Fierce Love (2 page)

A tear trickled down her cheek and fell unheeded. “Don Miguel missed all that, Craig. He has no idea if I was an adorable little girl with ribbons in my curls or a waif with long straight hair and sad eyes. He just never cared enough to ask.”

When she glanced toward him, she wondered why she’d never realized how much Craig reminded her of her stepfather. He was the same solid, steady sort who could be counted upon no matter how difficult the situation became. He had a handsome build and looked good in khakis and a polo shirt, but she didn’t love him and had to look away before he recognized that sorry truth in her eyes.

He cleared his throat with a nervous cough. “I’ve made no secret of the fact I want more than you’re willing to give, but I don’t believe you’ll ever be able to love any man while you’ve such a huge emotional investment in Miguel Aragon.”

“I despise him!”

He recoiled from her vicious outburst. “It’s indifference that’s the opposite of love, not hate. Your father is a part of you, certainly the most significant part. You need to go to him, and not just for yourself but for all of us who love you. Do it for us.”

She bristled. “Is that an ultimatum?”

“I’ve always admired your spirit, and I know you’ve had other relationships. They’ve all been as one-sided as ours, haven’t they? You shrug off men like old coats. Tell me if I’m wrong. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t work out for us, but how many men have you truly loved?”

The setting sun left the jagged mountain range silhouetted against a vermillion blaze. Maggie sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly as the night smeared the sky with red-violet streamers. “Do you want names?”

“No, damn it, I want the truth.” When she didn’t reply, he got up and pushed away from the couch. “You always brush off my counseling skills, but I actually believed I possessed the necessary insights to make things work for us. How’s that for a colossal ego?”

She heard the hurt in his voice and offered the only reassurance she could. “Craig, please. This isn’t about us.”

His shoulders hunched as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “The hell it isn’t. I never stood a chance with you, and if you don’t go to Spain and confront your father for abandoning you, the next man won’t either.”

He walked out of the room, and while he deserved at least a token pursuit, she remained where she sat and flinched when he slammed the door. Her father’s letter lay on the coffee table, and she reached for it but found no tender message left unread. The bastard had simply issued an order, but that didn’t mean she had to meekly comply. Then again, Craig’s advice, no matter how unwanted, was sound.

He had a master’s degree in psychology and had worked with high school students and their families for more than ten years. He had a clear understanding of troubled families, while she’d grown up on the margin of a happy one. She might have stubbornly refused to admit she had unfinished business with Miguel Aragon, but didn’t she owe it to herself to at least meet him in person? She laughed as she thought while he’d faced many a ferocious bull, he wouldn’t be ready for her.

There were only a couple of weeks left in the spring semester and if she cited a family emergency, she could arrange for a substitute to cover her classes and leave early. She owed Craig an apology, but knowing he’d much rather hear the whole story, she’d wait until she returned home.

“Home,” she whispered softly, for it had never been her father’s luxurious estate. Once made, the decision seemed to have come easily, but the trip could be the most difficult of her life. She looked out toward the night where the sky had darkened to a deep mysterious blue and the mountains were no more than serrated shadows.

Chapter Two

Magdalena’s flight landed at Barcelona’s
El Prat
airport on Saturday afternoon. She’d sent her father her flight information, but with the harried effort to end the school year early and write lesson plans for her sub, there’d been no time to consider her arrival before boarding the plane. Now as she left customs to enter the passenger arrival lounge, she paused and surveyed the waiting crowd with an anxious glance.

A couple of men were in the right age range, but neither even remotely resembled Miguel Aragon. That she’d foolishly assumed he would be there to meet her struck her as not merely naïve but unbelievably stupid. A mist of anguished tears had already begun to blur her vision before she noticed a chauffeur in a muted gray uniform making his way toward her.

Her fellow passengers surged forward, but Maggie hung back and agilely shifted her balance to avoid being jostled aside. Just ahead, a young woman leapt into a waiting man’s arms. Her husband, Maggie thought, or a lover ecstatic to see her again. A laughing family surrounded a dear little grandmother. A businessman’s burly friend reached out to relieve him of his bulging briefcase. The pair then strode off, talking and gesturing excitedly.

Standing alone, Maggie waited for the chauffeur, who had stumbled over a student’s backpack and come perilously close to falling. He was tall, several inches above six feet, and caught his balance with surprising grace. An infant carried in her father’s arms made a passing grab for the silky ends of Maggie’s hair, and just as she pulled free, the chauffeur reached her side.

His cap was angled low to shade his face, and his sunglasses reflected Maggie’s troubled frown, but his features were unmistakably familiar. It was in the set of his mouth perhaps, or the firmly chiseled chin, but she recognized him instantly as more than a man in Miguel’s employ. She’d known her father had other children, if not exactly how many, but that he’d sent one of her brothers to meet her filled her with an awestruck wonder. The young man whispered her name, and she nodded numbly.

“We can’t talk here,” he cautioned in softly accented English. He grabbed the handle of her carry-on bag. “Is this all you have?”

Maggie glanced at him in amazement. The young man’s hair was as dark and straight as her own, and she was sure his eyes would be as rich and warm a brown as their father’s. “Yes,” she managed rather hoarsely. “I’m not planning on staying long.”

A sly smile curved his well-shaped mouth. “Really?”

Clearly he didn’t believe her, but before Maggie could argue that she always said exactly what she meant, he started back through the rapidly thinning crowd, and she had to quicken her step to keep up. As a dancer, she had considerable endurance, but by the time they crossed the airport lobby and burst out into the bright afternoon sun, she was gasping for breath.

“If it’s much farther, I’d rather wait right here while you bring the car.”

Indifferent to her breathless plea, the chauffeur curled his free hand around her upper arm and nearly lifted her off her feet. “There’s no need. It’s parked nearby.”

Although shocked by his forceful grasp, Maggie refused to be manhandled by some arrogant sibling who’d lacked the manners to offer his name. Maybe he wasn’t really a brother but merely a handsome young man with sinister intentions. After all, her father was a major celebrity in Spain, and she might actually be in danger.

“Let go of me right now, or I’ll scream I’m being kidnapped,” she threatened through tightly clenched teeth.

The chauffeur swore softly under his breath and pulled her around to face him. “Please don’t waste our time with temper tantrums. We may already be too late.”

They were surrounded by travelers shouting to their friends and hailing taxis and hotel vans. Overhead, a departing flight soared toward the clouds, and buffeted by the noise of the screaming jets, she desperately wanted to believe she’d misunderstood him. The seriousness of his expression was utterly convincing, however.

“Too late for what?” she asked fretfully.

He glanced around to make certain no one was standing close enough to overhear, and even then barely mouthed his reply. “Miguel’s dying. Why else would he have sent for you?”

That he’d delivered the heart-wrenching news in such a cruel fashion doubled the hurt, and she recoiled in pain. “You bastard.”

“I won’t deny it”—he laughed—“but I’m still the best of your brothers.”

“Then I’m in worse trouble than I thought.” For a brief instant, she was tempted to run back into the terminal and book the first flight home, but she’d come too far to pass up what might be her only chance to meet her father. “Let’s go, then,” she agreed abruptly. “Do you have the limo to go with your uniform?”

This time he took her arm in a gentle grasp and led the way around a man guarding an enormous heap of battered luggage. “I have something even better,” he promised.

“Not your own airplane, I hope,” she replied, fearful he might shove her out with no parachute as soon as they were airborne.

“Not yet.”

She’d worn low heels with a black sweater and jeans for travel, but any woman would have needed track shoes to keep up with the pace set by her brother/chauffeur. She hadn’t slept well all week, and after a tiring flight, she was relieved when they entered the nearest parking structure. Rather than use the elevator, they headed down the ramp toward the lower levels.

They didn’t have far to go before her newfound brother drew her over to a vintage sedan that easily outclassed any standard limousine. Black and low, it called to mind the impossibly romantic times of Rudolf Valentino as well as the notorious Chicago gangsters. The chrome hood ornament was a magnificent flying crane, the most elegant emblem she’d ever seen. The whole car was a stunning work of art.

“You’re right,” she said. “There couldn’t be a more perfect car for a matador.”

“It’s a Hispano-Suiza,” he announced as he opened the trunk. “It’s one of the finest automobiles ever built. There are a few in the States. Have you never seen one?”

“I don’t usually pay much attention to cars, but I would have remembered if I’d ever seen one of these.” She’d thought all her father collected were beautiful young wives, not vintage automobiles.

“Tell me your name,” she coaxed as she circled the car.

“I’m Santos Aragon,” he replied proudly. “While that may mean nothing to you, here in Spain I’m more popular than Brad Pitt. We were lucky to leave the airport before I was recognized.”

He tossed her bag into the car’s cavernous trunk with an easy swing, then peeled off his coat and laid it inside with his hat. There was the mellow thud of fine steel when he slammed the trunk shut, and with a sweeping gesture, he ushered Maggie to the passenger side of the car.

“You’ll sit up here with me so it will be easier to talk.”

It was an order rather than an invitation, but because it suited her purpose, she climbed into the elegant sedan. The leather seat was cool to the touch, and she shivered slightly as she fastened a seat belt that had been added decades after the car had been built. As soon as Santos had eased into the driver’s seat, she issued a command of her own.

“My mother was the first of Miguel Aragon’s wives. Tell me where you fit into the family.”

Santos shot her a menacing glance, then turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the sleek car’s powerful engine to underscore his words. “I’ll tell you what I was told, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He raised his hands slightly from the wheel. “You’ll soon discover Father always prefers a colorful story to the truth, but for now, you’ll have to trust me.”

“That might be unwise,” she shot right back at him.

“Time will tell, but then, you’re not staying long.” He gave his immediate attention to safely exiting the parking structure, then waved as the attendant raised the barrier without charging him. “In Spain, there are many advantages to being the son of a famous matador, or daughter, as well.”

She was embarrassed by the fierce pride of her childhood and shook her head. “Just tell me your story before I fall asleep.”

“It’s a very sad tale. Better take out your handkerchief.”

“I should have just asked what’s the matter with our father,” she responded impatiently.

“It’s his heart,” he replied. “He needs a new one but fears he won’t be the same with another man’s heart beating within his chest.”

Craig had suggested Miguel might want her forgiveness, but she hadn’t dreamed he would have such a tragic motivation. “So he’s not on a transplant list?”

“No, he’s waiting to die and wants his children gathered around him.”

Then she was just one of the many, nothing special at all. She swallowed hard. It was a glorious afternoon, bright and pleasantly warm, but she felt chilled clear through. Santos had entered the freeway, and they were traveling south along the coast. The palm trees and red-tiled roofs reminded her of America’s southwest, but the beautiful view provided no solace.

“Is there a real danger we might be too late?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Yes. I wasn’t trying to scare you. Now you interrupted me, and you should know who I am.”

She gestured for him to continue. He so closely resembled her mother’s treasured photographs of Miguel that looking his way made her heart ache. They had gotten off to a poor start, but she couldn’t help but feel the fault was his.

“My mother’s name was Rosa Sanchez,” he began. “Her parents worked for my, our, grandparents at the ranch outside Zaragoza. She and Miguel grew up together, but she was merely a servant’s daughter and not nearly good enough for him. He says he didn’t care what his parents thought and wanted to marry her. That’s why he was sent to the United States for college, although he was no scholar. He swears he didn’t know my mother was pregnant when he married yours. By the time he returned home, I was a year old and my beautiful mother was dead.”