Fierce Love

by Phoebe Conn

  “It was true in our case, or at least for me.”

  He growled against her throat. “Even if you won’t admit it, you do love me.”

  She curled into his arms. How could she say she loved him when she couldn’t accept the way he earned his living? It would be far safer just to dance. She longed for what she could give him. “Could we dance without disturbing your downstairs neighbor?”

  He sat up, rolled off the sofa and gave her a hand. “She is a very sweet lady who is profoundly deaf, so we can dance until dawn if you like.”

  “Let’s try.” She slipped the red dress over her head and unpacked her dancing shoes. Rafael changed his shirt for a black silk one he preferred for dancing. He moved the coffee table, rolled up the small rug in front of the couch and put on the music.

  She remembered her castanets and rummaged through her bag to find them. At last ready, she struck a favorite dance pose and looked over her shoulder at him. He wore an indulgent smile. “It’s better to celebrate a man’s life than dwell on his death,” she offered.

  He tapped his heels in a spirited rhythm. “I agree.”

  She clicked her castanets in time with his steps and lost herself in the music. Emotion rose within her, but it was neither sorrow nor regret, only the deep joy of knowing him. When he pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though they’d been parted for centuries, she welcomed his unbridled affection and returned it in full measure. Their clothes went flying toward the couch. Her castanets bounced off the ceiling when she flung them away. Whether his passion was a celebration of the day, or from the depths of grief-laced despair, she craved it all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They had gone to sleep so late they were still in bed when Santos called the next morning. Rafael got up to hand Maggie her phone, and she yawned through a mumbled hello.

  “I have Augustín’s memoir. Come to my place, and we’ll read it.”

  She sat up straight. “Cirilda felt up to visiting her bank?”

  “There’s a great deal to do, and Grandmother won’t leave her bed. Cirilda and I are making all the plans, and it was one of our stops. The funeral will be at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar in Zaragoza at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning. Grandmother wants it private, but the news will get out, and hundreds, if not thousands, will attend. Now let me talk to Rafael, and I’ll give him the directions to my apartment.”

  “We need to go to Santos’s place.” She handed him the phone and a curt exchange of information followed. She left the bed to shower first, and dressed in dark pants. Knowing Rafael would wear black as always, she dug through her bag for a dark print knit top she hadn’t worn yet so they wouldn’t look like a silly couple who dressed alike.

  As he pulled the car away from the curb, he turned to ask, “Was I too rough last night?”

  “No, not at all. I find passion very appealing.”

  “Just any man’s passion?” he asked.

  A night in bed with him had left her so relaxed she responded easily to his teasing. “Excuse me, dearest, of course I was referring to you, not the general male population. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  He laughed in spite of his effort to remain serious. “I’m sorry. I was just worried about you.”

  “If you’d been too rough, I would have said so. It was a wonderful night, and I have no complaints.”

  “We should have hung up your dress.”

  “The wrinkles will fall out today.” She’d hung it in the bathroom so the steam from the shower would melt them. The dress also blocked the sight of his black-as-evil traje de luces. It was still there though, a dark, lingering reminder of the danger he took on so willingly. Every day she cared for him more. Delaying their inevitable parting wouldn’t change things. She couldn’t stay in Spain. She ought to make her reservation to fly home the day after the funeral. But what she ought to do, had to do, just didn’t register today.

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon when they took the elevator up to Santos’s apartment. They’d brought coffee, soft drinks, and half a dozen roast beef sandwiches on thick rolls.

  Fox opened the door. “Food, perfect. Come on in.”

  Santos came up behind him to welcome them to his spacious apartment. “Thanks for bringing something to eat. Fox has eaten his way through everything edible here. Let’s eat before we look through Augustín’s papers.” He directed them into the dining room that opened off the starkly furnished living room. There was a view of the sea from the wide windows. The glass tabletop rested on a steel frame. The chairs were metal with mesh backs and seats but surprisingly comfortable.

  Maggie noted her brother’s slight limp. “How’s your leg today?”

  “It hurts, and I’m supposed to stay off of it, but Fox is an insolent servant.”

  “Where’s Ana?” Rafael asked.

  Santos shrugged. “History. She’ll not rate more than a single paragraph in my memoir, if I write one.”

  “You should,” Maggie encouraged. “You’ll have an entirely different view of the family than someone outside would.”

  “Before you leave, I’ll show you the books written about our father. They cover what he did in the ring but printed only rumors about his private life.”

  “I’d still love to see them.” Maggie hadn’t reconciled her part in yesterday’s tragedy and nibbled her sandwich while her male companions ate with unabashed gusto. She didn’t understand how they could be hungry when Miguel had been such an important part of their lives. Craig would point out how adept men were at hiding their feelings, and maybe that was all her companions were doing. “We should have brought more.”

  “No, this is fine,” Santos assured her. “Later, we can order in if we want to. We ought to think about Wednesday and plan to go together to the funeral. I’ll have limos from Zaragoza come to the ranch for us.”

  Maggie quickly saw a problem. “I doubt Carmen will ride with me.”

  “That’s why I’ll hire more than one.”

  “We should take the Hispano-Suiza,” Fox offered.

  “Have you seen it?” Maggie asked Rafael.

  He nodded. “Once, when it was being washed. It’s a magnificent car. Nothing today comes close to it.”

  “We can’t use it,” Santos said. “There’s too great a risk it’ll be damaged by the crowd. They’d break off the crane emblem and everything else they could pry off as souvenirs.”

  “While we’re talking about the funeral,” Rafael began, “I appreciated all Miguel did for me, and I’d like to speak if your grandmother will allow it.”

  Fox laughed. “He said your death would be no great loss to the world.”

  Santos swore, put down his sandwich and wiped his hands on his napkin. “That was cruel, and there’s no excuse for it. Go eat in the kitchen before I wring your neck.”

  “It’s the truth,” Fox swore, but he got up as ordered and ambled into the kitchen.

  Disbelief clouded Rafael’s expression as he sat back in his chair. “Miguel actually said that my death would be no great loss?”

  Santos sent Maggie a desperate glance. “He was annoyed with me for insisting you weren’t ready. He just wanted me out of his room. He didn’t mean it.”

  Maggie knew he did and hated that Rafael had heard it. Her appetite gone, she put her sandwich on her plate. Rafael looked as distressed as he had when he’d first learned of her father’s death, and she laid her hand on his thigh. “This is such a difficult time for us all. Please remember what my father said to you, not some off-hand remark he made to someone else.”

  Rafael got up and pushed his chair back into the table. “I need some air. I’ll come back for you later.”

  The pain in his gaze was too deep for her to offer another apology he wouldn’t accept. He closed the front door quietly, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if he never returned. “Fox has no sense at all,” she complained.

  “He’s a kid,” Santos argued. “But you’re right, he was cruel, wheth
er it was deliberate or not, and I doubt Rafael will forget it.”

  “No, he won’t. What man would?”

  Santos looked toward the kitchen. Fox had turned on the small television he watched while he cooked. “Now that we’re alone, tell me what really happened yesterday.”

  Maggie would never tell the whole story. She repeated what she’d said earlier with the addition of her father’s criticism for the first two matadors. “He was proud of you and surprised Rafael was better than he’d expected. He was enjoying the afternoon, excited, and then…”

  Santos stared at her, then gave up hope she’d say more. “Dr. Moreno said he was still alive when he reached the hospital but died soon afterward. Didn’t it strike you as odd there was an ambulance there?”

  “He said it was Dr. Moreno’s idea.”

  “So he anticipated a heart attack? If watching a bullfight was more excitement than he could stand, why didn’t Moreno forbid it?”

  Maggie supplied the excuse her father had given her. “Hasn’t an ambulance been there whenever you’ve fought in Barcelona?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve come here on the way home and gone by the beach house later to celebrate with him. He’d drink champagne, although he wasn’t supposed to. He loved bullfighting. Maybe he would have wanted to die the way he did. Wherever we bury him will become a shine. Grandmother might suggest the ranch, but we can’t have people wandering through our home on a pilgrimage.”

  “Where’s Augustín buried?”

  “In the Basilica cemetery. He has an impressive monument. I’ll show it to you when we’re there.”

  Maggie rolled what was left of her sandwich in its wrapping. “I’ll save this for later.” She carried it into the refrigerator and dealt with Fox. “You’re young, but that’s no excuse to broadcast every comment you’ve ever heard without considering the consequences. Rafael idolized Miguel, and you hurt him badly. Was that your intention?”

  His eyes widened in astonishment. “You think I’m jealous of him? I never wanted to be Miguel’s son, and Rafael did. He can have him. May I have the rest of your sandwich?”

  She knew teenage boys were often blind to everything past their noses, but the damage was too severe to repair. “Help yourself.” She washed her hands in the sink and waited while Santos washed his.

  He led her into the living room and picked up an accordion file. “It looks as though Cirilda threw everything into this when our grandmother told her to get rid of it. Help me organize it by date first, and then we’ll see if we can make something out of it.”

  They sat on the pale woolen rug to tackle the project. He handed her the first section of the file, and he began with the second. “These pages are dated from different years.” She arranged them in order and wished her grandfather had used a yellow legal pad throughout, but there were also sheets of fine linen stationery with the Aragon crest, and even some thoughts written on the back of receipts. She picked up the earliest sheet and began to read.

  “Can you read Spanish?” Santos asked.

  “Yes, I teach Spanish in high school. It’s a useful language in Arizona and all the southwest.”

  “So we could have been speaking Spanish the whole time you’ve been here?”

  “Your English is perfect, but I didn’t mean to deceive you.”

  “All women deceive men. It’s part of the species,” he replied with a careless shrug.

  Guilty of a monstrous deception when it came to Miguel’s death, she couldn’t argue. She was relieved to hear a knock at the door and got up to answer. “I didn’t expect Rafael to be back so soon.”

  Her wide smile faded. Clearly disappointed Santos hadn’t opened the door, Ana Santillan stared past Maggie to him. “Have you moved in, Magdalena? He’s tossed me out.”

  “I assume you’ve come by to offer your sympathies,” Santos said as he struggled to his feet. “Thank you, we appreciate them.”

  “I was worried about you too. Rafael didn’t have to carry you out of the ring yesterday, but you leaned on him and were limping.”

  His jeans hid his bandage, and he admitted nothing. “It was just a scratch. I won’t keep you.”

  Fox heard Ana’s voice and rushed into the living room wearing a happy grin. “Were you there yesterday?”

  “Yes, I was seated not too far from you. Did you enjoy the bullfights?”

  “It’s like watching car wrecks,” he replied. “I’ve had enough.”

  “There are many people in Spain who agree with you and want to see them come to an end.”

  Maggie stepped out of Santos’s way as he reached for the doorknob. “I haven’t the time to debate the issue now. Good-bye.”

  As he swung the door closed, Ana peered through the narrowing gap. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, Fox.”

  Santos jerked the door open. “And just where do you plan to see him?”

  “At the funeral in Zaragoza. Thousands of your father’s fans will be there.”

  “Good-bye.” Santos cursed under his breath, closed and locked the door. “She’s probably told a thousand of those fans herself.”

  Fox looked down at the papers littering the floor. “May I help?”

  “Shall we trust him?” Santos asked Maggie.

  “Probably not,” she replied. “But there’s a lot to sort here.”

  Fox took that as a yes and sat down closer to Santos than her. He didn’t speak Spanish and soon grew bored ordering papers by dates and went back to watch an English station on the kitchen television.

  “I’m worried about him,” Maggie whispered.

  “So am I. He and the twins are close, and they should be here this afternoon.”

  “That worries me too,” she added.

  “Our family is a twisted mess, except for you and me, but I doubt they’d form a ménage a trois.”

  “I don’t. They’re not related, which he points out often. The girls are too sophisticated for their own good, so anything might happen between them.”

  He shuffled the last of his section of the papers into place. “Let’s say you and I met and didn’t know we shared a father. Would I appeal to you?”

  Ana had warned her he liked her more than a brother should, but he’d never led her to suspect it, unless she counted his immense dislike for Rafael. Still, she was better off with the truth when she could tell it. “Yes. You’re a handsome man and fun too.”

  “Thank you, but I’m fond of blondes, and that would have saved us.”

  Because the odds of them meeting as strangers were so slim, she kept a light-hearted tone. “I would have been crushed. Now this first page has Augustín’s concerns about remodeling the ranch house. I hope this isn’t all as dry.”

  “There has to be a scandal in here somewhere.” Santos handed her another handful of papers and they kept sorting. He soon leaned back and sighed. “I’m trying to ignore my leg, but it hurts too badly for me to concentrate. I’m going to stretch out on the couch.” He yanked off his shoes before he lay down.

  “Do you want some aspirin?”

  “Thank you. It’s in the bathroom cabinet.”

  Maggie got up to bring it. Santos’s home with as neat as Rafael’s, but he probably had a maid come in and clean. She brought him the bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

  “Did you have stitches?”

  He sat up to swallow a couple of aspirin and set the glass on the coffee table. “No, they just bandaged it at the arena infirmary. I was supposed to have a physician look at it. But I got the call Father had been rushed to the hospital and forgot it.”

  That didn’t sound good to her. “Did you change the bandage today or apply antibiotic cream?”

  He rested his arm over his eyes. “No, but it’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  “I think we ought to go to the hospital before the pain gets any worse. It might be infected.”

  “I’ll be fine later.”

  “Men do a terrible job of taking care of themselves. You can’t stay ahead
of the bull if you have to limp around the ring.”

  He opened one eye. “It’s just a scratch, not a mortal wound.”

  There had been nothing she could do for her father, but she urged him to seek care. “Blood poisoning could kill you.”

  “Are you always this pessimistic?”

  She pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “I’m a realist. Did the doctor at the arena give you a tetanus shot?”

  “No, I had one last year. Keep looking through Augustín’s papers. Cirilda wants them back in her bank by this time next week.”

  He didn’t move for more than an hour, and when she got up to bring him another glass of water, perspiration dotted his forehead. She rested the back of her hand on his cheek. “You have a fever. You need to go to the hospital, Santos.”

  “Bring me my phone. It’s on the dresser. I’ll call Moreno, and he’ll come here.”

  “Fine, but if he can’t, you’re going to the hospital.”

  Santos made the call. “He’ll be here as soon as he can,” he told her. He drank the glass of water and went back to sleep.

  When she went into the kitchen to get herself a drink, Fox looked up from the soccer match he was watching. “Is he sick?”

  “I think so, he doesn’t, but his leg’s bothering him badly.” The thought of Santos becoming seriously ill was too much for her. All she could do yesterday was step out of the paramedics’ way, but she wouldn’t let her brother endanger his life so foolishly when she could insist he seek help.

  More than an hour passed before the doorbell rang. Expecting Dr. Moreno, Maggie rushed to open it. Rafael walked in. She grabbed his hand. “You’ve worked on medical emergencies. Will you please look at Santos’s leg? He refuses to go to the hospital, and I think he should.”

  Santos sat up and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “If I turn up there again, the press will describe it as a suicide attempt.”

  “Who cares what they say?” Maggie argued. “I don’t want to attend two funerals in a week.”