by Phoebe Conn
He turned to look. “Yes, she has tickets for the whole season. She’s holding her camera, and her photos are very good, but Santos values his privacy.”
“Are you going to sell photos of the wedding?”
“What? Who suggested that?”
His dark scowl surprised her, and she hadn’t meant to upset him. “Santos mentioned it. Celebrities in America sell personal photos all the time, often to raise money for their favorite charity.”
He relaxed and nodded. “This isn’t America.”
“I noticed.”
The arena’s brass band played a lively march for the entrance of the three matadors. Their suits were heavily decorated with gold trim, and each wore an embroidered cape slung over his left shoulder. As promised, Santos had worn a blue suit of lights, and his two companions were dressed in red and green. The crowd erupted in wild shouts and applause, and, just as Rafael had predicted, fans began chanting, “Santos! Santos!”
Next came the banderilleros, also on foot. Their suits were as beautifully decorated as the matadors’ but with silver thread rather than gold. Finally the picadores rode in on heavily padded mounts.
Santos turned to wave to the crowd and then came to the edge of the ring below their seats and looked up at Libby. He doffed his hat and smiled.
Frantic, Libby asked, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Stand up and blow kisses.”
She leaped to her feet and blew the required kisses, but, flustered, she quickly took her seat. “He didn’t warn me he’d do that.”
Rafael patted her knee to reassure her. “You did fine.”
“Well, I didn’t want to insult the whole nation.” She turned to look up at Ana and looked right into her camera. She whipped around but not soon enough to avoid being photographed. She wondered if Ana had taken her camera into Santos’s bed. The couple seated beside her regarded her with a quizzical glance, and she smiled. She’d worn her hair up and a nice blouse and skirt, so she hoped they mistook her for someone they ought to know.
Now that the matadors had entered, the arena filled with an electric excitement. She’d wanted to come so she could tell everyone at home she’d been, but this was no colorful outdoor fair. The noise of the crowd increased, surrounding her with a staccato soundtrack, but suddenly the whole scene struck her as ghoulish. The heavy scent of cologne and sweat in the air nearly strangled her. “How long does this last?”
Rafael leaned close to be heard. “Each matador fights two bulls, and each fight is fifteen minutes long. Trumpets announce each tercio, or third. In the first tercio, the matador will play the bull with his cape. The picadores and banderilleros work the bull in the second tercio, and the matador returns for the kill in the final third.”
“They do all that in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, but it seems like hours when you’re in the ring.”
“I’ll bet.” She leaned against him as the first matador challenged his bull, a huge black beast that charged into the ring with a snorting fury.
She spent most of the contest with her eyes shut, while the spectators all around her yelled, “Ole!”
Rafael gave her a comforting hug. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave.”
She felt sick and couldn’t watch the bull die, but she couldn’t leave now.
“I want to see Santos, at least the first part of the fight.”
“Whatever you wish.”
“Are you always this agreeable?”
“Always. What did your sister tell you?”
“She loves you too much to complain.” She hugged his arm through the second matador’s fight and didn’t open her eyes until she heard the crowd screaming for Santos. She risked opening one eye and was swiftly caught up in his fans’ excitement. She sat up to watch him lead the charging bull through a wild dance of intricate circular patterns. The bull followed each of Santos’s graceful moves, but the beast caught only the fluttering edge of his cape.
The sun was beginning to set behind her, and shadows crept across the dusty ring. “He’s the best of the afternoon, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s—” Rafael gasped as the bright reflection from a mirror flashed across the ring. Blinded, Santos jumped back, but not quickly enough, and the bull’s powerful shoulder caught his hip and sent him flying. The other two matadors and the banderilleros rushed into the ring to draw the bull away, but as Santos rolled to rise to his feet, his right knee buckled beneath him.
Terrified for him, Libby leaped from her seat. She didn’t want to see the bull outrun the men chasing him and circle back toward Santos, but she couldn’t look away. Two banderilleros broke away from the others to help Santos up and half carried him out of the ring. The whole horrible incident had taken no more than a few seconds, but, badly shaken, she trembled from head to foot.
Rafael grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him. “Come on, he’s done.” He led her down the arena steps and stopped at the bottom, where a security guard was speaking into his walkie-talkie. “Someone flashed a mirror.” The guard nodded and gestured to the far side of the arena, where two guards were looking up into the stands.
“Good, someone else saw it.” He pulled her into the corridor leading to the infirmary. They ran into the stark emergency facility just as the banderilleros placed Santos on the examining table. Rafael kept out of the doctor’s way, and Libby stayed behind him. She had to rest her hands on her knees to breathe deeply, but she couldn’t recall ever being so badly frightened. Santos was cursing loudly, or at least it sounded like cursing even if she didn’t speak his language.
“Someone had a mirror. Did you see it?” he asked
The banderilleros shook their heads and backed away.
“I did,” Rafael assured him. “They were seated directly opposite us on the sunny side of the ring. I couldn’t see who held it, but it was deliberately aimed at you, not an accident.”
“If they wanted to see me gored, they missed their chance. Don’t you dare cut off my pants,” Santos ordered sharply.
The doctor raised his hands. “Your knee has already begun to swell.”
“I don’t care. They’re too damn expensive to rip up.”
Rafael moved to the doctor’s side. He spoke in a soft, encouraging tone. “I’ll help you. We’ve all seen naked men. It won’t matter if you’re wearing nothing underneath.”
“I always do,” Santos said and continued to curse.
“Help me,” Rafael called to the men who had carried Santos from the ring, and the three of them eased off Santos’s jacket and unfastened his suspenders. He’d lost his right shoe, and Rafael removed the left and tossed it aside. Libby scooped it up.
The doctor hovered beside them. “As soon as you have him out of his clothes, he’ll go to the hospital. He’s torn ligaments in his knee, and I can’t treat him here.”
Libby reached out to take Santos’s jacket, vest, ruffled shirt, and pants that were too expensive to cut. He had on white socks beneath the pink ones, and she was relieved to see he was wearing briefs. Apparently his knee was his only injury, but it looked like a torn ACL to her, and athletes who’d suffered similar injuries were usually out for the season.
Juan Martinez, Santos’s agent, rushed into the infirmary. He was of medium height with a hefty build and wiped perspiration from his brow with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “How badly is he hurt?”
“I’m not unconscious,” Santos answered. “Bad enough, but you needn’t begin a prayer vigil.”
“Thank God,” Juan replied. “Here, let me take his suit.”
Libby willingly handed over the heavy garments. She would have introduced herself, but Juan clearly saw only the beautiful suit of lights and ignored her. She looked up at Rafael, whose furrowed brow made his opinion of the agent easy to grasp.
Juan folded the suit into a compact bundle and stuffed Santos’s socks into his pockets. “El Gitano!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you when I came in. Let me give y
ou my card. If Santos’s injuries prevent him from fulfilling his contracts, I will be happy to arrange for you to substitute for him.”
Rafael fixed the man with a steely-eyed glare. “I’ve retired.”
“You can’t mean that. With a smart agent managing your career, you could fight for years. Why would you give up such a lucrative opportunity?”
“Someone tried to kill me,” Santos shouted. Propped on his elbows, his expression fierce, he looked eager for a fight. “Has everyone forgotten that? Did you see who held the mirror, Juan?”
“No, I saw you freeze for a moment but didn’t understand why.”
Libby moved closer to the exam table. She’d admired Santos’s lean, muscular build in clothes and was relieved when the doctor covered him with a blanket before she could be caught eyeing him at such an inappropriate moment. “Security was already on it when we left the stands. Lots of people must have seen the reflection.”
Santos opened his mouth to swear again and caught himself. “I’m sorry. This isn’t what I wanted you to see.”
“I saw more than enough to see how fine you are.” Before she could step away, Santos curved his hand around her neck to pull her close for a hot, fast kiss. Unlike his tender kisses Friday night, the jolt weakened her knees. She grabbed hold of the exam table to remain standing.
“For luck,” he whispered.
The paramedics entered and slid him onto their stretcher before she found her voice, but when she turned, Rafael and Juan Martinez were regarding her with decidedly skeptical expressions.
“For luck,” she repeated, “which clearly he needs. Now do we try and catch whoever held the mirror or follow Santos to the hospital?”
“We’ll go to the hospital,” Rafael replied. “Mr. Martinez, find out what security knows. This can’t happen again.”
“Of course not,” Juan vowed. He juggled Santos’s clothing as he left the infirmary. The helpful banderilleros trotted along beside him.
Rafael pushed open the door of the emergency room. “I’ve been here too many times lately. I’ll call Maggie after we know what’s happening. I won’t frighten her needlessly.”
Libby took a seat while Rafael went up to the desk. He introduced himself as Santos’s brother-in-law and followed a nurse into a treatment room. There were only a few people waiting to be seen, and all turned to stare at Libby. She smiled, and they quickly looked away. The magazines were in Spanish, but she picked up one splattered with photos and found Rafael and Maggie on page three. They were dancing in a dimly lit cafe and were such a handsome couple she was tempted to tear out the page.
Nearly an hour passed before Rafael reappeared. He turned his back to those seated nearby so they couldn’t overhear. “Santos twisted his leg when he fell and tore his ACL. The surgeon wanted an MRI to access the damage and has scheduled surgery for tonight. There’s no reason for us to stay. I called Maggie, and she’s waiting for us at home.”
“Could I see Santos before we go?”
“No, let him rest. We’ll come back in the morning.”
They were halfway home before Libby realized she was still clutching the magazine with the photo. “I didn’t mean to take this, but there’s a good picture of you and Maggie in it.”
“Return it in the morning.”
“I will,” she replied, after she’d removed the page. She was doing a pitiful job of breaking them up, and the stunning photo was a vivid reminder of why she ought not to try.
Maggie greeted them at the front door. “Rafael told me Santos wasn’t badly hurt, is it true?”
Her face was pale against her dark hair, and Libby took her arm to guide her into the den. “Yes. It’s amazing we can walk upright when our knees are so easily injured. I’m sorry you were worried. Well, of course, you’d be worried, but the surgery is a routine one and not dangerous.”
Rafael leaned against the arched doorway. “I would have had Manuel bring you to the hospital if Santos had been gravely injured. Do you think I’d lie to you?”
“No, never, but you might soften things a bit.”
He shrugged. “I might. Someone flashed a mirror to blind Santos. That’s the truth that’s difficult to accept. The arena was full of fans shouting his name, but someone wanted him dead and tried to use a bull as a weapon.”
Maggie sank onto the sofa. “Where was Ana Santillan?”
“She was a few rows above us,” Libby explained. “So she didn’t do it, unless she had an accomplice. How many women could be mad enough at Santos to hope he’d be gored?”
“I only know his reputation,” Rafael offered. “Ana was his last girlfriend, but there could have been a dozen others before her, maybe more.”
Libby schooled her features rather than look shocked. So, all she’d ever be was the American girl he’d dated one summer. She could see it all so clearly, and yet the possibility teased her senses in the most shameful way.
“We could search the tabloid archives,” Maggie suggested. “Maybe they’re online.”
Mrs. Lopez came to the doorway, and Rafael stepped aside. She was a petite woman, dressed in black, and wore her usual severe expression. “Should I assume there will be three for dinner?”
“Yes,” Libby answered. The housekeeper waited, clearly expecting someone with more authority to respond.
“Three, thank you,” Maggie said. She waited until the housekeeper had crossed the entryway headed for the kitchen before she whispered, “If we were going to live here, I’d provide her with a generous retirement bonus and send her on her way.”
“She belongs in a Gothic novel,” Libby added, thinking the whole house did. “Santos must have a very soft heart to keep her here.”
Maggie nodded. “He does, except when it comes to the women he dates. Now let’s see if we can find one who feels badly enough to want him dead.” She got up to open the laptop on the desk and pulled up the chair.
“There were a couple dozen people protesting at the arena,” Rafael interjected. “It’s more likely one of them wanted to cause a bloody tragedy to further their cause.”
“Their group should be online too,” Libby said. “We need some paper to list all the suspects.”
Maggie caught Rafael’s eye. “Have you received any threats?”
“No, but Santos might have. Let’s ask him tomorrow.”
“First we’ll have to ask how he’s feeling,” Maggie replied. “I don’t want him to believe we’re more concerned with solving the mirror mystery than we are with him.”
Libby pulled open a desk drawer to search for paper. “Remind me of that in the morning.”
“I will,” Rafael promised. “I’m going to get a beer from the kitchen. May I bring anything for you two?”
“Iced tea,” Maggie asked.
“Bring me a beer too,” Libby replied.
The early morning routine of the hospital woke Santos from a fitful sleep before dawn. His knee was wrapped to the size of a frozen turkey. His hip ached where the bull had brushed by him, but he wasn’t curious enough to turn on the light over the bed to check for bruises. Thoroughly miserable to be trapped on his back like an overturned turtle, his only distraction was the clatter out in the hall. Nurses walked with a quick step, while doctors strode by at a slower pace.
He’d been in and out of emergency rooms more times than he could count, but this was the first time he’d been stuck in a hospital bed. A nurse came in to check his vital signs, and he murmured an unenthusiastic greeting.
“Good morning,” she replied. “I’m sorry I woke you so often during the night. How are you feeling? Do you need something more for pain?”
She was cute, with short curly hair, and his mood improved, but only slightly. “No, it isn’t bad, but this ruins my plans to take up flamenco.”
She giggled. “Do you have a partner?”
“I hadn’t thought that far.”
“If I bring you paper, will you sign an autograph for my nephew? He has a poster of you in his bedroom.�
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“I’ll be glad to. I hope he wasn’t at the arena yesterday.”
“No, I don’t believe he was, but any matador can trip and fall.”
Santos gritted his teeth. “Is that the report, that I tripped?”
She made a note of his blood pressure and took his wrist to check his pulse. “That’s what I heard. Isn’t it true?”
“No, it isn’t.” He supposed that was how it might have looked to anyone who hadn’t seen the blinding mirror flash, but he’d straighten out the story as soon as he could.
A search for Santos’s name in tabloid archives had yielded a list of women’s names, but Libby didn’t want him to believe she’d snooped through his love life merely to satisfy her own curiosity. She left the paper in her purse when she followed Maggie into his room. With the blinds open, it was a bright sunny room, but against a day’s growth of beard, he looked pale. He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual high-voltage grin.
His right knee was heavily bandaged, and Maggie walked around the other side of the bed to kiss his cheek. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“It hurts, but I can take it. I want to get out of here, but the doctor says I’ll have to stay until tomorrow. Would you please go down to the gift shop and buy a paper? I want to read the comments on yesterday.”
Libby stepped toward the door. “I’ll go.” She’d already dropped off the magazine she’d not meant to take and had seen the gift shop on their way in. The first paper she picked up had Santos’s photo on the front page. To her absolute astonishment, the second had Santos’s photo plus the one Ana Santillan had taken of her as she turned back toward Rafael. They were shown in profile facing each other and it looked as though they were exchanging some delicious secret. She quickly paid for the papers and rushed back upstairs.
“Here you are. Both papers have you on the front page. What does it say about Rafael and me in this one?”
Maggie quickly read the description of the photo. “It seems Rafael has left me for an ‘unidentified woman’.”
