by Phoebe Conn
Now that was scary. “Santos did mention prison but not the details. Didn’t you trust the authorities to prosecute the man?”
“No one cares if someone rapes a Gypsy girl. The man who did it will lie and call her a whore, and his friends will back him up. I was responsible for my sister and should have kept her safe.”
“How old was she when it happened?”
“Sixteen, and she died of a drug overdose soon after I went to prison. Shame is what really killed her, though, not drugs. I’m sorry. I should have kept the whole sad story to myself.”
“No, it will go no further. I’m very sorry you lost your sister. It’s plain she was very dear to you.”
“Thank you, but Santos is right, I have a prison record, and you shouldn’t overlook it; others don’t.”
“It must add to your image as a matador.” It wasn’t his prison time that frightened her, however, but simply his power as an attractive man. All too attractive. His devotion to his sister was admirable, even if it had led to murder. When he was so physically appealing, she thought women would forgive and forget a great deal. Then again, he wasn’t a man a woman would shrug off like an old coat either.
“My image? To say I’m a Gypsy is enough to strike fear in many hearts, unfortunately, not the bull’s.”
“I’d rather think of you as a dancer. Who taught you to dance?”
“My mother. I’ve no idea where she is or if she’s still alive. She’d often form liaisons with wealthy men and leave my sister and me with our grandmother. The last time, she didn’t come back. I don’t want your sympathy for that either. My life has been nothing like yours. Let’s leave it at that.”
She had often felt like an outsider in her own family, but she’d had a pampered childhood and had always been loved. She could easily imagine him running through the streets barefoot, his hair too long, and in need of a bath. They were back on the freeway before she relaxed. “Barcelona is a beautiful city. The air here sparkles with energy. Except for the water, the terrain closely resembles Arizona. It’s easy to see why the Conquistadores were at home in America’s southwest.”
“You live in Arizona?”
“Yes, in Tucson.”
“It’s close to the border with Mexico, isn’t it? I could come visit you when I fight there.”
Her first thought was to invite him to speak on her high school’s career day. She was certain no matador had ever been part of the program. “Yes, I suppose you could. Do you have a crew who travels with you?”
“No, I have to carry my own luggage and hire men to work in the ring.”
“Are they difficult to find?”
“No, but good ones are. Have you ever been to a bullfight?”
“No, I’ve read a lot about them, but I’ve never wanted to go.”
“Your father has films he could show you. He was among the very best.”
“So I’ve heard, but bullfighting is too violent for my tastes.”
“But it’s a very beautiful violence,” he argued. “You might learn to appreciate it.”
“I’d be more likely to sprout wings and fly home.”
He dropped his voice to a more sympathetic tone. “You should be more open to new experiences.”
“Does that line work on other women?”
“With me as the experience? I’m too busy to chase women. I want to know you; that’s a different thing.”
If her father weren’t Miguel Aragon, they’d never have met, and she couldn’t help but feel her father was a huge factor in his interest. “Thank you.”
When they reached her father’s home, he walked her up to the front door and leaned down to kiss her. It was another mere token of a kiss, as brief as the one when they’d danced. She knew he could do better, but turned away to reach for the doorknob and found the door locked.
“Oh no, I didn’t think to ask for a key and I hate to wake Mrs. Lopez.”
“Do you have a cell phone to call Santos or the twins?”
“I didn’t bring it with me, and I don’t know their numbers. Let’s go around to the back. Maybe they left the kitchen door open for me.”
He took her hand in a soft clasp. “I’ll stay with you if you can’t get in. We could sleep on the beach, and you’d be able to sneak back into the house when the kitchen help arrives in the morning. No one would have to know you’d been out all night.”
The evening was pleasantly warm, but sleeping on the beach with him for company couldn’t possibly be as innocent as he made it sound. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He tried the back door. “It’s locked too.” He stepped back to look up at the second floor, but no lights were showing. “Maybe Santos isn’t home yet. We could wait for him here.”
She moved farther back to also search the dark balconies. The shutters that closed them off from the sea at night were all shut. “The twins said they’d wait up for me. Maybe they’re watching a movie downstairs. I’ve not been through the whole house, so I’m not sure where to look. There should be a nurse on duty. Maybe she’ll come into the kitchen.”
“So the house is full of people?” he asked.
She swallowed hard but still felt as though she’d been deliberately shut out. It brought a familiar ache, and she shook it off. “It could be, but I’d rather not wake my grandmother or Cirilda.”
“Or Santos?” he added softly.
“Are matadors ever friends?”
He looked out toward the sea. “We must take care of ourselves first. That doesn’t leave much time for friends. Although I have jumped into an arena a time or two to distract a bull when another matador has slipped and fallen.”
“I’m sure no one doubts your bravery.”
“Of course they do. Every time I fight, I must prove it all over again. Fans keep screaming for more and more. The trick is not to listen.”
“Is that something my father taught you?”
“Yes, he taught me everything I know. He’s the reason I love bullfighting. You should have seen him.”
Clearly Rafael was an adrenaline junkie who lived for increasingly dangerous thrills. Her father had survived, even if others hadn’t. Some women were drawn to daredevils of every sort, but she wasn’t among them.
A glass-topped patio table and chairs, a chaise and padded stools were clustered together on the patio. He gestured toward the chaise. “We should make ourselves comfortable.”
“Someone will turn up sooner or later. I’d rather walk on the beach.” She kicked off her shoes.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
She sighed. “No. Bullfighting has been popular for centuries in Spain. You’ve grown up loving it, and I can understand the need some people have for excitement.”
“But you don’t approve?”
“How you choose to live your life is no concern of mine. Are you trying to start a fight?”
“Why would I do that?”
She’d learned a great deal from Craig and gave one of the psychologist’s explanations. “Some people are used to being surrounded by turmoil, and whenever it’s absent, they create it themselves.”
He looked puzzled. “You’ve met men who’d rather fight than dance?”
“A few, but I didn’t know them long.”
“They disappointed you?”
“No, I didn’t give them the chance.” She looked up at the house. “This is a wonderfully strange home, isn’t it?”
He moved close. “Not everyone admires Gaudí.”
“I do. No one has ever seen the world the way he did.”
He leaned down to slide a curl off her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “How do you see the world?”
With him standing so close, her thoughts were on him rather than philosophy. “I don’t know. That’s one of the reasons I came here, to make sense of everything.”
“In a week?”
“Why not? Maybe a week is enough, or it could take me a lifetime.”
“Then you needn’t
do it all tonight. Let’s go on down to the water. It’s a shame everyone can’t live on the edge of the sea.”
“Some people prefer the mountains.”
“Do you?”
His frequent questions surprised her. Most men talked only about themselves. He was too smart to do so, apparently, but she still didn’t trust him. Unused to being a celebrity’s daughter, she was beginning to sympathize with public figures’ children and how difficult their lives truly must be. They’d never know who were truly their friends or where the answer to an innocent question might appear for the world to see or read.
“I could watch the sea all day,” she confided softly. “Mountains provide lovely scenery and views, but the sea’s never static.”
“I’d rather dance.” He raised her hand to turn her in a slow twirl. “It’s difficult to dance in sand, though.”
She laughed with him. While she never wanted to see it, she bet his grace served him well in the bullring. When he pulled her close, she moved easily into his arms. His kiss was another light brush across her lips, tender and sweet, leaving her with an unfamiliar ache for more. She wondered if he were closer to being a gentle soul rather than a swaggering matador. Regardless, he was a very desirable man. She grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him back.
“Kiss me like you mean it.” She licked his lower lip, and he tightened his grasp on her waist to lift her off the sandy patio. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on. She flicked her tongue over his and waited for him to make the kiss his own. He was still slow and sweet, but he lingered now, and his affection had the intoxicating allure of the wine they’re shared and took her breath away.
The sweep of Santos’s headlights startled them both. “I’m sorry,” he murmured and set her down.
Chapter Seven
She laced her fingers in his. “Don’t say a word,” she urged.
Clearly he’d never heard anything more absurd. “You don’t have to protect me.” He straightened up, his shoulders thrown back as though he expected a fight. She didn’t appreciate his challenging smirk, and Santos immediately took exception to it.
“What are you doing with him, Magdalena?”
She dropped Rafael’s hand. “I’ve a right to see whomever I please, just as you do,” she added pointedly.
“You wouldn’t want her to wander the beach alone,” Rafael added. “And you forgot to give her a key.”
“She’d be better off alone than with you,” Santos shot right back at him.
She looked over her shoulder at Rafael. “I enjoyed seeing the dancers. Thank you for taking me.”
He nodded. “It was my pleasure. Good night.” He gave Santos a wide berth as he circled the house to return to his car.
Maggie was relieved her brother had let him go without further insults. “Thank you for your concern, Santos, but you needn’t worry about me. I won’t be here long enough to advance Rafael’s career or embarrass you again.” She brushed the sand off her feet and slipped on her shoes. “Oh, by the way, I met Ana Santillan this morning.”
Santos closed the distance between them. “She came here?”
“She didn’t tell you? I thought you two were close.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets. “We are, but it isn’t common knowledge. You mustn’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t if you’ll stop insulting Rafael.”
“Don’t you understand what he’s doing? He wants Father to back him, that’s all. You’re a beautiful woman, but all he sees is the Aragon name. That’s what he needs, not you.”
“Is that all Ana wants with you, a means to remain close to our father?”
The question gave him a moment’s pause. “No. I hope her affection is sincere, but Rafael’s isn’t. Don’t let him use you.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and opened the back door. “You should have rung the bell. The twins are never asleep this early.”
“Really? I was afraid I’d wake our grandmother or Cirilda.”
“I avoid them too. I’ll get you a key tomorrow, but please, if you want male company, my friends would be a far better choice.”
“No, thank you, that’s not why I came to Spain.”
The twins bounded into the kitchen, followed by Fox. Perry came forward to take Maggie’s hand. “You’ve got to see the film we’re watching.”
Fox took a soft drink from the refrigerator and let the girls run ahead without him. Maggie looked back and wondered how often the twins and Fox were left alone. A couple of precocious thirteen-year-olds and a bored sixteen-year-old boy struck her as a disaster waiting to happen.
Perry led her through the dining room and down the central hallway to a den filled with comfortable chairs and sofas and a huge flat-screen TV. Maggie had expected a popular movie, but they’d been watching a documentary on their father’s career. It was the last thing she wanted to see, but as the screen filled with a colorful crowd cheering for Miguel, she couldn’t turn away. He’d been retired more than ten years, and the film showed him in his prime. He controlled the furious black bull with a nonchalant elegance that fascinated her. She closed her eyes when he went in for the kill.
Perry and Connie were cheering along with the crowd, but Maggie felt sick and turned away. She noticed the painting then. Miguel was posed in a bullfighter’s classical stance, his left side to the viewer as the bull thundered past his swinging cape. Looking down, his expression was impossible to read, but it was a strikingly beautiful yet crazily dangerous scene.
The documentary included a brief mention of Miguel’s family and showed him with Vida Ramos. Their two children were riding ponies on their ranch and laughing happily together. Maggie understood the Spanish narration and wondered if Santos was ever included in the family portraits. He wasn’t mentioned, and neither was she. She supposed their existence was an annoying detail that didn’t fit the film’s picture perfect family.
The omission hurt her even now. Santos must have been shoved aside until he was old enough to demand attention on his own. It was no wonder he labeled Rafael as unwanted competition and suspected his motives. What a mess. She’d come in toward the end of the film and was relieved she wouldn’t have to watch more.
“I wish he’d still been fighting when we were old enough to see him,” Connie said. “Films of him just aren’t the same.”
Fox came to the door. “We’re old enough to see Santos.”
“If we’re still here,” Perry replied. “Mother keeps our schedule secret even from us.”
Maggie covered a wide yawn. “It’s awfully late. I’m going up to bed.”
Connie stood and stretched. “I’m coming too. Turn off the lights, Perry.”
“Why don’t you?”
“You’re closer.”
Fox shook his head and walked out. “They never quit. Good night.”
Maggie waited until the lights were out and the twins headed toward the stairs to stop them. “Does anyone here make it their business to know what you two and Fox are doing together?”
Perry laughed hard enough to snort and Connie had to hold her sides. “No, it’s like a model of the solar system here with all the planets moving in their own orbit,” Perry explained. “No one cares what we do as long as we don’t bump into Grandmother or Aunt Cirilda. Fox likes being off on his own. He’s usually at boarding school in England anyway.”
“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Maggie asked.
Perry blushed. “Sure, be careful and use condoms, we know that. But who’d want to sleep with Fox?”
“He’s cute,” Connie said, “but he’s our brother even if he won’t admit it. Now tell us what happened with Rafael. Don’t hold out on us.”
“He took me to a place with talented dancers, and then we came home. Unless you love flamenco the way I do, there was no excitement at all.”
The twins shook their heads. “There’s got to be more.”
“That’s enough for you. Now hurry on to bed.”
They race
d up the stairs ahead of her and were already in their room when she reached the landing. She closed her bedroom door and leaned back against it. Her lips still tingled from Rafael’s endearing affection. Clearly he hadn’t been equally touched because when Santos had interrupted them, he’d quickly reverted to his usual abrasive, cocky self.
She checked the time. It was already late Monday morning in Tucson and she’d missed her chance to call Craig. She was tempted to leave him a voice message. Her father was dying, her relatives could not be easily described, and she’d met a Gypsy matador whose motives were suspect. It wasn’t a call worth making when he’d be busy with the last couple of weeks of school, but she wished she’d thought to bring a journal. She’d noticed a desk in the den, and, hoping to find some of her father’s stationery, she went back downstairs. She turned on the lamp on the desk and opened the middle drawer.
Cirilda stepped into the room. “Miguel’s will is in a safety deposit box at his bank, not here.”
Maggie looked up. “I wasn’t snooping. I just wanted a few sheets of stationery.”
Cirilda turned around and walked out without commenting, and Maggie swore softly. There was no point in trying to befriend her aunt when the woman was mean-spirited to the core, like her mother. Compared to them, Miguel was a veritable prince.
She found the stationery still in its box in a side drawer, took some and turned out the light.
She joined her father for breakfast the next morning. She hadn’t slept well but couldn’t just lie in bed until noon. There were delicious little muffins and fresh fruit, and she was surprisingly hungry. “Would you tell me something about your father?” she asked. “You mentioned he was a matador, but what sort of man was he?”
“Ah yes, of course, you’d be curious. I’m a pale shadow compared to Augustín. He fought only a few years and retired to our ranch in Zaragoza. He refused interviews but worked on a memoir he never completed. He taught me all he knew of the ring and life and encouraged me to be my own man.”
He paused to swallow a drink of freshly squeezed orange juice. “I’m sorry to say he and my mother weren’t a good match. I never heard him speak a cross word to her, but there was no love shown between them, no laughter nor joy. She was from a fine family, and they welcomed him, but you’ve met my mother so perhaps you understand why they weren’t a happy couple. A heart attack killed him when he was still in his fifties. Cirilda should show you the family photographs, but most of his things are at the ranch.”