by Phoebe Conn
Astonished, Libby bit her lip. “My coloring is the only angelic thing about me, and I’m proud to be tough. Sports are a great excuse to kick people out of my way, and I’m good at it.”
“It would be very unfair to kick a man on crutches.”
He had such a wicked smile and seated so close, she felt the heat of his sleek body as well as the warmth of his affection. He might not stay with a woman for long, but when he was with her, he was truly there and not lost in his own scattered thoughts. Maybe that had been Miguel’s secret too. She stopped analyzing the life out of it and took another bite of paella.
“This is so good, but I can’t eat it all. Could we take what’s left home, or would that insult Tomas?”
“Let’s take it and eat it at midnight, or later,” he suggested with a sly wink. “Tomas works for me remember, and if I want to snack on tree bark, it doesn’t concern him.”
“Fine, I’m finished.” She blotted her mouth on her napkin and left a brilliant red lipstick stain. She shoved the napkin into her lap and assumed the commercial laundries must be adept at bleaching out a multitude of stains for the restaurant business.
She noticed a man approaching them before Santos did, and gave his left knee a squeeze to alert him. “Who’s this?”
“A reporter who covers bullfights.” Santos introduced her and then spoke to the man at length in Spanish.
Knowing the subject had to be Santos’s injury and recovery, Libby followed the jest of the fluid exchange of questions and answers. Santos smiled often and shrugged, as though the conversation were a friendly one rather than an incisive interview about his career. He brought it to a swift close, and the reporter nodded to her and walked away.
“What did he ask?” she inquired.
“He’d heard, or at least he said he’d heard, that I’d sustained a career-ending injury. I assured him that I haven’t. He also wanted to know who you were.”
“You introduced us.”
“A name isn’t enough for a reporter. To sell papers, they yank on every loose thread to search for a hint of scandal. I just tantalized him with your name.”
“Thank you, the last thing I need is to become involved in some sordid scandal when I look like the skank Barbie.”
Santos tried to muffle his deep laughter in his napkin and failed. “Did you play with Barbies when you were small?”
“I preferred a soccer ball, but Patricia loved them, and our mother sewed little outfits for her dolls. She had quite a collection.”
Santos leaned close and kissed her. “Let’s go home.”
By the time they arrived at the beach house, Libby was so anxious to shampoo the hairspray out of her hair she could barely stand it. “I have to shower until I look like myself again.”
Manuel helped Santos up the stairs and went down the back staircase leaving them alone in the hallway. Santos stopped at her door. “Come shower in my room.”
He had been so charming at lunch, she’d pushed Ana Santillan to the back of her mind, but now they were home, and the exotic model rolled right over her. The whole day had been so far from her normal routine, and it was no wonder she felt so conflicted. “I’d rather be by myself. I’ll see you later.”
He reached for the doorknob before she could open her door. “There’s one other thing I should tell you about Ana.”
Dreading it, she drew in a deep breath. “I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“Did you notice her ring?”
“Who wouldn’t? It was huge.”
“My father left it to her in his will. He’d wanted to propose, but was too ill and didn’t want to leave her a widow. Had he been well, she would have been stepmother number four. My family is already a tangled mess without my sleeping with her. There’s nothing between us. Now come to my room.”
She remained by her door. “The ads had been planned for your father and her, hadn’t they?”
“He’d only told me he couldn’t do them and I should. He didn’t mention her, or how much he’d been paid for the campaign. I just fell into the ads unaware of what had been promised.”
Rather than criticize his late father, she followed him down the hall to his room. She did stay in the shower longer than usual, and by the time she’d dried her hair, Santos lay stretched out on his bed sound asleep. Even asleep he drew her close, and dressed in her lingerie, she curled up beside him. She matched her breathing to his, and slept just as soundly.
When Santos awoke, he found the dent left in Libby’s pillow, proof she’d taken her nap there, but he wanted her there now. He pressed his face into her pillow and found only the soft scent of his own soap, not a delicious hint of her. Annoyed she’d slipped away without waking him, he got up, took his crutches from the floor and made his way out on his balcony. He half expected her to be racing up and down in front of the house, but she was swimming, and Manuel stood on the beach keeping watch on her with his hands rested on his hips. Manuel could swim better than most fish, but Santos was certain he’d told her not to go in the water.
He watched until she walked out of the surf. She was wearing a black one-piece suit, the kind serious swimmers wore, rather than a tiny bikini, but she looked so damn hot he nearly drooled. He watched her shake out her hair, and could almost hear cameras clicking all up and down the beach. He wanted to be angry with her for disobeying him, but he ached so badly to have her again he couldn’t muster up a single bit of outrage.
Libby found him seated on the patio sipping what looked like lemonade. She took the seat by his side and waved to Manuel as he headed toward the garage. “I asked him to watch me, so you can’t complain I disregarded your wishes.”
Santos tilted his head to take in her gorgeous body in a long sweep. She’d wrapped a towel around her hips as a sarong, but even partially covered, her legs were firmly imprinted on his mind. “Do you hear me complaining?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t coming.”
“But you went swimming anyway.”
Julian appeared with a tall glass of lemonade on his tray. He placed it in front of her along with a small plate of sugar cookies.
“Thank you.” She took a cookie and hummed through a bite. “As delicious as everything Tomas makes. Please tell him I said so.”
Santos translated for her and dismissed him. “We may have made it through a night without another attack of some sort, but today isn’t over yet. I’m trying not to think about how eager someone is to see me dead, but you mustn’t take any risks either.”
“Try a cookie.” She pushed the plate toward him. “They aren’t laced with poison.”
“Libby, we need to be serious.”
She propped her legs on an empty chair and leaned back. “They’ve tried once at the bullring, another time here, but I don’t think they’ll try the same stunt twice. They must want it look like an accident, and they have to come up with a new strategy.”
“Drowning you would be something new.” He bit into a cookie and caught the sugary crumbs.
“True, but I’m not the target, you are. I can’t wait to hear what Mr. Cazares learns tonight. Could you ask him to come here after the meeting so we won’t have to wait until tomorrow for his report?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and did so. “The meeting is at eight. He should be here before eleven. Manuel and I kept a lookout this morning, but we weren’t being followed. That doesn’t mean we won’t be when we go to see Orlando Ortiz tomorrow.”
“We can’t drive around in a tank.”
“No, we could, but the gas mileage is so poor it would be prohibitively expensive.”
“Now who’s not being serious?” She shook out her hair. “You ought to have an outdoor shower so people wouldn’t trek sand into the house.”
“There is one behind the garage. I should have shown it to you the day we went running.”
They hadn’t returned to the house together, so she shrugged as though it were a small oversight. “I’ll go rinse off and c
ome right back.”
“If you’re not here in five minutes, I’m calling the police.”
“Do you think the man who followed me is lurking behind the garage?”
“He could be. He was somewhere close before.”
“I’ll keep a eye out for him.” She strolled across the sand to reach the back of the garage and found the shower shielded from passersby with a lattice enclosure supporting a vine dripping with fragrant white flowers. If Maggie had known about it, she hadn’t pointed it out when they’d walked along the beach. She took great care in looking around to make certain no one was hiding on the far side of the garage, and then quickly showered to rinse out her hair and clean the sand from her body. She dropped back into her chair in under four minutes.
“No one lay in wait,” she reported, feeling like herself again.
“You are even prettier now than you were this morning.” He saluted her with his lemonade.
“Thank you. I’ll agree I look better all wet than under a blanket of makeup.”
He leaned forward. “We don’t eat dinner until late, come upstairs with me.”
“Is it my fault you fell asleep earlier?”
“Probably, but I’ll forgive you for it.” He pushed himself to his feet.
She rose too. “It is difficult to peel off this suit when it’s wet, and I could use some help undressing.”
“I’ve got another week before I can put any weight on my leg, but if you keep talking like that, I’m going to race you upstairs.”
“As your personal trainer, I have to advise against it. Let’s walk very slowly,” she suggested.
He had to call Manuel to help him climb the stairs, and she was waiting on his balcony when he reached his room. “This is the most glorious view,” she exclaimed. “Minnesota is filled with lakes, but the water is mirror still, not always in motion like the sea.”
“Like you.”
She walked toward him. “Loan me a T-shirt?”
He nodded toward the dresser. “Third drawer. Take the Barcelona football shirt and keep it.”
He’d worn it when they’d gone running. It had been laundered, folded and carefully replaced in his drawer. “Are you a big fan?”
“Everyone is Barcelona is. Do you really need help taking off your suit?”
“No, give me a minute.”
He waited by the dresser. It was a heavy piece of furniture, mahogany to match the bed. The mirror above it reflected the whole room. He leaned his crutches against the wall. When Libby reappeared clad in his T-shirt and nothing else, he pulled out the fourth drawer. “Use this as a step and climb up on the dresser.”
“Santos, we don’t have to run through every possibility to have sex.”
“Indulge me.”
She kissed him and did as he’d asked. Once on top, she was the perfect height and he shoved her knees apart and burrowed between her legs. Now eager to play, she ran her hands through his hair and nearly purred with each stroke of his tongue. A sweet ache swelled in her core, luring her toward bliss, but he stopped to leave her wanting.
He reached under her T-shirt to rub his thumb and forefinger over her nipples. “I’ll bet your nipples are a pale pink. They’re as soft as rose petals.”
His glance was dangerous now, full of the desire she met so eagerly. He kept one hand on her breast, and slid two fingers of his other hand into her. She grabbed hold of dresser and scooted forward to encourage him. He twisted his fingers but again stopped before she came.
“Promise to stay in my bed the next time we’re together.”
She ground her hips against his hand. “You ought to give me an incentive.”
He gave the inside of her thigh a playful nibble. “The lavender lingerie wasn’t enough?”
He sucked her clit, but as she began to gasp, he pulled back. “Put your hands on my shoulders.” When she did so, he grabbed her waist, turned her to face the mirror and she held onto the dresser. Their eyes met in the reflection, and he smiled, rubbed his hands over her bottom and then pulled a condom from his pocket. “You better hang on.”
It was a command rather than a request, but she was already hanging on tight. She was so wet he entered her on a smooth glide, and she watched him look down where their bodies met. He moved in and out slowly, then placed his hands over hers to keep his balance as he kicked up his pace.
A taunting heat filled her, a powerful distraction, but she focused on his expression. He looked enormously pleased with himself, and she pushed against him. He closed his eyes, a longing for control clear in his furrowed brow, but she bumped against him again. Not so hard she’d send him sprawling to the floor, but a fast jolt to lure him deep. His strokes slowed, and she ground her hips against his to tease him. She was so close, but he stopped again and just held her.
“You still haven’t promised to stay in my bed,” he whispered against her hair.
She clenched her inner muscles to best him at his own game, and too fully aroused to play, he pushed her against the dresser and with fast deep lunges, rocked her to a stunning finish. She clung to the dresser for support and watched his face as he spilled into her. He didn’t grimace as though he were in pain; he closed his eyes as though lost in a splendid dream. He rested his head against hers and they remained leaning against the sturdy dresser until they both found the energy to breathe.
“That was an inspired incentive,” she whispered. “But you’ll have to repeat it fairly often.”
He drew her earlobe through his teeth. “If I can find the time.”
She arched her back to rub her shoulders across his chest. “I’ll find a way to remind you.”
He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight. “I just bet you will.”
Later that night, Javier Cazares came to the house dressed in casual sports clothes and a cheap pair of black-framed glasses. “The couple who interested us didn’t attend. Showing the photo of them I took outside the arena would have provoked too many questions, so I appeared enthusiastic about the group’s goals and waited to speak until I was spoken to. The group has been meeting for approximately two years. The leader is Lawrence Sanchez, a historian of some note. He believes violence begets violence and that all of society will benefit from a moratorium on bullfighting.
“I spoke with one man who attends the meetings to meet women, so clearly all the group’s members aren’t as committed as Dr. Sanchez. There was a flyer posted to encourage additional protests at the arena, but no posters with photos I might have used to gather names. I listened carefully, but no one bragged they’d been responsible for your injury, Santos. I’m sorry I didn’t discover anything of note, but I’ll go again next week. As for Victoria Rubio, the name doesn’t come up in any of the databases I can access. I’ll keep searching for her.”
“Her boyfriend followed me to the marina yesterday,” Libby revealed. “There must be some way to discover who he is.”
“You recognized him?” Cazares asked, his eyes nearly as wide as his glasses.
“Yes, he was as close to me as you are now.”
Cazares sat back and flipped his notebook closed. “Don’t go out alone. He may have been testing the situation to see how close he could get to you.”
Santos raised his brows. “Yes, I know,” Libby responded. “We all need to be careful.”
“More careful,” Santos emphasized.
They remained in the den after the private detective had gone. Libby moved from her chair to snuggle against Santos on the sofa. She laced her fingers in his. “When is your next doctor’s appointment?”
“Thursday. The swelling has gone down, and I should be able to begin therapy. I hate this, Libby. I’m never sick, and I’m used to being able to do whatever I want. I should be grateful it isn’t worse, but this is bad enough.”
She slid her hand through his hair and kissed him long and hard. “You’re getting better. That’s what’s important.”
“I know what you’re doing,” he whispered when he c
ould catch his breath. “You’re trying to distract me so I won’t worry about letting you go out alone.”
She tilted her head to feign a charming innocence. “Really? Are you always suspicious of my motives?”
His gaze turned sly and cool. “I’m suspicious of everyone.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? If you suspect everyone is insincere, you’ll miss out when someone is.”
He coiled one of her curls around his finger. “That is a problem, isn’t it?”
“Put it in the ‘Matador Blues’.” She sang what she recalled of the tune, “Don’t believe a woman when I should.”
“Don’t do the right thing when I could,” he added.
“Do you want your guitar?”
“No, thank you. Will you bring me some paper from the desk?”
She brought him a handful with a pen and pencil. He took the pencil. “If you write in Spanish, the rhymes won’t work, will they?”
“Spanish is much easier to rhyme, but let’s work on the feeling first. The guy’s sad, alone, and regrets every damn thing he ever did.”
“We have to be poignant, not pathetic.”
“Sincere without tears,” he agreed.
“Can’t take back my life,” she sang, “but I caused all the strife.”
“Can’t take back my life,” he echoed, “but every mistake was mine.”
“Yes, that’s much better. It’s all better with your deep voice. Every mistake was mine, that’s a great line. You could list all sorts of sad events, and add every mistake was mine in the chorus.”
“Or I could turn it around and blame it all on some heartless woman.”
She cocked her head. “Have two versions of the song? Why not? You could write a women’s version where she blames her problems on him.”
“I could, but it’s better if the singer blames himself for his own misery.” He jotted down a couple of quick phrases and began a list of problems. “What can a man do, cheat on a woman, seduce her best friend, lie, steal her money?”
“Drive her new car into a ditch?” she suggested.
