Fierce Love

by Phoebe Conn

  “A great deal, apparently,” Carmen murmured under her breath and flashed a brief self-satisfied smirk. “I wondered what you thought of your father.”

  All eyes were now on Maggie, and she blushed as she fought to provide a meaningful reply that would reveal none of the anguish he’d caused her. “I’m sorry to find him so ill,” she responded.

  “We are all praying for a miracle,” Carmen confided. “Did your mother keep her promise to raise you in the Catholic faith?”

  Maggie shot Santos an anxious glance, but he appeared to be as startled as she. “Well, no. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Carmen sighed impatiently. “It doesn’t surprise me, but it’s unfortunate when we are such a devout family.”

  Maggie nearly laughed out loud and was amazed her grandmother could continue eating her dessert without choking. It was no wonder Carmen was so shortsighted when she looked down her nose at everyone. “You must have been heartbroken when my parents divorced.”

  Carmen’s eyes widened slightly, inspiring Maggie to continue. “Or, for that matter, each time my father went through a divorce. You’re divorced as well, aren’t you, Aunt Cirilda?”

  “Divorce is not a subject discussed at this table,” Carmen announced, and with a graceful rise and turn, she left the room without wishing anyone a good night.

  Santos broke into a broad grin. “Score one for our side.”

  Cirilda’s already proud posture stiffened. “You must pay no attention to Santos’s tasteless ramblings,” she cautioned. “He has the manners of a pig.”

  “And you’re my favorite aunt,” Santos taunted, “but as you say, I have no taste.”

  Cirilda’s hostile glare was nearly as malevolent as her mother’s, and just as swiftly, she exited the room. The twins held their napkins over their mouths to muffle their laughter, but Maggie couldn’t appreciate the humor in the situation.

  “How can you stand living here?” she asked Santos.

  “I don’t, usually. I have my own apartment, but now Father needs me to be close.” He finished the last bite of the berries and then smiled at the twins. “Want to go dancing? It’s early, and we can go to the Caves.”

  “What caves?” Maggie asked. The fair teenagers reminded her of her half sisters in Minnesota. They resembled their mother rather than Miguel, and there was no family resemblance between them and Maggie.

  “They aren’t real caves,” Perry replied. “It’s a restaurant with entertainment for tourists. Can Maggie go with us, Santos?”

  Santos slid his arm around Maggie’s shoulders and gave her a fond squeeze. “Of course, she can.”

  “Another time, perhaps,” Maggie apologized. “Father asked me to come talk with him again.”

  Santos’s voice softened with his expression. “It’s still early for us, but he won’t be awake now, Maggie. Go up and check if you’d like. You’ll find him asleep, and you shouldn’t wake him just to chat. He’ll have time for you tomorrow. At least, we all hope he will.”

  Maggie understood his admonition without needing to peek into their father’s room. She was tired but wouldn’t be able to sleep and joined in Santos’s plan. She’d changed into a simple black dress for dinner, but it hadn’t compared to her grandmother’s and aunt’s exquisite designer gowns, or the twins’ avant-garde garb. Still, she was comfortable and thought her clothes adequate for the rest of the evening.

  “All right, then,” she agreed. “I’d like to come along, but I’m surprised you’d want to mingle with tourists.”

  “Tourists don’t recognize me as easily as Spaniards do,” Santos explained. “I can be myself among them.”

  That he did not curry the celebrity that came with his profession surprised her. As they left the table, she looped her arm through his and mentally confirmed her promise to stay in touch.

  Built of glass and stone, the Caves overlooked the sea, and the midnight blue walls curved to create an impression of an ancient grotto. Moonlight reflected off the water imparted a sparkling serenity, but the music of the live rock band was thunderously loud. With arms raised, the couples crowding the dance floor were bumping hips and moving in time to a song Maggie recognized from home. Anxious to dance, Esperanza and Consuelo left them as soon as they had been shown to a table, but Maggie was content to watch.

  Santos leaned close to be heard. “What do you think of our little sisters?”

  “You’re right. They’re much too thin and wear too much makeup, but they’re charming girls, and I like them.”

  “Good. Do you like me too?”

  As Maggie gave him a playful shove, a familiar figure moved out on the dance floor. She was astonished to find Rafael Mondragon partying with tourists but even more so by her own inability to look away. He was dancing with a redhead with tightly coiled curls, while a blonde with long, flowing hair mirrored his motions from behind. It was a provocative sandwich and perfectly timed to the music.

  Rafael wore a wide grin and with such a lighthearted expression, he was even more handsome than she’d thought him to be. He turned then to face the blonde, and without missing a beat, the redhead pressed close to his back, and the three continued dancing together.

  Maggie stole a glance at Santos, but, apparently unaware of Rafael’s presence, he was waving to the twins who were on the dance floor’s nearest corner. Relieved she hadn’t been observed, Maggie resumed watching Rafael and his pretty partners. Flamenco dancing was wildly romantic, and she was accustomed to pacing her own steps to her partner’s, but with rock’s driving beat, the dancing was far more primitively erotic than anything she ever performed. Rafael danced with a relaxed flair, and when the others on the floor moved back to give him and his women more room, Maggie had a better view. All too quickly, the band brought the number to a booming close, and the drummer announced a short break.

  The musicians left the stage, and a single guitarist moved a chair out front. As the tourists returned to their tables, he began strumming one of Maggie’s favorite flamenco tunes, but she was so surprised to see Rafael walk away alone that for a long moment, the change in music didn’t register. Apparently a friend of the guitarist, Rafael leaned down to speak with him, then moved aside to lean back against the stage. He folded his arms across his chest and scanned the room.

  Ashamed to find the abrasive man so appealing, Maggie dipped her head and turned toward Santos. “This is obviously a popular place. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “You’re welcome.” While looking for the twins, he noticed Rafael and shook his head. “It’s too popular tonight. I’ll grant you Rafael Mondragon can move well, but so does a cobra.”

  Maggie licked her lips and took a sip of the soda she and the twins had ordered. The girls came back to join them and began eyeing young men at a nearby table. Santos had told her the twins were thirteen, but in the dim light, they could easily pass for several years older.

  “Do you bring Perry and Connie here often?” she asked.

  Santos frowned. “You don’t approve?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just…” A shadow crossed their table, and without looking up, she could feel Rafael’s heat. Her breath caught in her throat, and her gaze skidded up his shirt buttons to his face, but Rafael’s insolent glare was focused on her half brother.

  “I would like your permission to dance with one of your sisters,” he asked with a mock bow.

  Magdalena caught herself before her mouth fell open, but it was such an old-fashioned request, and especially so after the performance Rafael and his women friends had just given on the dance floor. Assuming he must be referring to one of the twins, she was about to urge Santos to refuse when Rafael reached for her hand. Equally amazed, Santos came out of his chair, but Maggie raised her free hand to wave him off.

  Rafael’s request must have been a dare, a provocation to win the attention Santos wished to avoid. He couldn’t have known she’d studied flamenco, so his intention must also have been to embarrass her. Sh
e didn’t appreciate being used as a pawn in their rivalry. It was not only a ridiculous stunt, but also one that could also have the potential for cruelty.

  She regarded him with a sweet, innocent smile. “I’d love to dance.” He led her out to the now vacant dance floor, but when he pulled her against his side and tapped his heels in rhythm with the low, rolling melody of the guitar solo, she was more than ready for him. Her skirt had no ruffled tiers but was cut with graceful gores, and she grabbed hold to swing the soft fabric with her moves.

  Rather than step away, she brushed her shoulder across Rafael’s chest and raised her free hand above her head as though she held castanets. She kept no more than a whisper’s width between them and matched his steps with a striking ease. The resulting applause from the crowd threatened to drown out the music, but even when Rafael changed his rhythm, she followed with a graceful flair. She kept her glance lowered in a shyly feminine yet utterly seductive pose.

  Rafael was very good, certainly the equal of any partner she’d ever had back home, but she danced with a free-spirited abandon and dared him with every gesture to give more. While Rafael may have drawn greater attention from the crowd as the dance began, a quick glance showed her the tourists were also applauding her. She wished she had her dancing shoes and castanets, or at the very least a fan, but even without her usual props, she worked to create a breathtaking romantic illusion.

  She’d been drawn to flamenco not only because it was from Spain but because it set to music the ancient ritual of an aggressive man’s pursuit and a woman’s graceful reluctance to surrender. Her every step and turn offered a tantalizing glimpse of an ecstasy she kept maddeningly out of reach. As the guitarist strummed the final chord, she wondered what they could have done with a little time to rehearse.

  Her usual partner would have brought the spellbinding dance to its natural conclusion with a feigned kiss, but as she raised her gaze to Rafael’s, his expression was more murderous than affectionate. She laughed as though the whole number had been a deliberate tease and turned away to walk to her table, but he reached out to catch her elbow and drew her back.

  The crowd seemed to believe the enormously entertaining couple were merely continuing their dance and shouted for an encore, but with Rafael’s firm grip on her arm, Maggie had had enough. “Thank you for the dance,” she offered in a pleasant tone, then whispered, “Unless you truly enjoy being kneed in the groin, let me go.”

  She could see the puzzlement her question caused and wondered if his English weren’t nearly as fluent as he wished everyone to believe. She was about to repeat her demand in simpler terms when he released her and stepped back. She didn’t wait for the gentlemanly compliment she was positive he wouldn’t pay and with her head held high, left the dance floor alone.

  “What did he say to you?” Santos asked as she reached their table.

  “Nothing. Apparently, I left him speechless.”

  “Will you teach us to dance, Magdalena? Our mother only sends us to ballet,” Perry said.

  If she remembered correctly, their mother was the opera star. “Ballet is always a good place to start,” she responded.

  “That’s what she always says,” Connie murmured. “But we want to learn flamenco and the tango. Do you know the tango too?”

  “Yes,” Maggie replied. She could tell from Santos’s teasing smile that he’d urge her to teach the twins any dance they pleased just to spite their mother. It would only be dancing after all, she told herself. She glanced over the twins’ heads to look for Rafael, but he’d disappeared.

  Santos gave Ana Santillan a last kiss, rolled over on his back and propped his hands behind his head. “Magdalena was magnificent,” he swore. “She didn’t just dance. She was the spirit of flamenco itself. You should have been there.”

  “My God,” Ana cried. “You’ve fallen in love with your own sister. That’s disgusting.” She pushed off the bed and strode across the room with the same insolent confidence that had made her one of fashion’s highest paid haute couture models. She slipped on a paisley silk dressing gown and knotted the belt so loosely it gaped open to provide an ample glimpse of her well-toned body. She refilled a delicate crystal flute with the last drops of the champagne Santos had brought and tossed them down her throat. “And I don’t disgust easily.”

  “Obviously not,” Santos agreed with an amused chuckle, “or you wouldn’t be sleeping with your lover’s son.”

  “Evil bastard. You know I’m no longer Miguel’s mistress.” She returned to the bed, crawled up over the end and glared down at him.

  Santos licked his lips to savor the last traces of her taste. “Through no fault of your own,” he chided. Her green eyes narrowed at the insult, but she remained poised above him. He wasn’t afraid of her frown. “Why don’t you compare my father and me? You’re angry enough.”

  Ana dipped her head to trail the tips of her long, tawny hair across his bare chest. “There’s no comparison between you and Miguel.”

  Santos loved the feel of her body against his. He loved every ounce of her—her perfumed hair, silken skin, lacquered nails and delicious lips. He remained still beneath her. “No two men are exactly the same,” he breathed out in a contented sigh.

  Ana moved astride his hips. “I didn’t say you were the same, and that’s enough of such a tiresome subject.”

  He slid his hands into her robe and ran his fingertips over the soft swell of her breasts. They were her own rather than surgically enhanced and fit his palms perfectly. “All right. You really should have been with me tonight. How long do I have to wait for you to appear in public with me?”

  She thumbed his nipples. “Not yet. It would embarrass your father, and he doesn’t deserve it at such a sad time. Now tell me what Rafael Mondragon thought of your American sister.”

  “I didn’t pay any attention to him and neither did anyone else. Magdalena simply mesmerized the crowd.”

  “And sent you running for my bed,” Ana countered.

  Santos wound his hands in her hair to pull her toward him. When their lips were a whisper apart, he asked, “Would you rather have had Mondragon tonight?”

  Ana stared at him a moment too long, and, unwilling to provide her with more time to contemplate another man’s affections, he rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I should have given you back to my father months ago.”

  His lips burned hers with a searing kiss, and she wrapped her legs around his thighs to welcome his thrusts, but he knew as long as his father was alive, he’d be in the bed with them. Even after Miguel died, Santos feared his ghost would haunt them still.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie joined her father at the small table on his balcony for a breakfast of freshly baked biscuits and melon slices. It was the Spanish custom to begin the day with a small meal followed later with the more substantial fare of an omelet or sandwich. She sipped her café con leche and sampled a few biscuit crumbs.

  “The sea is a beautiful woman,” Miguel swore. “I love her in all her moods—violent, serene, brooding. Had I not wanted to follow my father into the bullring, I would have gone to sea.”

  He was dressed in dark blue silk pajamas and robe today, but his gestures were sluggish, as though he hadn’t slept well. He had little appetite, and that worried her. She hated to be fussed over and assumed he would as well, so she kept her concerns to herself. She took a last bite of melon and wished she had an intelligent comment to make, but her father seemed content with the one-sided nature of their conversation.

  “I’ve owned several yachts but sold them all, or I’d have Santos take you sailing.”

  “That’s all right. I’d much rather just stay here with you.”

  “Thank you.” Miguel raised his hand to cover a wide yawn. “Forgive me if I’m not very good company today. Dr. Moreno should be here soon. Perhaps you could come back later.”

  “Of course.” Disappointed to be dismissed, Maggie left her chair. “Is Moreno your cardiologist?” Her fath
er’s expression darkened, and she wished she’d had sense enough to keep still. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You needn’t apologize. Your concern is natural and appreciated. Antonio is a cardiologist and an excellent surgeon as well. I’ve been gored several times, and he’s stitched me back together. He’s a good friend, and no physician could do more than he has.”

  Maggie gripped the back of her chair for support. “My God, I’d no idea you’d ever been gored.”

  Miguel shrugged off her fright. “It’s a regrettable occupational hazard. Did you know every matador has fans who donate blood in exchange for free seats at a corrida?”

  She slumped back into her chair. “Just give me a minute, please. There was a time when bullfighting fascinated me, but I was just a child with no real concept of the danger you faced. It all seemed wonderfully romantic, but now I couldn’t bear to watch a bullfight.”

  “Santos will be badly disappointed. He’s quite good and would enjoy showing off for you.”

  She shook her head. “Aren’t you afraid for him? Weren’t you afraid for yourself?”

  Miguel turned away to gaze out at the sea. “A man would be a great fool not to be afraid, but overcoming your fear is a thrill that never fades. Tell me, Magdalena, are you afraid of death?”

  He appeared perfectly relaxed, and yet the challenging light in his dark eyes warned her to take care. She drew in a deep breath. She would never have chosen such a dark topic for a meaningful conversation. “I believe our spirits are eternal and only our earthly bodies age and die, so I’ve no reason to be afraid. They say the only constant in life is change, and death is merely another change. I don’t believe it’s a final one.”

  Miguel nodded thoughtfully. “In my youth, I placed my fate in God’s hands, and he’s given me a magnificent life. If I die today, I won’t feel cheated. Perhaps, as you believe, my spirit will endure; if not, I’ll still have been blessed.”

  He might be content with his failing heart, but she couldn’t accept the inevitable so calmly. “Santos told me you’ve refused to consider a heart transplant.”