Fierce Love (14 page)

“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 between 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.

Mrs. Lujan’s description of Augustín’s memoirs had sounded as though he’d been working on an assortment of materials rather than simply journals. If so, what had become of his personal papers and reflections? Had Carmen taken them or destroyed them? Hoping to find personal albums on the shelves, she began searching close to the desk. When she heard Santos and Rafael come through the front door, she walked out into the hall. They were all sweaty and dusted with dirt and still so handsome she thought it awfully unfair women had to go to so much trouble to look good.

“Have you ever read Augustín’s journals?” she asked Santos. “They’re carefully detailed descriptions of bullfights and might be of interest to you.”

Santos looked down at his clothes. “I need to shower first, but I’d like to see them.”

Rafael folded the cape he’d brought for practice and waited while Santos started up the stairs. “You’ve been reading Augustín’s journals?”

“Yes, that’s why I came here. I was hoping to discover something about him and the family. They’re all strangers to me.”

He moved close to brush her lips with a light kiss. “I thought you’d come to be with me.”

She’d hoped to get away from him for a few days rather than overdose on his charm. She attempted to look contrite. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you.”

He flashed a quick smile. “No, not at all. Tonight you won’t have to go home.”

He ran up the stairs, and Maggie leaned back against the den’s doorjamb. Fox came in and pulled the front door closed. “You should have come out to see them. They argued over which one is the best, but they’re both good. Different, but equally good.”

“How are they different?”

“If Santos shows the video later, you’ll see. They just worked the bull with their capes. They didn’t kill him. They’ll choose a fresh bull tomorrow.”

“Wonderful.” She stifled a groan.

They heard a car drive up, and Fox went to the door and looked out. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

Maggie came up behind him. “Yes, it’s Ana Santillan.”

“Which one of them is screwing her?” he whispered.

“Fox, don’t be crude. She’s Santos’s friend.”

Fox was out the door like a shot to carry her bag. Ana was dressed in tight jeans and a coppery knit top. Her hair flowed over her shoulders in bouncy waves. She looked as though she’d just stepped away from a fashion shoot. Relieved to have another woman there, Maggie smiled warmly. She hoped neither of them would be caught up in Rafael and Santos’s endlessly rivalry. They thrived on competition, but she’d gladly avoid it.

“Magdalena,” Ana called. “It’s nice to see you again. Where’s Santos?”

“In the shower. Fox, why don’t you carry Ms. Santillan’s bag upstairs?”

“Sure.” He started up the stairs. “Do you know which room is yours?”

She laughed as though his question were absurd. “I’m staying with Santos.”

Fox’s fair complexion filled with a bright blush, and he turned away to dash up the stairs.

“Isn’t he a little old to think we’d have separate rooms?” she whispered.

“I don’t know him well enough to say,” Maggie replied. Ana followed Fox upstairs, and Maggie returned to the den to continue her search of the bookshelves and found a row of albums similar to the one at the beach house on a bottom shelf. She grabbed the first one and sat down at the desk to study the faded photographs. Some were dated from the late 1800s, but many of the inked comments identifying her relatives had faded away.

Fox ran down the stairs and barely paused at the door. “I’ll take my sandwich outdoors.”

Teenagers couldn’t bear to be laughed at, and she thought he was probably too embarrassed to eat lunch with Santos and Ana. “Don’t go too far.”

“Are you my mother now?” He left without waiting for a reply.

Rafael came in seconds after Fox had left. He leaned a hip against the desk. His hair was wet, and he was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. “Answer a question for me. How did you know what’s in Augustín’s journals? Were they written in English?”

He was so damn good-looking without any effort. Her body’s coiling heat reminded her all too vividly of last night’s passion. How could she have thought she needed time away from him? For a moment, she couldn’t recall his question. She moved back to open the drawer and pulled out the tin box. “No. I teach Spanish in high school back home, and his writing is easy to read.”

He straightened up. “So here we are in Spain, and you didn’t bother to mention you’re fluent in Spanish?”

There was a testy edge to his voice, and she wondered if any woman stuck around long enough to develop a fondness for him that went past his extraordinary good looks and stamina in bed. “You were looking for a dancer, not a linguist,” she reminded him softly.

“True, but I’m interested in everything about you.”

Ana came in the door several steps ahead of Santos. When Rafael turned to face her, she broke into a delighted smile and moved toward him with the sassy hip-swinging gait she’d use on a haute couture runway. In platform heels, she was nearly his equal in height. “I didn’t expect to find
El Gitano
here. Aren’t you afraid Santos will poison your food?”

“I’ll thank you not to give him ideas,” Rafael responded, no hint of a smile in his voice or expression.

Maggie was surprised he hadn’t been drawn to Ana the way Fox had been. Tall, slim and blonde, Ana Santillan had to be most men’s dream date. Rafael merely looked annoyed they’d been interrupted. “I doubt the cook’s in on the plot, and aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

“I am.” Ana turned with an arm-swinging spin. “I hope there’s some soup. Refugio makes the most incredibly good soup.”

“There is,” Maggie assured her, and the model and Santos left the room while Rafael hung back.

“Wait. Is there anything else I ought to know?” he asked.

Clearly he suspected she must have hidden some dire secret. “I’m sorry to disappoint you again, but no. Tonight when we’re too tired to sleep, I’ll tell you my life story, but there’s nothing scandalous in my past. I’ve lived quite an ordinary life.”

“For a bullfighter’s daughter, perhaps, but everything is different now that you’ve come to Spain.” He turned in a circle slowly and raised his hands. “You can see I’m unharmed, so later will you watch the video Santos shot of me?”

He smelled like soap rather than cologne, which was a nice change. She wasn’t good at compromise, and she doubted he even came close to it, but this was an easy thing to give. “Yes, I’m sure it’s worth seeing.” She wondered if he planned to get her used to watching him in videos and then entice her into the arena stands. She doubted he ever made a move without a strategy, but she’d be home before she came close to being able to watch him fight a bull live.

She took his hand. “I’ll keep you company while you eat.”

He pulled her to a stop. “Ignore Ana. She doesn’t really like me; she wants to make Santos jealous.”