by Sable Hunter
“No, I’d kill for your cleavage.” Renata picked up a shawl and tossed it over her own shoulder. “You certainly don’t need this. If I was shaped like you, Bella, I’d prance around naked all the time.”
“I’m afraid this dress makes promises I won’t deliver.” Isabella grabbed the red fringed scarf from her friend. “I need the scarf for the dance. If I distract them with my feminine assets, maybe they’ll be too wound up to notice when I slip off to free the bulls.”
Renata giggled. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. What if you’re caught?”
“I’m not afraid, tequila will be flowing like a river, most everyone will be drunk. Plus, I can run quickly.”
“Yes, you’re used to dodging the sharp horns of a bull, surely you can evade a few inebriated vaqueros.” Handing Isabella a pair of gold chandelier earrings, Renata made a pouty face. “I just wish I could go with you.”
“No worries, I’m on a mission, not really there to party.” She fastened the earrings, studying her face in the mirror. “Do you think I need more eyeliner?”
“No, you’re perfect.” Renata arranged Isabella’s ebony locks over her shoulder. “What about your warden? How are you slipping away from Don Luis tonight?”
“I’m in luck, my uncle is in Mexico City for a horse race. You know how he loves to gamble.”
“Yea, with your money.” Renata’s tone was totally disapproving.
“Small cost to get him out of my hair.” Isabella stepped back, gazing at the complete picture of herself in the full-length mirror. “I suppose he does his best. I’m a handful. At least with him, I didn’t have to go to an orphanage…after…”
Renata hugged her friend hard. “Don’t think about it, you’re honoring your parents in the greatest way anyone could imagine. You’re carrying the torch for them – righting wrongs and rewriting the way things are done. You’re my hero.”
Isabella giggled. “Heroine.”
“Whatever.” Renata let go and wiped mist from her eyes. “I love you. Now go, get outta here or you’ll miss the fiesta.”
“Okay, and never forget, Renata, I love you too.” She gave her girlfriend a wink, before affixing a mask to hide her identity. She had enough problems with her uncle and his constant refusal to let her control her own legacy without adding fuel to the fire. His constant efforts to paint her as immature and incapable were frustrating. If she landed in jail or got outed as La Diosa, she would just be playing into his hands.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Renata said, as she and Lola followed Isabella down the grand staircase and into the marble foyer. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a man.”
Isabella waved her hand, offering a muffled scoff. “There is no one in Aguascalientes who interests me. They’re all boys.” She let a secret smile play on her face. “I want a man. A real man.” Not like the fumbling, clumsiness of Juan Philippe who’d taken her virginity and left her unsatisfied. “I refuse to settle for less.”
“Like I said, you’re my hero.” Renata sighed, grabbing her purse as they passed the ornate hall tree near the front door.
“I’ll be home later, you be sweet.” Isabella patted her dog goodbye. “Watch after things for me.”
“Call and let me know how it goes and be sure to avoid the stampede. I don’t want to read in the newspaper tomorrow that you’ve been trampled.”
“I know what I’m doing, Renata, I’ve planned this for weeks.” Isabella reassured her friend as she closed the massive front door behind them. “Be careful going home.” She watched her friend leave, then turned to her manservant to accept the keys to the white Porsche sitting in the circular drive. He held the door open and she climbed behind the wheel. Pressing the start button, the engine roared to life, making her blood race. “Gracias, Pedro!” Isabella waved to the older man with a smile as she stepped on the gas.
As the fast car ate up the miles, she smiled. Isabella loved the rush life could offer and she intended to squeeze every bit she could out of every single day.
…A few miles down the road, Bull Redford shut the lid on his laptop. His meeting with the rancher had been delayed. Don Luis sent his apologies, explaining how he would be returning in a couple of days. “Well, hell.” Standing, he strode to the window to gaze out over the city of Aguascalientes. “I guess I’ll just have to entertain myself.”
The hotel was nice and he’d selected it for one main reason, it catered to Americans. They promised in their advertisement to have someone on hand who spoke English. Bull intended to utilize the perk to the fullest. Leaving his room, he went down to the lobby, hoping to see a bar he might’ve missed earlier. No such luck. In fact, the place was nearly empty, nobody about but the pallid faced desk clerk and an elderly bellhop. The only noise was the steady tinkle of a fountain gracing the center of an indoor courtyard, complete with banana plants and a strutting peacock. Heading up to the check-in counter, he tapped on the little bell to get the clerk’s attention.
“Si? May I help you, Sir?” was the immediate response.
Bull wondered how the man assumed he was English speaking. Did he look like an American? Of course, he did. “Where can I get a drink around here? Any good places to eat?”
“Not tonight, Senor. The whole town is shut down for the festival. The Embalse de Toros.”
“A festival? Seriously?” Bull could picture carnival rides and cotton candy booths. Not exactly his style.
The desk clerk winked at him. “Dancing. Drinking. Good food. Many beautiful senoritas.”
“Now we’re talking.” Bull grinned. “Which way to this festival?”
The clerk gave him directions and Bull took off, deciding to walk instead of calling a cab. He’d heard about the craziness of Mexican cab drivers. His pathway took him down narrow cobblestone streets, flanked by tiny shops on either side, all filled with homemade wares. He imagined on a normal day, the area would be teaming with locals, vendors hawking their goods, the smell of exotic food filling the air. In the distance, he could hear music – a driving Latin beat. The farther he walked, the louder the music became.
Bull’s eyes widened, taking in the sights. Even though night was falling, everything seemed brighter here, the colors more intense. The trees and every conceivable surface were highlighted with tiny white lights. People were milling about and their voices mingled. Knowing very little Spanish, he could only make out a familiar word or two. A small cantina beckoned him and Bull sidled up to the bar, asking for a shot of tequila.
After being served, he moved closer to the counter, taking a sip of the drink. “Smooth, gracias.” He toasted the bartender, before turning his attention to a mirror hanging on the back wall, which gave him a good view of the crowded lane behind him. There was no vehicle traffic, the whole area was blocked off for pedestrians. A steady stream of people wearing costumes flowed behind him. Most everything reminded him of Mardi Gras, except with a distinctly Spanish flair.
“Otro?” the bartender said in a questioning tone.
“I’m sorry,” Bull enunciated extra slowly. “I only speak English.”
“Ah. Another?” The bartender held up a plastic shot glass.
“Yea, hit me again.” Bull pounded the table with a smile. “What else is going on? Any strippers?”
The man smiled, showing off a gold front tooth, filling his drink order. “Not at the festival, senor, but there are flamenco dancers. Later, there will be the running of the bulls.” He gestured to the side, where an older woman wearing a peasant blouse and a colorful skirt was flipping tortillas over a small grill. “Could I interest you in some enchiladas or tamales?”
“Maybe, later.” Bull glanced down the street. “Where did you say those dancers were?”
Following the bartender’s directions, he ventured down the street with his drink in hand. Spying the described patio lit by lanterns and decorated with lacy wrought iron, he headed for it. The music was good, he supposed, but Mexican music just wasn’t his favorite. It di
dn’t speak to him like country and western music did. Truthfully, his mind really didn’t get lost in the complexities of any kind of music, it was just something to listen to while he drank and compared the normally sad lyrics to his own messed-up life. As he drew closer, he could see three caballeros strumming flamenco guitars, all seated in a roped off area. Surrounding the men were impossibly beautiful women; all of them with great bodies, glowing olive skin, wavy ebony hair and eye-popping, bright dresses that hugged them in all the right places.
Bull found a seat at a small café table and took another sip of tequila. The familiar warmth of the alcohol trickled down his throat, into his belly, and radiated out into the rest of his body. Bending his head, he bowed his back, stretching his muscles. He could tangibly feel his stiff shoulders and neck begin to relax. When he looked up, he almost dropped the glass.
“Ole! Ole!” The musicians shouted as another woman came on the scene and nothing – nothing could have prepared him for what he beheld.
A vision of feminine perfection stood before him, her sensual curvy body molded lovingly in the same bright red as a matador’s cape and all Bull wanted to do was charge and claim. “Holy fuck,” he whispered, mesmerized. What he could see of her face was beautiful, the rest was hidden by a delicate lace mask. But her long flowing hair and the way she moved – God, the way she moved was sin itself – wonderful, captivating sin.
She put her hands in the air, drawn in little flowers of pursed fingers. As she threw her head back in a haughty little gesture, her expression changed completely. Bull could imagine a fire had ignited in her core and the flames licked upward into her arms and eyes. Her skin seemed to glow with sensual heat.
Bull put his drink down on the table, he couldn’t be trusted to hold it aright.
“Ole!” The men exclaimed again as their guitars burst into life. The girl snapped her fingers with the rhythm and started to dance. Her feet tapped with a staccato beat, even as her body flowed into a graceful S. The dress began to sway around her feet and the weight of its shifting pulled back and forth sensuously in a seductive whisper across her hips. With arms lifted high, she thrust her breasts out just for him, her body swaying, those small feet stomping in the same rhythm as his pulse. This woman was a fuckin’ wet dream, his every fantasy come to life. To Bull’s ever-loving surprise, he felt his cock grow large, becoming harder by the second. Throbbing. Pulsing. “Oh, thank God,” he groaned.
He wasn’t dead, he was still a man.
Staring at the woman before him, Bull couldn’t have looked away if his life depended on it. As he leaned forward, she leaned back. The erotic vision looked up, he could tell her mind was in the music, not on what she was seeing. Her eyes were free to burn with the flames that crackled into life when the dance began. From where he sat, he could gaze right into those compelling orbs. He didn’t have a choice. She captivated him. Hypnotized him.
The fire in his soul grew hotter as the rhythm of her feet dropped from quarter beats to eighth beats and beyond. She curled her lips slightly upward in a sexy snarl, unable to hide her passion for the dancing and the music. Her arms swirled around her, directing his eyes here and there, to her face, to her feet, to her hips. Occasionally she would straighten and her fingers would point to the heavens, other times she would fall, her spine almost parallel to the ground, before rising, her eyes still staring into infinity.
“Look at me, baby,” he whispered, because he certainly couldn’t stop eating her up with his eyes.
Suddenly the guitar stopped, but the rhythm continued with the clapping and snapping of the guitarists and the surrounding spectators. The attention that fell on her rose like a tide, and nobody in the crowd moved, except for his dancer and the hearts beating thunderously for her.
Bull bit his lip, almost bringing blood.
On stage, Isabella was totally immersed in the passion of the dance. The flamenco was an integral part of her. She could lose herself in the energy, become one with the arousing notes and the powerful chords. As she turned, she took one last glance at the crowd. Usually, she took very little notice of those who watched, some throwing money at her feet. But tonight, as her gaze skated over the audience, her eyes got hung up on one very large, very handsome cowboy.
“Ah, mi dios!” Unusual for her, Isabella missed a step. If she hadn’t been sure-footed, she would’ve fallen on her face. Thankfully, she caught herself, hopefully making the misstep appear to be intentional. “Ay-yi-yi,” Isabella whispered, reacting to the sight of her fantasy man come to life. This big cowboy could’ve stepped right out of her dreams. “Ummmm,” she purred, dancing closer to the edge, hungry for a closer look. “Ay, Chihuahua.”
All her life, she’d been entranced by the American cowboy. She’d inhaled every television show and movie, crushing on the stars and memorizing the lines. The man-candy in the audience was a cross between movie stars Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and Chris Hemsworth – in other words, he was perfect. No linen suit for this man; he wore tight blue jeans, a long sleeve western shirt with snaps, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. Broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hip, Isabella wanted to curl her arms around his neck and see if his kiss tasted as good as he looked.
The guitars started again and the musicians sang with gusto, all of them together a perfectly tuned machine. Now that she had someone in the audience she wanted to impress, Isabella stepped back and spun her heart out, the flame red dress swirling around her. When their eyes locked, she felt her spirit soar. He was watching her with the same intensity.
“Ole!” exclaimed the musicians, their hands snapping away from the strings.
“Ole!” Isabella shouted, posing like the statue of a swan, her arms arcing into the sky. Even as the music died down, her fire didn’t extinguish, it grew out of her and filled the room, manifesting itself in the electric applause of the crowd.
Bull sat back in his chair and took a deep breath for the first time, it felt like, in an hour. He eased his jaw in place after he realized his mouth was open. Picking up his tequila, he drained the contents of the shot glass.
God, he loved this music.
As the last note sounded, Isabella knew there was only so much time before the run would begin. As the next dance troupe came forward, she hastily exited out a side gate and took off on foot toward the temporary stock pens where the animals were being held. This was perfect timing, everyone was preoccupied in the revelry. If she didn’t have important business to attend to, Isabella would’ve approached her admirer and introduced herself. Alas, it was not to be. Knowing what was to come and the fate of the bulls at the end of the run, she couldn’t waste time mooning over a cowboy who’d probably already forgotten about her. An odd pang of loss made her heart hurt. Maybe once she was through, she could retrace her steps. But what if she was caught? So far, her antics as an animal rights advocate had stayed under the radar. Keeping La Diosa separate and apart from Isabella Cortez was necessary. If her uncle ever got wind of her activities, he’d lock her up and throw away the key.
Oh well, no time for second thoughts. She could hear the bellowing of the bulls as they sought to find a way out of their prison. They couldn’t know what was in store, but the noise and the occasional boom and flash of fireworks unnerved them. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way down one alley and across another street. She knew the bulls had been deprived of water. Just before they were let loose, they’d be given tubs of alcohol. The whole process was barbaric and strange. After ingesting the wine and tequila, the animals would be turned out and chased down the streets, encouraged to stampede through the narrow byways. Once they came to the river, they’d be driven across. Men armed with swords awaited them on the other side and the bulls would be slaughtered en masse. The idea sickened Isabella and she didn’t intend to let it happen tonight.
...After basking in the heat of the hot siren’s gaze, Bull Redford wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. She’d given him a hard-on when no other woman could. As soon as she le
ft the stage, he followed. What was she doing? He started to call out to her, but he had no desire to frighten her. Bull only hoped she wasn’t off to meet a lover. Keeping an eye on her as she flitted through the night, only the light of the moon and an occasional lamp kept her figure in view. Damn, she was fast. Bull was having a hard time keeping up. He hadn’t had much reason to sprint in the last few years.
What the hell? His vixen in red ran right up to several pens full of big, black bulls. He remembered what the bartender had said about an impending bull run. Was it her job to begin the event? The path the animals were supposed to follow was clearly delineated by rope barriers with flags attached to keep the bulls from escaping down side streets. Just as he anticipated, the beautiful woman opened the gates and began urging the animals out. But instead of coaxing them toward their designated path, she began to herd them in the opposite direction, toward an open area bordered by woods. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered. She was letting them go.
He rushed ahead to help her, not fully understanding what was going on, but willing to take her side, whatever the outcome. With his heart in his throat, he watched as the massive animals passed so close to her that he was afraid she’d be trampled or grazed by their sharp horns. The nearer he drew, the more entranced he became. She was fierce, standing her ground to keep the big bulls from turning in the most logical pathway.
A shout behind Bull alerted him that someone else was coming.
“¡Párala! ¡Párala! Ella está dejando que los toros escapen!”
“Stop her! Stop her! She is letting the bulls escape!”
Bull was glad at least one of the crowd spoke English or he would’ve just had to wonder what they were saying.
Rushing forward, he waved his arms, urging the last of the stomping, huffing, animals in the direction his beauty wanted them to go. “There!” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to one side. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they catch us.”
Isabella’s head was swimming. She was panting from exertion and adrenaline. Freeing the bulls was amazing, but not nearly as exhilarating as the cowboy coming to her rescue and the feel of his large hand enveloping her own.
