Fierce Pride

by Phoebe Conn

  He didn’t have time to feel lonely before Rafael arrived, and they went into the den. Santos made himself comfortable on the sofa, while Rafael paced up and down in front of him. “I don’t have time to deal with Orlando Ortiz this week,” Santos said. “After you’ve gone on your honeymoon, I’ll make an appointment, ask if he’s interested in my car and see what he says. My father insisted no one believes a matador has any brains, which works to our advantage.”

  “I’m sure it does, but I don’t want to wait that long. Let’s pay him a visit this afternoon.”

  “No. I won’t go. Let’s make whoever was in the black SUV wait. I’m the potential victim, and I’ll handle them. All you need do is dance and make love to Maggie.”

  Rafael went to the bar. “What do you want?”

  “Whatever you’re pouring.”

  Rafael brought him bourbon, neat. “I hope you know enough not to drink before a corrida. Booze and drugs will kill you faster than the bulls.”

  “That’s another of my father’s sayings. I miss him.”

  Rafael raised his glass in a silent salute. “Everyone does. Now let’s go see Ortiz.”

  Santos swallowed his drink in a single gulp and rolled the glass between his palms. He spoke in so serious a tone, Rafael couldn’t misunderstand. “Let me put it another way. If anything goes wrong, which of course it will, you’re the one with the prison record. It won’t impress Maggie, or her parents, if you miss the wedding because Ortiz takes offense to our visit and has you arrested.”

  “While you’d walk out of his office?”

  “I’ll limp out on my crutches. Clearly I’m no threat, but you’re a different sort of man.”

  Rafael’s dark glance grew black. “For which I’m deeply grateful.”

  “So am I. Do this for Maggie. I won’t leave the house until after the wedding, and I’m safe here.”

  “Someone may be watching the house.”

  “Let them watch. It’s as secure as a fortress.”

  “There’s a very real danger in being overconfident,” Rafael warned. “Miguel must have warned you against it.”

  Santos smiled at the memory. “Yes, he once referred to a man as having such a high opinion of himself his cock must drag in the dirt.”

  Rafael couldn’t help but laugh. “Could that fit Ortiz?”

  “It must,” Santos murmured. He handed him his glass. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking Maggie on your honeymoon?”

  “No, but there isn’t time to go to the Aragon place in the Seychelles. Have you ever been there?”

  “Once, when I was seven or eight. Miguel was between wives and took me along. It’s a spectacular place, all blue sky and sea. Wherever you take Maggie, I want you to call in every day. If there’s an unexpected catastrophe here, you might be needed. I doubt it, though. By the time you come home, I’ll have the whole matter settled.”

  Mrs. Lopez came to the door. “Juan Martinez is here to see you.”

  “Send him in. Wait, Rafael. I want you to hear what he says.”

  The agent entered, carrying a briefcase. He greeted the men, got comfortable on the sofa and removed a large envelope from the leather case. “You asked me to look at your fan mail. Unfortunately, Sylvia has been erasing insulting e-mails and shredding tasteless letters. These were the only ones she hadn’t destroyed. I regret having to bring them to you.”

  Santos reached for the envelope, read through the letters and passed them to Rafael. Some were on lined notebook paper and others fine stationery. “The woman who believes my pants ought to be tighter is no threat, but a couple of those worry me.”

  “Is this one written in blood?” Rafael held it by the corner.

  Juan shrugged. “I imagine it’s supposed to be a heroic bull’s blood. Sylvia says a couple come every week from groups intent on putting an end to bullfighting.”

  Rafael stopped on a carefully drawn portrait of Santos. It was a fine likeness, but long, deep scratches had ripped out the eyes. You have your father’s eyes was scrawled at the bottom. Rafael shook his head. “There’s no signature. Does this look like a man’s work or a woman’s?”

  Juan shrugged while Santos took the drawing back to study it more intently. “There’s nothing feminine about this, but I don’t understand the message. Are they angry at me or my father?”

  “It could be taken either way,” Rafael answered. “If they want to erase memories of Miguel, it would create a whole new category of suspects.”

  Santos was silent a long moment before he slid the letters back into the large envelope. “Sylvia didn’t save the envelopes for these?”

  “No, I’m sorry. That was a mistake. I told her to save them for you from now on.”

  “See that she does. These won’t leave this room, and if there are any more, bring them straight to me and have Sylvia print questionable e-mails. Rafael, pick a book off the shelves. Something up high no one has read in years. Yes, that’s a good one.”

  Rafael had chosen the thick book for its size. Not only was the title unfamiliar, it was written in Catalan, which wouldn’t interest any of the guests in the house. He hid the envelope inside and returned it to its place before facing Juan. “Has this type of mail been coming to Santos all along or just recently?”

  Juan closed his briefcase and stood. “Apparently it’s nothing new, but Sylvia says there’s more repulsive mail now than she’s ever seen. She didn’t want you to know, Santos, but no warning would have prepared us for last Sunday.”

  “I understand her motives. Thank her, please,” Santos asked. “I’ve still no idea how much time I’ll need for my knee. I’ll let you know when I do.”

  “I will try to be patient, although it will be very difficult.” Juan nodded to Rafael and hesitated only a second. “You took Santos’s place once and did very well. We should talk.”

  “No, I’m through. Someone who’s eager to do so should take Santos’s place.”

  Juan shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I know you’re not fond of Quiñonez.”

  Santos swore under his breath. “With one leg, I’m better than he’ll ever be. Find someone else.”

  “I will do what I can.” He showed himself out, and Rafael closed the den door behind the portly agent.

  “Don’t tell Maggie about this,” Santos cautioned.

  “I won’t. There’s no need to worry her. What about Libby?”

  “She already knows too much.” He adjusted the pillow at his back. “What do you think of her?” His averted glance revealed his true question.

  “She’s so pretty it’s easy to miss how bright she is. She doesn’t hide it, though. It may be a good thing she’s leaving Sunday.”

  Santos couldn’t bring himself to agree, or ask Rafael for advice, although he feared he needed it. “Will you look in the closet? I left a guitar there a couple of years ago.”

  “I didn’t know you played.” He found the guitar and handed it to him.

  Santos strummed it lightly and turned the pegs to bring it in tune. “I learned to play at the ranch when I was a kid and have probably forgotten every song I knew. I need something to do besides read and look at the sea, so I might as well practice.”

  “You might want to serenade a woman someday. Do you need anything else?”

  “Yes, there’s a pair of binoculars in the bottom drawer of the desk. Take them upstairs and go out on Maggie’s balcony. See if you can catch someone watching the house. Maybe we should ask every matador in Spain if he’s also gotten threats.”

  “I have a website but haven’t kept up with the comments. I should shut it down now that I’ve retired. What about the tabloids? They’d print the eyeless portrait on the front page, and it would warn the artist to stay away.”

  “I don’t want to go public with it, not yet.” He ran through a few basic chords and looked pleased he could remember them.

  Rafael took the binoculars upstairs. Maggie had been staying with him until her parents
arrived, and she was only at the beach house for the week. This was the room she’d used when she’d arrived in Barcelona in June. He stepped out on the balcony and waited a moment to raise the binoculars. There were people on the beach, some with children, sailboats gliding by, a man jogging along the shore. It was a peaceful scene, so if they were being watched, it was being done without causing a ripple of alarm.

  He went across the hall to the room Santos’s stepbrother Fox used when he visited. The balcony had a view of the neatly landscaped front yard and the road. Many of the neighboring homes had circular driveways, so few residents parked on the street. There were cars parked nearby, guests, perhaps, and a plumber’s van, but the real life of the houses took place on the shore side. He returned to Maggie’s room for a last look but had nothing to report.

  He put the binoculars away and leaned back against the desk. “There’s nothing suspicious, but I could have missed it.”

  “That’s reassuring. How does this sound?” He played a few notes and looked up.

  Rafael recognized the popular tune. “Very good. Women love music. Keep practicing. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Santos let him go and struggled to play more of the song. While he couldn’t dance flamenco, maybe he could impress Libby with music. Playing the guitar would keep his mind off the hideous portrait, but he had the eerie feeling the artist was hard at work on something worse.

  The Gundersons arrived home tired after sightseeing all day. The avenue of Las Ramblas stretched longer than a dozen football fields and held tarot card readers, flower vendors and stalls filled with caged birds. All manner of items the sellers hoped tourists could not live without, as well as a huge outdoor market, La Boqueria. The wide street was lined with hotels, historic mansions, including an opera house, shops and cafes. It was a fascinating place to visit, and the day had passed so quickly they’d not realized the time until the sky began to grow dark.

  Libby let the rest of her family go on upstairs while she checked the patio for Santos. He’d been in her thoughts all day, and she was disappointed not to find him. She’d seen Mrs. Lopez downstairs and risked going up the back stairs to reach her room. As she passed Santos’s door, she heard guitar music and knocked lightly. He invited her in.

  He was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard. “I’m working on a song I’m calling The Matador Blues.” He played a few notes and made a notation on a sheet of paper on the nightstand.

  “That’s pretty. Play it again,” she called from the doorway.

  “Only if you’ll come in.”

  She stepped into his bedroom but left the door open behind her. “There, I’m in.” All day long, he’d occupied her thoughts. She liked him so much it frightened her, but she didn’t want to miss out on what could very well be one of the best experiences of her life. She double-dog dared herself to grab it.

  He played it again for her. “That’s the chorus. I’ll write a verse when I get this part right. It has to sound dark and moody, but not pitiful. It’s a challenge.”

  “I’d no idea you wrote music.” Clearly the man had no end of talents.

  “I hadn’t before today.” He set the guitar aside. “I didn’t understand what you meant this morning. Was it yes or no?”

  His relaxed posture and easy smile made him appear G-rated. She knew better. He posed a risk in every possible way, but she’d count on her Viking blood to keep her safe. She perched on the foot of his bed. After a day sightseeing, she could feel her cheeks were flushed. Self-consciously she twisted her long braid but didn’t undo it to catch the stray strands. “I hadn’t made up my mind. Barcelona is a fascinating city, and I’d love to stay longer. But someone tried to kill you last Sunday. I don’t want you to believe I’d stay simply for a chance to play detective.”

  “I don’t care why you stay as long as you do. I was joking about your being my bodyguard.”

  “I know, but the fact is, you need one.”

  Patricia called to her mother out in the hall, and he waited until they heard doors close to reply. “Maybe. I’ll consider hiring one after the wedding.”

  “Are you ever serious about anything?”

  “I’m dead serious in a bullring, but with three bulls out to kill me every Sunday, another threat to my life isn’t anything new. It is for you.”

  He was wearing white socks, and she reached for his left foot and pressed her thumbs into the ball and rubbed. “True. I’m not used to evading death every week. You’ve definitely got the makings of a blues song right there.”

  She was paying such tender attention to his foot, he found it difficult to do anything but watch. She had beautiful hands with long slender fingers he’d rather see wrapped around his cock. “I hope so.”

  “Let’s say I stay as your personal trainer. Would you object if I asked my dad to write up a contract so we’ll be clear on the terms?”

  She’d switched to his right foot, and he was lost in her touch. “No, a contract is fine. Have you used them with other clients?”

  “No, but I was home where I knew everyone well, and they knew me. I should have had contracts, though, and I’ll have a standard one drawn up when I get home and use it with new clients from now on.”

  “Would it embarrass you if I came to visit?”

  She concentrated on his foot. “Would you be wearing one of your fancy suits?”

  “No, they’re too uncomfortable for travel.” He rested his head against the headboard and sighed contentedly. “Patricia said you gave great massages, and you do. Please don’t stop there.”

  Startled by her sister’s name, she dropped his foot and stood. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It felt good. Don’t apologize. Let’s talk to your dad tonight, and you can change your airline reservation tomorrow. I promise you’ll not be bored here.”

  With him, that was a complete impossibility. She paused at the door. “I’m never bored. Are you coming downstairs for dinner?”

  “If you’ll help me dress.”

  The man never quit, and she wouldn’t encourage him. “You’re on your own. I won’t be your valet, and I’ll put it in the contract.” She closed the door quietly on her way out.

  Santos raked his hand through his hair. He was at a disadvantage with a brace on his knee, but at least he’d talked Libby into staying for the summer. Now all he had to do was convince her father it would be strictly for business. He’d planned to draw Peter aside after dinner, but Libby brought it up during the meal.

  “Santos asked me to stay a few more weeks as his personal trainer. Could you draw up a simple contract for us, Dad?”

  Peter glanced toward Santos, who smiled in an attempt to appear earnest and respectable. “Whose idea was it?”

  “Mine,” Santos assured him. “Libby had mentioned working as a personal trainer, and I need one. I’ll give her free room and board, double whatever she usually charges, and she’ll have plenty of time off to see the city. She’d be good company for Maggie too.”

  “Are you in on this, Maggie?” Peter asked.

  She paused mid-bite. “No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “How old are you, Santos?” Linda asked.

  He saw a flash of fear cross Libby’s glance, but wouldn’t lie. “I’m twenty-seven. I was born while my father was married to you. It’s a tragic story I’d rather not repeat, but I’m old enough to hire Libby. Let’s talk about a contract later. Please excuse me. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  He left with as much dignity as he could display on crutches. Libby started to rise, but Rafael stopped her. “Let him go,” he directed softly.

  “Couldn’t someone have warned me?” Linda asked. “What else shouldn’t I ask?”

  Maggie drew in a deep breath. “Santos lost his mother at a very early age, and she and Miguel were never married. Santos has carried more responsibility for the family than anyone else, and I trust him.”

  Linda pushed her plate away. “I’ve lost my appetite too.
What’s the real story, that Miguel left a pregnant girl here when he came to Arizona?”

  “No,” Maggie insisted. “He didn’t know, and his mother didn’t tell him when she found out. I don’t know words vile enough to accurately describe Carmen and her twisted motives. You were lucky not to have known her.”

  Patricia was hanging on every word, but Linda had offered both daughters the same advice. “Let’s tell the truth. If you want to stay with Santos because you’re attracted to him, Libby, please say so. You don’t need to make up a story about working for him.”

  Rafael tried to hide his smile, and Maggie reached under the table to grip his hand and rein in his obvious amusement. “We’ll see Libby’s happy,” she offered. “If she isn’t, we’ll drive her to the airport. Besides, she’s twenty-one and doesn’t need your permission to stay.”

  “You needn’t have reminded us,” Peter scolded.

  “I do like Santos,” Libby said, “but that’s not all there is to it. That’s why I asked you to draw up a contract. We’ll set the terms, and if Santos doesn’t meet them, I’ll go home.”

  “He’ll follow them,” Rafael added. “I’ll see to it.”

  Peter shook his head. “We’ve a wedding on Saturday. Couldn’t we concentrate on it tonight?”

  Libby got up to circle the table and hugged her father. “Yes, we’ll have a wonderful celebration. I’m so glad you and Mother are here.”

  Peter nodded grudgingly, but his wife barely managed a smile. “Are there any more confessions I should hear?” she asked.

  Maggie was quick to assure her. “No, nothing important, nothing at all.”

  Libby sat back down and scooped up a bite of saffron-flavored rice. “I’m going to need a trainer myself if I keep eating Tomas’s meals.”

  “Maybe you’ll finally grow some boobs,” Patricia suggested.

  “Patricia!” Peter began to laugh.