Fierce Love (21 page)

He shook his head. “No, people move past me as fast as they can.”

“After Sunday, people may trail you, begging for your autograph,” she posed.

“I’ll look forward to it. Whose name should I write?”

She laughed with him. “Your own. Maybe you ought to start signing them now.”

“I could use Post-it notes and peel them off as fans surround me.”

“Yes, what a good idea.”

“Rather impersonal, though.” He reached out to curl his arm around her neck and drew her into a lingering kiss. “I’ve laughed more with you in a few days than I’ve laughed in years.”

His compliment twisted her heart. She didn’t need the certain sorrow of loving him, but this was the first time she’d considered how much he might need her. Maybe that was love, when his feelings mattered as much as her own. It was a troubling thought. They were running out of time, which was either a blessing or a curse.

Chapter Fourteen

That afternoon, Santos went home to his apartment. It was in a modern new building with air conditioning, but he preferred to open the windows and allow fresh air to circulate through the rooms. The view of the Mediterranean Sea from the broad expanse of plate glass in the living room showed a perfect day for sailing. He thrust his hands in his hip pockets and wished his father had kept the last of his sailboats. Maybe next week he would rent one to take Fox and Magdalena, if she were still here, sailing.

He’d gone running that morning and on the way home stopped at his gym to lift weights, but the day was still too long. He liked to cook for himself, but he didn’t feel like eating. He was naturally lean, and didn’t worry his traje de luces wouldn’t fit on Sunday, but he never ate much for a couple of days before a fight. It made him lighter on his feet and far more difficult for the bull to gore.

On the way home, he’d seen a poster for Sunday’s fight with a banner adding El Gitano’s name. It was an example of his father’s excellent grasp of details. Nothing escaped his notice, nor had it escaped Augustín’s. Santos had grown up on the ranch, but his father had never mentioned his grandfather’s journals. Now he thought he ought to begin writing his own. He sat on the couch with his laptop propped on a bent knee and started as far back as he could remember, when he’d chased his father around the ranch yard waving a baby blanket. He’d usually ended up being carried on his father’s shoulders, but that was the start of his career as a matador
,
and he’d never wanted to be anything else.

He’d just gotten up to turn on the lights when Ana came to his door. She had a key but always knocked if she knew he’d be home. In a yellow silk blouse, tan leather pants and gold platform sandals, she looked as though she’d just stepped off a magazine cover, but her incredible looks no longer captivated him. “What a surprise. Were you hoping I’d pose without my shirt?” he asked.

“May I come in, please?” She opened her tooled leather bag to display the neatly organized contents. “I haven’t got a camera. I just wanted to see you.”

Unimpressed, he leaned against the doorjamb and barred her way with his arm. “How much did you get for the photo of Magdalena and Mondragon dancing?”

“That’s none of your business, but they’re a striking couple, and the publicity will fill the bullring. All publicity is good.”

“Not all of it. If I took a photo of you without your makeup carrying out a bag of trash, you wouldn’t say that.”

“No, which is why I never leave home looking less than my best. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He didn’t need to think it over. “No. I’m done, Ana. You have your pass for Sunday, and I don’t care who you photograph there. Now I’d like my key.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it off her keyring.

She slapped it into his hand. “It’s true, then, isn’t it? You are in love with your sister.”

He had no idea how to respond when she’d twist anything he said and promptly sell it. He stepped back and closed the door before she could do more than sputter. She was a beautiful woman, but it was a lovely façade, and she was hollow inside. She was more his father’s type than his, and he’d been a fool to pursue her. Too restless now to write, he closed his laptop and got ready to go back to the beach house. Maggie would be there, and he did love her; she’d become his favorite sister, nothing more.

Magdalena wore another new outfit that night, a long sea-green linen skirt with an intricate swirling appliqué circling the hem. Her white cotton knit top could be worn with the neck high or pulled off her shoulders. She chose the chaste version tonight, with a low brown leather belt with a shiny brass buckle. As she’d expected, her grandmother raised her brows but didn’t comment.

They were halfway through dinner when Santos spoke. “We read grandfather’s bullfighting journals when we were at the ranch. Father mentioned a memoir. Do you know what’s become of it?”

Carmen sent Cirilda a frantic glance, then choked and covered her mouth with her napkin. When she at last recovered, she shook her head. “He spoke of a memoir as a man might speak of one day owning a race horse. It was never written. Now, you must excuse me.”

Santos waited until Carmen had climbed the stairs, then asked his aunt, “Is that true?”

“Everything she says is true, isn’t it?”

“No,” Magdalena interjected. “I’m not a whore.”

“Oh well,” Cirilda allowed, “that’s merely an opinion. Where are you going tonight? I might want to go along.”

Fox dropped his fork, but Santos smiled as though she’d be welcome. “I know someplace quiet. You’d probably regard the people as vulgar, but the music is good.”

Cirilda finished her wine. “For some reason, vulgar sounds good tonight.”

The café was long and narrow, with small tables on one wall and the other side left open as an aisle for the waiters. The bar stretched along the end of the occupied wall, and the stage crossed the back of the room. A trio of young men played a guitar, flute and violin. Their music was soft and sweet, often melancholy. The conversations at the tables were conducted in low whispers.

Santos and Fox sat opposite Maggie, and Cirilda was on her left. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, Maggie looked for the exits and was relieved to find one at the rear and another exit door close by on the opposite wall. When Santos noted the direction of her glance, she smiled. “It’s always a good idea to spot the exits. There are two plus the front door. No one ever expects a fire, but in a small café, they do happen.”

“After a few drinks, everyone grows careless,” Cirilda remarked. She asked for a martini. Maggie took a glass of white wine. Santos requested his favorite beer and insisted Fox order a soda.

“I like their music,” Maggie said. “You must know a great deal about Barcelona’s night life, Santos.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately, many places have forbidden my return.” He waved to an acquaintance near the stage, then leaned back against the wall.

Cirilda glanced around the café as if searching for someone. She bit her lip, finished her martini and summoned the waiter to request another.

“Have you been here?” Maggie asked.

“Years ago, and it was a different crowd. I don’t know these people.”

“Where do you usually go?”

Cirilda shrugged. “Private parties, but they’ve become a bore.”

“It’s good to try new things,” Maggie encouraged.

“Like a visit to Spain?” Cirilda asked.

Fox and Santos had turned their chairs toward the stage. She knew what Santos thought of Cirilda, but this might be her only chance to get to know her aunt. “Yes, this is a whole new world, although so much is familiar and reminds me of America’s southwest.”

“I’ve traveled throughout Europe, but America doesn’t interest me.”

Maggie wondered what did. “I always enjoy travel, regardless of where I go.”

Cirilda focused on her martini. “Travel may be good for you, but I don’t dare leave Miguel now.”

“I understand.” She waited for her aunt to say more, but Cirilda hummed along with the music rather than confide anything new, and Maggie gave up the effort to become better acquainted.

This was an intimate café, not one where people got up to dance, but Maggie missed Rafael. He would have moved his chair closer to hers and whispered in her ear. He would have made the evening fun rather than merely passed the time. She knew very little about him, and this would be a nice place to come and talk. She didn’t regard the others present as vulgar and wondered if Santos hadn’t simply meant to discourage their aunt from coming. They had been there perhaps an hour when Santos sat up and yawned. “I need to go.”

Maggie was also ready to leave. “Thank you for bringing us here.” She stood and stepped aside to give Cirilda room to leave her chair and led the way, but when her aunt began to weave slightly, Santos brushed by her to take her arm. “This way, Auntie.” He escorted her safely outside and eased her into the backseat of his SUV. Maggie gestured for Fox to take the front passenger seat and moved into the backseat with Cirilda.

They were almost home when Cirilda whispered, “I have it.”

“Have what?” Maggie asked.

“My father’s memoir. Mother told me to get rid of it, but I didn’t.”

Santos glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Where is it?” he asked.

“In a safety deposit box at my bank.”

“Did you read it?” Maggie inquired.

“No. It must be filled with things I’d rather not know. I’ll let you read it, but my mother must never know it still exists.”

“She won’t hear it from me,” Santos promised.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Maggie added.

“Don’t look at me,” Fox added. “I don’t care what’s in it.”

“Take me to the bank on Monday, Santos, and we’ll get it.”

“It’s a date.”

They were both assuming Santos would be alive and capable of driving a car next week, and Maggie didn’t want to worry that he wouldn’t be. Augustín’s memoir might be as practical a manual as his bullfighting journals, but she hoped they would reveal something about the man’s very private life. She knew her mother’s parents and Peter’s, and they were dear people, but her father’s side of the family consisted of little more than faded photographs. Augustín was a mystery, and his memoir would provide a way to get to know him. It might even make her feel as though she belonged.

She saw Rafael’s car parked in front of the house the moment her brother did. “Better watch out,” he called. “They’re might be paparazzi hiding in the bushes.”

“I’ll take my chances.” She hadn’t expected to see Rafael tonight. A delicious thrill ran through her. As soon as he’d stopped the car, she got out and circled the house, looking for her man. He got up from a patio chair and came toward her. Wearing black, he might have faded into the night had it not been for his wicked grin. She liked so much more than his looks, but just seeing him took her breath away.

“Come home with me. I want my sheets to smell of you.”

That was easily the most erotic invitation she’d ever received. Rafael’s sly smile didn’t hurt his cause either. “I thought you meant to avoid distractions.”

“I misinterpreted Augustín’s advice. He concentrated on what happened in the bullring, not the days before.”

“Still, it’s late, and if I go home with you, you won’t get any sleep.”

“Neither will you.” He took her hand and led her out to his car. Santos, Cirilda and Fox had gone in the front door, and Maggie and Rafael left without anyone standing watch to notice.

“I’m sorry we haven’t had another chance to dance,” she said. “If we practiced a few moves, we could do even better.”

“Passion is all flamenco needs. You can’t practice it like the steps for a tango.”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “New moves can be created, and they shouldn’t just be flung at your partner while you’re on stage.”

“Flung? What did you think of the first time we danced together?”

She’d been too excited to remember more than the thrill. “I wanted to make you sorry you’d assumed I wouldn’t know flamenco.”

“I was surprised you took the dance away from me, but I wasn’t sorry.”

“Then I failed miserably.”

He reached over to squeeze her knee. “I don’t think so.”

His apartment was a neat as it had been on her previous visit. “Where did you learn to keep house so well?”

“Prison.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He drew her into his arms. “Don’t apologize. I learned a great many useful things there. But not this.”

He spread teasing kisses up her neck and licked the tender hollow behind her ear. He leaned back to unbuckle her belt and wrapped it around his hand. “This would make a fine weapon.”

“I was thinking only of fashion. How silly of me.” She drew her knit top over her head and laid it on the back of the couch. She wore the white lace bra that used to have matching panties. He handed her the belt, and she tossed it over the bra. She turned in slow circles around him. “This is a dance too, isn’t it?”

He took her hand to guide her close. “Yes, all of life’s a dance.”