Fierce Love

by Phoebe Conn

  “No, I’m glad you didn’t. I needed the reminder.”

  His expression hardened. “How could you forget I’m a matador? Are you sorry you slept with me?”

  “No, not at all. You’re wonderful, and I’ll never forget it.”

  He shrugged as though mystified. “You want nothing more than tonight’s memories?”

  She forced a trembling smile. “Yes, I do, but it’ll only make it so much more difficult to say good-bye.”

  “Don’t say it.” He handed her shoes.

  He didn’t speak on the drive to her father’s house, and she was too preoccupied to risk conversation. When he walked her up to the front door, she already had the key in her hand, and he left without kissing her good-bye.

  It had easily been the most remarkable night of her life, but as she climbed the stairs to her room, she felt torn. She wanted to change her reservation and fly home later that day, where she could surround herself with people who’d pose no threat to her heart or soul. It was a cowardly thought, and perhaps courage was the virtue she’d always lacked.

  She was too tired to sleep but scrubbed off Rafael’s scent in the shower. By the time she climbed into bed, it was nearly dawn. When Santos knocked on her door, she doubted she’d closed her eyes.

  “I told Father I planned to take you to the ranch, and he wants to see you before we leave.”

  She covered a wide yawn. “Give me a minute.” The print of Rafael’s kisses showed clearly on her inner thighs, but she didn’t need any visual reminders of his passionate touch. She pulled on jeans and a black knit top and sandals. Her father’s door was open, and she rapped lightly on the jamb before entering.

  Miguel sat at the table on the balcony while Santos stood looking out at the sea. “Come sit with me. Have you eaten?”

  The tray with freshly baked rolls and fruit looked untouched, but while she felt hollow, she couldn’t take a bite. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Fine. I want you to go to the ranch with Santos and invite Rafael to go along.”

  “You don’t mean it!” Santos exclaimed.

  “You heard me. Take the video camera and film him with one of our bulls. If he’s as good as he believes himself to be, I’ll arrange for his Alternativa the next time you fight.”

  “You’re trusting me to make an accurate record when I despise him?” Santos asked. “That makes no sense at all.”

  “I trust you to show me the truth. I’ll be the one to judge.” He picked up his cell phone. “Do you want to speak with Rafael?” he asked Maggie.

  She shook her head because nothing she said would make any sense. I like you so much, but your life terrifies me would be absurd no matter how she stated it. It hadn’t mattered when she’d first met him, but it mattered deeply to her now. She listened as her father explained the reason for the call. His side of the conversation went smoothly, so apparently Rafael had agreed to come along.

  “He’ll be here shortly. Be civil to him, Santos. This is important to me, and it will take nothing away from you. In fact, a rivalry between you two will swell the crowds at the bullrings from here to Mexico City.”

  Maggie shuddered. “Is that your only concern?”

  “We’re not fighting bulls for fun,” Santos replied, clearly amused by her question. “Come on, let’s go pack. We’ll be at the ranch for a couple of days at least. I usually go there to train before a fight anyway.”

  Maggie left her chair with a clumsy lurch. “When is your next fight?”

  “Sunday.”

  “This coming Sunday?”

  Her father laughed. “I’ve already changed your flight reservation so you’ll be here to see it.”

  Maggie felt trapped rather than grateful. “I wish you’d asked me first.”

  “You would have said no,” he replied. “Now we don’t have to argue over it. Besides, no one should come to Spain and go home without seeing a bullfight.”

  Maggie didn’t care if she was the first. Many people objected to the harsh cruelty to the animals involved, and she agreed, but her deeper concern lay with the men she cared about.

  Her father called to them as they reached the door. “Take Fox along. He’s lost here without the twins.”

  “I will,” Santos answered. “There’s no reason for him to miss out on the fun.”

  “Fun?” Maggie repeated numbly. She entered her room to pack and found the bed again made up. The maid had to lurk down the hall waiting for a chance to clean. She went out on her balcony to breathe in the crisp fresh air, but her life had never been such a disastrous muddle.

  Chapter Ten

  Santos backed a white Mercedes GLK 350 SUV out of the four-car garage and parked it in the gravel driveway. He got out and opened the rear door for their luggage. “The Hispano-Suiza is for special occasions only. Convince Mondragon to drive his own car so I don’t have to put up with his tedious company the whole way to the ranch.”

  “How long a trip is it?” Maggie asked.

  Fox was seated on his duffle bag on the edge of the patio playing a video game on his phone. “The ranch is on this side of Zaragoza, so we can make it in an hour and a half, a little less if Santos has a girl waiting for him.”

  “You meet your girlfriends at the ranch?” Maggie asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I thought you went there to train for fights.”

  He winked at her. “It’s good to have an appreciative audience.”

  “If you say so.” She thought a man in a ring with a bull ought to concentrate on the damn bull, not some pretty girl leaning over the rail. He didn’t need her advice, so she kept still and vowed not to set a foot out of the ranch house. The prospect of a scholarly perusal of her grandfather’s memoir was looking better every minute. She kept her eye on the road out front, waiting for Rafael to arrive. She didn’t even know what she’d packed. Her stomach growled as her body betrayed her by craving food while her emotions were tangled in painful knots.

  “You ought to eat,” Fox prompted. “Not that the food isn’t good at the ranch, but it’s a working cattle ranch, and there’s only so many ways to prepare beef.”

  “I’ll get by on bread and water.”

  “You’ll like it there,” Santos insisted. “Here’s Mondragon now, so let’s go.”

  Uncertain what to expect, she held her breath, but Rafael wore a cocky grin as he approached her. Each time she saw him he got better looking, which had to be impossible. He grabbed her carry-on bag. “Magdalena is coming with me. Do you have the directions?”

  Santos had them ready and handed them to Maggie. “You can follow me.”

  “I’d rather not,” Rafael replied. He tossed her bag into the backseat and opened her door. He got in on the driver’s side, backed out of the driveway and turned toward the road to the freeway. He reached for her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. “How did you convince your father to back my Alternativa? He fell asleep the last time I asked him.”

  So that’s why he’d been smiling. He’d been looking forward to the fight, not to seeing her. He’d just shown his true colors, but when she’d relegated him to a week long fling, she didn’t have any room to complain. Still, she was disappointed and pulled her hand free. She’d be damned if she’d take second place to a bull. “I can’t take the credit. It was his idea to see if you’re ready, not mine.”

  He shot her a skeptical glance. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. We’ve just met. He doesn’t ask for my opinions.”

  “You must have told him you like me.”

  She had mentioned his name. “Of course I like you. I just don’t want to see you in a ring with an enraged bull.”

  “So I should make free time for you?”

  “If you’re alive to do so. I’m tired and need a nap.” She snuggled down in her seat.

  “Do you want me to pull over so you can get into the backseat?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine here.” She peered into the side
mirror, but there was no sign of Santos’s SUV. She closed her eyes. The radio was as soft as a lullaby. The car held a faint hint of Rafael’s scent, which ought to have a lethal rating. “What’s the name of your cologne?”

  “It’s a custom scent made for your father, and he gave me some. If it has a name, I’ve not heard it. Do you like it?”

  “It’s haunting.”

  “Could a ghost wear cologne?”

  “Probably not, but it’s a memorable scent I’d recognize anywhere. Santos wears it too.” She covered a yawn and sank deeper into her seat. She’d meant to close her eyes for a catnap, but she slept all the way to the ranch. When Rafael touched her shoulder, she sat up with a start and looked around. “I’m sorry not to have been better company.”

  His smile slid into a teasing grin. “You’re forgetting I knew why you were so tired. I took it as a compliment.”

  “Yes, you should.” She supposed the spring in his step as he circled the car to her door was a compliment for her too. Sex energized him and left her as limp as a jellyfish floating aimlessly in the sea.

  The two-story, natural stone house was a warm sandy color and even larger than the Aragon home at the beach. The front door was set back in an arch; a wooden balcony ran the length of the second floor and shaded the wide ground floor porch. The house had the popular red-tile roof, and a large vegetable garden provided the only landscaping.

  A stable stood nearby, bunk houses for the men and modest homes for the servants who worked in the house. There were no other structures within miles, but the arena set off by itself held her gaze. It wasn’t as large as a commercial bullring, and there was a single set of wooden bleachers she didn’t want to go near.

  “Zaragoza is another half hour away,” Rafael told her. “It’s easy to get back on the freeway if you miss civilization.”

  “I don’t expect to be here that long.” She saw a plume of dust in the distance. “Here comes Santos. I’m surprised we beat him.”

  “I’m not.” He leaned back against his Mercedes as though he’d been waiting half the day. “Do you think Fox would like to learn how to fight a bull?”

  “No, and don’t you dare offer to teach him.”

  He lifted a brow as though her warning were absurd. He had a marvelous variety of expressions, most on the darkly disdainful side, but he certainly didn’t bore her with needless conversation. She reached into the backseat for her bag. She’d never met another man with such a fiery physical appeal, and she wished she owned an asbestos jumpsuit, which she supposed would be equally life-threatening. She should have asked her father what her new departure day would be so she could make a chart and cross off the days. Even if she cried the whole flight, there would be the comfort of going home.

  “Many women are eager to be with a matador, and I have to find one who’d rather I were simply a Gypsy dancer.”

  She couldn’t argue with him. “You ought to be flattered I’m not simply dazzled by your whirling cape or tight pants.”

  He laughed. “You’ve never seen me fight.”

  “No, thank God, but I’d never beg you to quit,” she insisted. “I deserve some credit for that.”

  He shook his head. “True, but I wouldn’t listen even if you did.”

  She’d known he wouldn’t. She supposed Ana Santillan must have no problem loving a matador since she was working her way through the Aragon line, but Miguel had probably already been retired when she’d met him. Maybe it had been watching Augustín fight that had turned Carmen into such a sullen woman. She wondered how candid her grandfather’s memoir would prove to be and whether her grandmother would even be mentioned.

  He pulled her close. “Bullfighting is a young man’s game, and I’m starting late, so my career won’t be nearly as long as your father’s.”

  Santos pulled in next to them before she could respond, but one fight would be too many for her to endure and they’d just met. If she loved him, it would be like eating glass. When Fox got out of the SUV and came up beside her, she found a smile for him.

  “Is there anything for you to do here?” she asked.

  “I learned how to shoe a horse on my last visit. I know how to stay out of trouble.”

  Maggie wished she could say the same.

  The housekeeper was introduced as Anita Lujan, an ample-figured woman with a booming laugh. She greeted Santos as though he were her own son, patted Fox on the back and exclaimed over Maggie’s beauty. She looked Rafael up and down and shrugged as though unsure what to make of him. “Come, let me take you to your rooms.”

  Fox and Santos knew where they belonged and preceded her up the stairs. She led Maggie to the end room that opened on the balcony and showed Rafael next door. A bathroom connected the two rooms. He waited for Mrs. Lujan to leave, then walked into Maggie’s room.

  “Don’t worry about hanging your laundry in the bathroom. A woman’s lingerie makes beautiful decorations.”

  He hadn’t been wearing any underwear last night, and she doubted he ever did, unless he wore embroidered briefs for the bullring. “Is there fancy sequined underwear for matadors?”

  “No, wouldn’t they be uncomfortable?”

  “Would a matador notice?”

  He moved up behind her and looped his arms around her waist. “Enough. I’ll be a Gypsy dancer for you, nothing more.”

  She relaxed against him. They were already moving in a dream world, and last night she’d been desperate to enjoy it. She wasn’t the least bit sorry either. “All right. Mrs. Lujan was expecting us. Do you suppose there’s something for lunch?”

  He spread teasing kisses along her neck. “Whatever you want.”

  She patted his hands and stepped away. “I was thinking along the lines of soup or sandwiches.”

  “Later, then?”

  She took his hand and backed toward the door. “You’ll be dessert.”

  Maggie took the delicious vegetable soup offered for lunch, while her male companions went on outside with a promise to return later for the thick roast beef sandwiches Refugio, the cook, would have waiting. She sipped the soup slowly to savor the vegetables freshly picked from the garden. The bread was still warm from the oven and tasted awfully good too. Once finished, she sat back and hoped her earlier black mood had been due at least partly to hunger. Now fortified, she asked Mrs. Lujan where she might find whatever materials Augustín had gathered for his memoir.

  “Do you have your grandmother’s permission?” the housekeeper asked.

  Her heart fell. “I didn’t think to ask her.”

  “Good.” Anita led her into the den at the end of the house. Bookshelves lined the walls, but windows on three sides flooded the room with light.

  Maggie would rather not have had a view of the bullring, but there were no draperies to draw. “I won’t take anything,” she promised. “I’d just like to get a sense of the man.”

  The housekeeper pulled open the deep lower drawer on the desk and took out a tin box. “He kept it all in here. He’d take out everything, sit here all day doing little or nothing and then put it all away. He must have thought he’d have more time to work on his memories.”

  “Thank you. I won’t make a mess.”

  “I trust you,” Anita replied. “Would you like coffee or tea, something more to eat?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “So is your young man,” the housekeeper answered with a wink. She closed the door on her way out.

  Maggie laughed in spite of herself, but Rafael was most definitely fine, from any angle. She opened the box and found not a collection of letters and notes, but three journals. She checked the dates and sat down to skim through the first. Augustín had written in Spanish rather than Catalan and the bold downward strokes of his handwriting were easy to read.

  Unfortunately, the book contained only a list of bullfights and who’d been on the bill with him. He’d written a brief assessment of each man’s performance, including his own. There were photographs tucked be
tween the pages, and all had the subject’s names and the date neatly printed, but they were of other matadors and men who’d worked with him rather than family.

  Augustín had apparently been the meticulous sort, but there was no other hint to the man’s personality. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been the one to send Miguel to the University of Arizona, or if Carmen had been behind the effort to separate their son from the sweetly innocent Rosa Sanchez.

  She opened the second journal expecting more of the same, but Augustín’s first sentence stunned her. “Live in the center of your life.” She repeated it several times wondering if it was his philosophy or an affirmation he’d read somewhere. There was a drawing of a man standing in a circle that could have been a bullring. It was a carefully made sketch rather than a stick figure, and she flipped through the journal looking for more of his artwork.

  The drawing of the woman was at the end of the book. She was dancing, spreading a full skirt and looking over her shoulder. She was smiling as though gazing at the man she loved, but the name Augustín had written was Simone rather than Carmen.

  A loud shout from outside drew her to the window, but the ranch hands gathered around the bullring were in high spirits, not calling for help. She had to stand on the desk chair to get a better view. Rafael was taunting a russet-colored bull with a flying swirl of his cape, and ranch hands shouted, “Olé!” She climbed down from the chair and pulled it back to the desk.

  The man definitely had the balls to be a matador, but she’d seen more than enough. She’d watch the video later when he would surely brag about it. She opened the third journal and found Augustín had begun recording Miguel’s fights with the same intensity to detail he’d shown in his own. There were no more drawings, and the photos slipped into the book were all of Miguel.

  Her father had been so young when she’d been born, and the photos showed him before his fights, before his glistening costume became splattered with a bull’s blood. She thought Santos would be able to appreciate his grandfather’s commentaries, but if her brother had learned to stay out of their grandfather’s way, probably not. Maybe there was a history museum that would want Augustín’s journals. She doubted Carmen would deign to discuss the subject. Maggie carefully replaced the journals in the tin box and put it away.