos too, but the one we’re visiting tonight truly is Barcelona’s best. We can just watch, or dance. You decide.”
She was so nervous she feared she’d trip over her own feet no matter what she chose and remained quiet as Rafael drove into Barcelona and circled the sprawling city to reach the port. He parked on a dark narrow lane, and she peered out the windshield.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“Yes, I’ve been here many times. It’s just up ahead, but this is the best place to park.” He helped her from the car and took her hand to lead her down the cobblestone path.
The lane was dimly lit, and she clung to his hand even as she worried he might be leading her someplace she’d rather not go. “Are we getting close?”
He stopped. “Listen, do you hear the music? Bailaora, that’s a dancer in Catalan, was named for the present owner’s grandmother. The café’s been here a very long time.”
She was fluent in Spanish, not Catalan, and was grateful for his translation. “Yes, the music’s wonderful.” She was relieved they’d arrived until he ushered her through the narrow doorway and introduced her to Felipe Muñoz, the owner, as Miguel Aragon’s American daughter.
The main room of Bailaora had a low stage for the dancers and a dozen small tables circled by wooden chairs and benches. The café was nearly filled, and upon hearing her name, most of those present rushed forward to welcome her as though she were a celebr
ity.
She supposed she was to them but certainly not to herself. She forced a smile and returned the greetings so as not to disgrace her father’s image, but it was easily one of the most awkward moments of her life. As soon as they were seated, she leaned close to whisper to Rafael. “Please don’t mention my father’s name from now on.”
When he frowned and drew back, she wondered if her name hadn’t been the whole point of bringing her here tonight. Perhaps he was simply too proud to accept criticism, but she wanted to be clear. “I’m sorry, am I missing the point? Did you bring me here to show me off to your friends?”
“No!” he insisted, clearly insulted. “Do you want to leave?”
“We just got here,” she countered. She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “I intend to see the dancers before we go.”
He shook his head. “Of course. You expect to be entertained.” He ordered Ribeiro, a popular wine, for her, and it had a surprising bubbly fizz.
She’d taken only a sip before a lovely young woman stepped out on the stage. Her dark eyes held a teasing sparkle, and she wore her black hair in a chignon. Her fiery red dress had white polka dots, and her black dancing shoes shone like patent leather. She raised her arms to begin a slow rhythm with her castanets, and the guitarist accompanied her with a lively tune.
A second man stood beside the guitarist and matched the dancer’s steps with hearty claps. The three worked together beautifully, and Maggie enjoyed their performance enormously until she noted how frequently the spirited young woman’s glance rested on Rafael. It was a dark appraisal rather than a flirtatious one and gave Maggie an additional concern.
“Is she your girlfriend?” she whispered. “You should have told her not to be jealous.”
His warm breath brushed her ear as he replied, “No, she’s nothing to me.”
Maggie stared at him. He was as handsome as the top male models posing dripping wet for cologne ads, and he had the same careless mocking expression. He was simply what he was and didn’t care what anyone else thought of him.
“Well, clearly you’re something to her.” She returned her attention to the pretty dancer.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the shadows whirling across the low ceiling. He reminded her of her father who drew women so easily he valued none longer than a few weeks or months. Rafael had probably walked over so many broken hearts he no longer heard the crunch.
When the dancer finished to lively applause, she flounced off the stage and disappeared behind a hanging curtain. A couple soon replaced her. They were favorites of the small crowd and danced to many enthusiastic cheers. When they finished, the café’s owner came to their table.
“Will you dance for us, Rafael?” he asked in heavily accented English.
Rafael nodded to Maggie. “I’ll dance if you’ll dance with me.”
She thought of the advice she’d given the twins about mood, and tonight she could easily conjure up a fierce disdain. “If everyone will forgive my lack of appropriate costume and shoes, I will.”
Their host clapped his hands. “You may dance for us naked if you like.”
Rafael laughed; Felipe then realized what he’d said and blushed with embarrassment, but Maggie interrupted his rushed apology. “I understood what you meant. My clothes don’t matter. May I borrow some castanets if there’s an extra pair? ”
“Of course, I’ll find some.”
As she rose, Maggie glanced around the room. The women present were focused on Rafael, but the men were watching her. She was used to drawing attention when she danced, but she was usually on a stage separated her from the audience and here, she would be nearly in their laps. Perhaps it was only her father’s name that had impressed them.
“Do you dance here often?” she asked Rafael.
“No, a few times is all.” He rolled his sleeves up his forearms. “But people remember me.”
“Of course they do.” She took his hand to step up on the stage, but because he now knew how well she danced, she’d lost the advantage. This time the surprises would all come from him. She was grateful for the distraction of the castanets Felipe handed her. She clicked a slow beat in time with the guitarist and quickened it as she turned her shoulder to Rafael. She moved with a graceful sway and let the familiar steps carry her into the lively and seductive dance.
She ignored the spectators’ stares and appreciative shouts and lost herself in the music, while Rafael danced so close to her she couldn’t possibly ignore him. He moved with a masculine grace, and she couldn’t help but wonder what sex would be like with him. He’d certainly bring the heat of passion but might be done in a single fiery burst, while she liked men who made love all night long.
Clearly he had the necessary stamina. Maybe all he’d need would be a woman with a fire of her own. When the guitarist strummed the final chord, Rafael drew her into a warm embrace and kissed her as she’d expected him to last night. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, one merely for show and over before she could respond. The small crowd cheered, and she forced a smile when he let her go.
She handed the castanets to Felipe but didn’t return to her chair. “Could we go now?” she asked Rafael.
“If that’s what you wish.” He offered Felipe the money for their wine, but the man shook him off with a flurry of compliments for their dancing and walked them to the door.
Rafael took her hand as they reached the street. “I’m sorry. I thought you would like it here.”
“I did.”
“But you want to leave so early?”
“I haven’t gotten used to the difference in time yet,” she hedged. She couldn’t say he overwhelmed her and led her thoughts deliciously astray. That was way too much to admit so soon.
“Do you tell no one the truth? No one trusts a Gypsy, but people will expect better from you.”
They’d reached his car, but he hadn’t unlocked her door, and she had to face him. The shadows in the dimly lit street flattered him, and she could so easily imagine women clinging to his knees, begging for his love. She didn’t cling. “There’s a difference between lying and being considerate of another’s feelings.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Then maybe we should only dance.”
He laughed. “No, I want more. Tell me why you wish to protect my feelings. No one ever has.”
Maggie stared down the dark narrow street. She could smell the sea and drew in a deep breath. She could tell one truth at least, if not the more personal one. “At home no one even knows who Miguel Aragon is or cares if I’m his daughter. He’s idolized here, and I’m afraid if I stayed any longer I might do something wrong and…”
Rafael pulled her into a warm hug. “I see. I want everyone to know who I am, and you don’t.”
“Yes, that’s it.” She rested against him and wished he hadn’t worn such a seductive cologne. It was like floating in a sexy cloud. It was no wonder the first dancer had looked so disappointed to see him there with her.
“I want to take you home,” he murmured against her hair.
“Where else would you take me?”
“To my home, not your father’s.” He gave her a quick squeeze before releasing her.
She stepped back so quickly she bumped into his car. It was one thing to let her mind wander in lust-dripping fantasy, and another to live it. “I don’t suppose you mean to show off the architecture.”
“No, I want to show off something else entirely.”
She could easily imagine Craig jumping up and shouting this was most definitely not what he’d meant when he’d urged her to visit Barcelona. She grabbed an excuse. “I’m flattered, but no. I’m leaving soon and…”
“Maybe you’ll stay.”
He wore a sly smile that made his invitation all the more intriguing, but she wouldn’t give in to temptation tonight. “Yesterday was the first time I’d met my father. Barcelona isn’t home to me and never will be.”
“If I listened to every �
��never’ I heard, I’d be working on the docks.” He unlocked her door, waited for her to get in, and then shut it with a forceful shove.
Maggie hadn’t meant to anger him, but perhaps he was too proud to ever accept a no with a gentleman’s easy shrug. She buckled her seat belt and looked forward to getting home.
He drove slowly. “But if you stay here only a few days, I’ll have a broken heart when you leave.”
His voice held a teasing depth, but Maggie laughed and shook her head. “Maybe for a whole minute.”
“I thought you were worried about my feelings.”
She stifled a giggle. “I am. That’s why I’m going to my father’s house rather than yours.”
“So you care nothing for my heart?”
“If you’re so easily heartbroken, you’re too fragile to be dating.”
His chuckle echoed in the car. “No one would ever describe me as fragile.”
“Of course not. You couldn’t fight bulls if you were.”
“True. I’d like to dance with you again. Will you come out with me tomorrow night? I know other places we could go, and I promise not to introduce you as Miguel’s daughter.”
They were talking easily, which wasn’t difficult in the darkness of his car. If she’d been looking into his dark eyes, she doubted she could form a coherent sentence. Magnetism was the word she’d been searching for. The man drew her to him with his scent and voice as well as his remarkable good looks. Then there was the smooth way he moved, as though he’d been born for dancing, or sex.
“Could we wait until tomorrow to decide?” she asked. “I haven’t really figured out the routine here, and I don’t want to make plans that might conflict with my father’s household.”
He sighed. “I understand.”
It was plain he didn’t understand at all, and she reached over to touch his arm. “You frighten me a little, and I need some time to get used to you.”
He was quiet a long moment and sounded sad when he spoke. “Santos told you I’ve been in prison. I killed the man who raped my sister. My only regret is that he died too quickly, and I got caught.”