Golden Roses (18 page)

She nodded, watching his eyes mellow.

“Then I shall not worry about Cord Hayden stealing you away from me, moonstar, for he would surely demand complete obedience from a woman—in his bed and out. You would not bend to his will.”

“I won’t bend to yours, either.”

“Ah, but you are a spitfire!”

His lips closed over hers, and once more Amber felt the fires burning within. For precious moments they clung together, and when at last he released her, he whispered, “Forgive the jealous outburst of a man in love.”

When she nodded, he kissed her once more, briefly. “I must go now. I need sleep or the bull will win tomorrow.”

She gasped. “Armand, how can you joke about it?”

“Because I think sometimes that is what life is.” He held her against his chest, stroking her long silken hair. “Sometimes I feel God places us here for His amusement, and that all of life is a joke for Him.”

“That’s blasphemy, Armand,” she admonished him.

“Ah, but maybe He will think me only joking, eh?” He touched her chin with his fingertips and stepped back. “Good night, moonstar. Remember that I love you more than my life.”

And he was quickly gone.

Amber put out the lantern and sat in the dark for a long time without moving. He had been upset about her feelings for Cord. Had she soothed him, or was he still disturbed?

Chapter Twelve

The carriage pulled to a stop before the main entrance to the Plaza de Toros, and Amber waited for Diego to step down and turn to help her alight. Directly behind, Valdis irritably followed in another carriage with Allegra and Maretta. Amber delighted in remembering Valdis’s expression when Diego arrived at the hotel with two carriages, one with room enough only for two people.

Whenever Diego gazed at her adoringly, she tried to smile, but she could not afford to trifle with Valdis.

“I do not like the way Diego fawns over you,” Valdis had said bitterly, “but his family is important, so you must be nice to him. But I warn you. If you say anything to him, Dolita will suffer.”

Amber remembered.

Diego brought her back to the present. “You are so beautiful, señorita,” he said, beaming as he led her to the arena. “I am the envy of every man.”

Though Valdis had selected it, Amber had to admit that the dress she wore was perfect for her. Deep yellow satin, it had a low, heart-shaped neckline and huge puffed sleeves that tapered to the elbows with ruffles of lace in a deeper shade of yellow. The girdle was beaded with tiny seed pearls, and these were also scattered about the skirt, beside rows of lace ruffles.

“Tell me, Amber,” Diego was saying, “do you like the corrida? Even some Mexican señoritas find the sport barbarous. How do you feel?”

Amber did not hesitate. “I find it brutal and disgusting, cruel and senseless.”

Diego looked at her with amusement. “Then why do you come? Just to be with me? But we could have gone for a ride in the country.”

“No,” she said quickly, then blushed as she realized she had spoken too clearly.

But, to her surprise, Diego laughed. “Ah, yes, we both know why you came, señorita. Gossip blows across Mexico as swiftly as the wind. Everyone has heard how Armand Mendosa dedicated a bull to you, and I saw your face last night when you saw him.”

She stiffened. “You presume a great deal. Señor Mendosa saved me from a bull one night when I wandered into its field. He is a good friend.”

He chuckled. “Matadors do not dedicate bulls to mere friends.” He patted her hand.

“I don’t wish to talk about Señor Mendosa,” she said crisply.

“Very well.” He nodded. “We shall talk about bulls instead, and I will explain something to you. Bullfighting is indeed bloody, but it is not a sport.” Diego grinned. “It is a spectacle. In a sense, it is like the plot of great literature. The plot in this novel calls for the bull to die. To deny that, to attempt to change it, would be as ridiculous as to deny the plot of
Julius Caesar
which directs that Caesar shall die.

“It is also”—he flashed her a smile—“like a ballet. Watch the performance of traditional movements. That is grace. It is a tribute to physical dexterity, but it includes the risk of severe injury.

“The main point of the bullfighting spectacle is the complete mastery of a human being over two living beings—over the bull, and over the matador himself. For the ultimate need of the matador is to conquer his own fear. Only then can he conquer the bull.”

Amber recalled Armand’s admission of the night before.

“A brave man,” Diego continued, “is not the one who refuses to feel fear. No, señorita, the brave man feels fear and still faces the danger that causes that fear. Matadors are afraid when they enter the ring. Even Armand Mendosa,” he finished, “regardless of what he might otherwise say.”

“Armand has told me of his feelings,” she admitted coolly. Diego was right, but she would not reveal what Armand had confided.

Amber was now glancing around, wondering whether Armand was nearby and if he might see her. Diego was pulling her along too quickly, and she almost did not see the rut in the ground. She stumbled. Diego caught her quickly and held her up, but she could not put her weight on her foot. “I think I have twisted it,” she cried. “Please, help me to sit down somewhere.”

Diego glanced about anxiously, then spotted a bench just outside the arena. He helped her over and lowered her carefully onto it.

Kneeling before her, he examined her ankle. After a few moments, he straightened and said, “I see no swelling. I do not think it is badly injured, but if you would like to return to the hotel, I can send for the carriage.”

“No,” she said hastily, refusing to miss seeing Armand. “I will be all right. But a cool drink would be nice.” She gave him what she hoped was a pained and beseeching look. “If I had something to drink and rested for a moment, I think I would be fine.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “You sit here and do not move. I will return quickly.”

Diego moved away and she looked around for Armand. But the man who approached her was not the one she wanted to see.

“Very touching,” he growled.

She gazed into the cold, accusing eyes of Cord Hayden.

“I’ve been watching your performance. Very good, Amber.”

She leaped to her feet, forgetting her pretended injury, and demanded, “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

He nodded at her ankle. “You acted as though you hurt yourself to get rid of Diego in hope that Armand would come running. He won’t. He’s inside—alone. And he’s in the worst mood I’ve ever seen him in. What the hell did you do to him last night?”

“I…I didn’t do anything,” she floundered. “Now leave me alone, please. You must know how moody Armand is.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She felt herself bristle as memories of the conversation of the night before came flooding back. Cord Hayden had caused enough turmoil in her life, and she wouldn’t say they had argued about him! Trembling, she hissed, “What goes on between us is none of your business, Cord. Now please tell me where I might find Armand. I need to speak with him.” Dear Lord, she prayed, help me find the right words to make Armand realize that I do not love Cord. Make him understand.

Cord shook his head firmly. “There isn’t time. Bullfights are the one thing that start on time in Mexico. Now, tell me what went on between you two last night.”

She stared at him. “It is none of your business, Cord.”

“He’s my friend and I know him, Amber. Something is very wrong.”

She glared at him but said nothing, and after a moment Cord taunted, “What happened, Amber? Did the playboy, Diego, make you a better offer than Armand?”

Her hand rose slightly, but she saw the quick flash in his eyes and knew she mustn’t slap him.

“Your trouble, Cord,” she said, barely controlling herself, “lies in the fact that you are obviously used to having women throw themselves at your feet. Does it really bother you so much that you can’t have me the way you had Maretta?”

Surprise flashed in his eyes but left just as quickly. “Perhaps I can,” he said softly. “I have held you, Amber, kissed you, awakened the fire in you. It was much too easy. You need a stronger man than Armand. I just might be that man.”

She gasped, but there was no time to answer him. Diego was approaching. He extended a cup of water to her, which she accepted gratefully.

“Diego, I’m ready to go inside now,” she announced.

As he led her away, Diego studied her face in silent concern, then asked, “Is something wrong? I feel you are upset. Is it your ankle?”

“No. I am fine.” She quickened her step. “I’m anxious to get inside and sit down, though.”

Frowning, Diego mused, “Señor Hayden has quite a reputation with the ladies. You would do well not to be in his company. I did not like him asking you to dance last night. I will see that he keeps his distance tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary, Diego,” she informed him. “I won’t be bothered by Señor Hayden again.”

They walked along a corridor and then made their way up the steps of the arena. Diego held Amber’s arm tightly in case she should stumble again. She saw that they were heading toward an impressive-looking box and hesitated as she asked, “Are we sitting there?”

“
Sí
, but it is not my family’s box. It is the box of President Juarez himself,” he told her proudly. “He personally invited me to sit in it. He was to be here, with his wife, but there was, I am told, pressing government business. He chose to go to his office, and his wife is preparing for tonight’s fiesta.”

They entered the presidential box, and Diego greeted the Alezparito family jubilantly. Maretta glared at Amber, then returned her gaze to the ring. Allegra continued to sit with head bowed, lost in her own secret world. Valdis wore a smug expression, pleased to be in the president’s box.

The music grew louder, and Amber turned her attention to the ring as the procession began. When the matadors made their entrance, Maretta squealed with delight. “Valdis, look!” She pointed. “Armand stands on the right! This is his first time to do so! Oh, I am so proud!”

Valdis leaned close to her to whisper, “Do not make a spectacle, Maretta. People watch the presidential box, and we must maintain dignity at all times.”

Amber quietly asked Diego, “What is Maretta so excited about?”

“Armand Mendosa is the matador of the day, with the most seniority,” he explained. “He will kill the first and fourth bulls. It is an honor.”

“The first and fourth bulls?” she echoed, stunned. “You mean he has to fight two bulls today? But why?”

“It is the custom on such a day of fiesta. He has done so before. The junior matador, the one standing in the center, will kill the third and sixth.”

Amber looked at Armand as the matadors approached the president’s box. His eyes were for her and her alone. When he smiled—so anxiously, so hopefully—her heart warmed. She would, she suddenly realized, run away with him. And whatever happened, would happen. They had to have the chance. They had to know, once and for all, if their love was real.

Suddenly Maretta leaned forward. Plucking a flower from the garland adorning the edge of the box, she flung it directly at Armand. His smile faded and his hands flew up to catch it before it hit him in the face. “He caught it!” she cried exultantly.

“I am warning you,” Valdis snarled, jabbing her cruelly with his elbow.

Amber was confused. There were so many customs of the country she did not understand. Beside her, Diego sensed her bewilderment and whispered, “Poor Maretta. It is common knowledge that Armand Mendosa does not return her love and does not intend to honor the pledge of marriage made by his parents. But she does not give up.” He shook his head in disgust. “She throws him the blossom to emphasize her love, and he catches it by surprise, and she pretends he acknowledges her intent.”

Maretta turned to smile ever so smugly, but Amber pretended not to see her.

At last, the arena was cleared, and the crowd screamed as the gate was opened and the first bull came thundering into the ring. He was huge, strong, and very frightening.

Amber felt a cold stab of fear. “Do you think this bull might be more dangerous than another?”

Diego gave her hand a reassuring pat. She wished he would stop doing that. “Armand is good matador. He is watching and will know what kind of fighter this bull will be.”

Amber’s eyes searched the cluster around the gate to the bull pens. She could see Armand leaning over the railing, watching. But he was not watching the bull. His head was turned in the direction of the presidential box, and he was looking straight at her. A man standing next to him said something, and he moved away from his position to reappear seconds later. As he strutted proudly into the ring, he removed his montera and waved at the crowd as they screamed in adulation.

He took his stand, holding his scarlet cape before him, his profile toward the bull.

Her hands gripped tightly in her lap, Amber turned to Diego. “Why is he out there now? I thought those other men came out first, with pics, to weaken the bull.”

“They will,” he assured her. “Armand is merely displaying his skill with his cape.”