by Phoebe Conn
“She’s exaggerating,” Santos complained.
“Prop your leg on the coffee table,” Rafael directed. Santos had on boot-cut jeans and rolled the pant leg up over his calf. “Is this the bandage the doctor put on in the arena infirmary?”
Santos looked down at the blood-stained gauze. “Yeah, I’ve been too busy to have it changed.”
Rafael looked at Maggie and shook his head. “Can you find a pair of scissors?”
“There are some in the kitchen utensil drawer,” Santos offered.
Maggie quickly returned with them, and Fox followed her. She didn’t want to look, but Fox leaned over her shoulder to have a good view. When Rafael cut the gauze and removed the bandage, she felt sick and had to dive for a chair. “That’s no scratch so you’re the one who exaggerates.”
Santos looked down at the bloody wound. “So it’s more of gouge, so what? Moreno will be here soon.”
“Did you really call him?” Maggie asked.
“You think I was pretending?” he answered, clearly insulted.
“When did you call him?” Rafael asked.
Maggie looked at her watch. “It was more than an hour ago. He should have been here by now.”
Rafael picked up the phone from the coffee table and handed it to Santos. “Call him again and tell him we’ll meet him at the hospital.”
Santos leaned back and closed his eyes to rest. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“He can’t do enough here. Call him and we’ll go. You and Fox stay here, Magdalena.”
Too dizzy to stand, Maggie remained in her chair but still offered a faint objection, “No, I want to go.”
“I’d rather watch soccer than spend another minute in a hospital.” Fox went back to the kitchen.
“Stay here with him,” Rafael repeated softly. “They might want to keep Santos overnight, and you look as though you ought to be in bed yourself.”
Maggie wished she could stand up to him and insist she go, but her legs lacked the strength to carry her. Things were going badly all around her. She hated being so helpless. At home, she lived such an orderly life, but here, she could barely keep up with the problems. “Come back as soon as you can.”
He leaned down to kiss her and smoothed her hair. “Always.”
“Wait, will you leave me your phone number? I won’t call unless we have another emergency.”
“Where’s your phone? I’ll put it in for you.”
She rolled off her chair and pulled it out of her purse. His fingers brushed hers as he took it and sent a wild thrill clear up her arm. She wondered where he’d gone and what he would have said if Santos hadn’t needed him so badly.
“There, you have my number and I have yours,” he said. “I should have given it to you earlier. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.”
He looked more resigned than loving, and she didn’t want to believe Fox’s awful comment had turned him against the whole Aragon family. Santos sent Dr. Moreno a message, then limped out the door on his own. Rafael regarded her with a half-smile as he closed it behind them.
She hadn’t said she loved him, and maybe she’d lost the chance. Hoping it wasn’t so, she sank down on the sofa and looked at the papers scattered over the rug. What did it matter what Augustín had thought, when the present posed such difficult challenges?
Fox called from the kitchen, “You want some ice cream?”
“If you’ll bring me some in here.” She didn’t care what flavor it was, but it was an icy-cold, deep, dark chocolate. She’d never cared enough about a man to dive into a pint of Häagen-Dazs when he left her, but after one taste of the sinfully rich chocolate, it suddenly made perfect sense.
Chapter Seventeen
“I should have had you drive my car,” Santos complained.
“Mine will make it there, and you needn’t thank me,” Rafael assured him.
“Thank you, for what? Taking me to the hospital when I don’t want to go? You didn’t save my life yesterday either. I could have walked out of the ring on my own. The bull was already dead.”
“Yes, he was, and I could have kicked your good leg out from under you and left you lying in the dirt beside him.”
Santos had no quick response to that absurd comment, and they rode in silence for the next few minutes. “You know we’re really fighting over Magdalena, don’t you?”
“This isn’t what I’d call a fight.”
“We’ve never liked each other,” Santos declared. “I don’t know how Magdalena stands you.”
“Have you heard her complain?”
Santos snorted. “No, but she will. She’s her father’s daughter after all, and you’re, well, I can’t think of an appropriately repulsive term to describe you.”
Rafael swerved to the curb and parked. He turned toward Santos and rested his arm on the steering wheel. “I’ve been bullied by far worse men than you my whole life, but you keep Magdalena’s name out of this.”
“Or what? You’ll pull a knife on me?”
“No, I’ll haul you out of the car and stomp on your sore leg. How’d that be for a start? You’ll need a steel rod to repair the shattered bone, and you won’t leave the hospital for weeks.”
Santos stared at the threatening gleam in Rafael’s eyes and raised his hands. “Fine, you win, but if you hurt Magdalena, I’ll come after you even if I have to do so on one leg.”
Rafael drove the rest of the way to the hospital without another word, and he let Santos make his way into the emergency room on his own. Just as he’d expected, a nurse rushed forward to usher him into a treatment room without asking him to sign in and wait his turn. Rafael leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. He heard someone whisper his name, but they wisely stayed away.
Maggie washed and dried their ice cream bowls and put them away. She felt marginally better and went back into the living room to retackle Augustín’s papers. More to keep her mind off Rafael and Santos than for concern for her grandfather, she removed all the Aragon-crested sheets. The dates were written in tiny numbers at the bottom she’d missed earlier, and she slid the pages into order now.
I saw Simone again today, the first sheet began. Maggie moved to the couch, slipped off her shoes and curled up. Augustín had described Simone in as loving detail as he’d shown in his drawing. She’d been a French girl with blonde curls and bright blue eyes. They’d met at a party given by a French friend of the Aragon family. Augustín had called on her the next afternoon, but her father had sternly warned him that his visits were unwelcome.
Maggie laid that sheet aside to read the next few. The tone changed as Augustín recalled their love story in letters he’d never mailed to Simone. He’d written about the times they’d been able to slip away together without her parents learning she hadn’t visited a museum alone. They hadn’t suspected her sudden interest in art was due to a young man they’d forbidden her to see. Then, without warning, Simone’s family had returned to France.
He hadn’t followed her and had regretted the decision for what appeared to be the rest of his life. The letters became melancholy poems. Some were separated by several years, others by only a few months, but there was no mention of Carmen or his children. He’d written only sad reminiscences of what some might dismiss as a youthful flirtation, but clearly Augustín considered Simone the great love of his life.
She wondered if Carmen had known he was in love with another woman when they married. Her father had told her his mother was from a fine family, and she’d surely have been a very innocent bride. Maybe while they courted, Augustín had truly believed he could love her, but instead he’d nourished his memories of Simone. He’d never written the French girl’s last name, but Maggie would have loved to have found out what had happened to her. She hoped Simone had gotten over Augustín and been happily wed to a man her father had approved enthusiastically.
Too sad herself to dwell on Augustín and Carmen’s marriage, she put the letters and poems into their own
pocket in the file and got up to gather the yellow sheets. A quick review of them revealed plans for the ranch and thoughts on raising profits. There were party guest lists, menus with comments on the most popular foods. The notebooks devoted to bullfighting had documented each fight in minute detail, the letters to Simone had overflowed with emotion, and the faded yellow sheets described life on the ranch with a cool detachment. Maybe all of Augustín’s thoughts of his family were in the photo albums rather than words. She hoped Carmen had been loved as a bride and new mother, but there was no evidence of her husband’s devotion here. Maggie replaced everything in the folder and secured it with the elastic band. Cirilda had been right; there were things in it she didn’t need to know.
She found the books dedicated to her father’s career in the bookcase. Miguel was handsome in all the photographs, in the bullring or in casual poses in street clothes. One had been written at the same time as the documentary she’d seen. He was shown with Vida and their two young children. She scanned the book looking for her own name or Santos’s, but they weren’t mentioned.
She searched through the others, and while she found two that included the fact Miguel had attended the University of Arizona, that he’d been married while a student wasn’t disclosed. She wondered if anyone outside his family had known he’d wed an American girl and fathered a daughter. Had he ever told anyone? Was it simply easier not to mention Santos and her than answer questions about their mothers?
Anita Lujan had known about her, but the ranch was home to the Aragon family, and perhaps secrecy wasn’t necessary there. Except, of course, for the secrets Augustín kept from Carmen. None of the books Santos owned described Miguel’s private life in any detail. They were only photo albums of a dashing matador with an occasional nod to his current family. Santos was now recognized as his son, but her brother might have been the one to brag about their connection.
While she’d just met her father, it bothered her so few people had known she existed. Now that she’d made the tabloids, a reporter might search for the details of her background and link Miguel to the brief marriage that had produced her. She’d never felt as though her father loved her, and Santos had a whole bookshelf to prove it. It didn’t matter what anyone discovered about her now. Her father was gone, and it was too late.
It was already dark outside when Rafael and Santos returned. Santos hobbled in on crutches. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he told her. “That was one of the worst ordeals of my life.”
Maggie slid the last of the books she’d read into the bookcase. “In what way?”
Santos fell onto the couch. He dropped his crutches to the floor. “Getting there with Rafael for a start.”
Fox joined them and picked up the crutches to try them, but he wasn’t tall enough to use a set intended for Santos. He leaned them against the wall. “Did they give you any good painkillers?”
“Yes, and no, you can’t share them.”
“I hope that was meant as a joke, but it wasn’t funny,” Maggie added.
Fox stepped back. “Sorry. The twins should be back. I’ll call a cab if you don’t want to drive me home.”
“I don’t think we should leave Santos all alone,” Maggie stressed.
Santos regarded Rafael with a wicked grin. “She’s worried about me. Isn’t that sweet?”
Maggie watched the dark glances passing between the men and quickly made her choice. “If you don’t want to call Ana, why don’t you call one of the other women you know for company? Do you mind taking Fox home, Rafael? I’d like to see the twins too.”
Rafael reached for her hand. “I’ll be happy to take you anywhere you’d like to go.”
She grabbed her purse, and Fox followed them out the door. “What happened at the hospital?” she asked.
“He didn’t need me to hold his hand, so I don’t know. They probably cleaned out the wound, stapled it closed and gave him antibiotics. You were right to insist that he go.”
“His father died,” Fox reminded him. “No wonder it didn’t seem important.”
“Yes, until the pain became severe,” Rafael replied. “Don’t ever make that mistake.”
“Right. I’m staying out of bullrings.”
Maggie was relieved he hadn’t worshipped Miguel as Santos and Rafael had and been eager to follow in his footsteps. All the lights were on in the beach house, and there were several cars parked in the driveway. Rafael parked out front. “I don’t know any of my father’s friends,” she murmured. “Some must have come by to pay their respects.”
“I’ll introduce you,” Fox offered as he climbed out of the car.
“Not tonight, Fox. I’d rather not cause a scene with our grandmother. Would you go in and ask the twins to come out to the patio?”
“Sure.” He went in the front door, while Maggie and Rafael circled the house.
Peering in the back door, they saw Tomas scurrying around the kitchen, preparing food for Adolfo and Julian to serve to the guests. “People are sure to come out to the ranch after the funeral. I wonder if Santos and Cirilda thought of having food there?”
“Probably. He likes running things.”
“So do you.”
His boots brushed the sandy patio as he took a few steps away to look out at the sea. “It’s a challenge to take care of myself.”
Maggie knew exactly what he meant. Before she could say so, the twins came bursting out the back door. They ran to grab her in an affectionate hug and wept such huge tears they soaked her knit top. She gave them soothing pats until they calmed down.
“Your room was empty, and we’d thought you’d gone home,” Connie said.
“Your grandmother was upset with me, and I’m staying with Rafael.”
“But you’re going home soon?” Perry asked.
Rafael’s stance was relaxed, but she knew he was keenly interested in her response. “I’m not making any plans until after the funeral. Our father’s death came so suddenly, and I know how sad you are.”
Perry wiped her dripping nose on the back of her hand. “We knew he wasn’t well, but we’d thought we’d see him again. Mother hardly spoke to him when she came for us. She just rushed us out of the house, and we only had a second to give him a kiss and say good-bye.”
Connie began to cry all over again and burrowed against Maggie’s chest. Perry looked over at Rafael. “So you’re a full matador now?”
He nodded. “Thanks to your father’s help.”
“Try and stay alive, will you?” Perry added.
“I will.”
Maggie wondered if the girls’ tears moved him at all, or whether the possibility she might one day be crying for him had occurred to him. She heard the back door open and close and turned to see a woman as blonde as the twins. Even in the dim light, her eyes glowed with the same bright blue gleam. “Are you Marina?” she asked.
“Yes, and I expect my daughters to behave themselves while we’re here, not stand outside and wail like pitiful orphans.”
“We loved our father even if you didn’t!” Connie scolded. “Why don’t you go to the hotel and leave us here where we belong?”
“You will both come inside this instant,” Marina ordered, and after a brief hesitation, the twins followed their mother into the house.
“You didn’t tell her your name,” Rafael murmured.
“That was a mistake, and I should have introduced you, but she didn’t appear interested. Perhaps she tends to live her imperious opera roles off-stage.”
“Is there anyone else you want to see?”
“No. I have a horrible feeling Carmen has told everyone I killed Miguel, and I don’t want to walk into that.”
He took her hand. “Let’s go home where we can dance and forget anyone else exists.”
She looked up at him and forced a smile. He was drawing her into a Gypsy’s way of life where outsiders didn’t matter. Tonight it was such a comforting possibility, she squeezed his hand and lengthened her stride to match his.
They were nearly home when she remembered dinner. “I’m still sorry we haven’t been able to go out to celebrate your success. There must be someplace you’d like to go or a restaurant with food you love. Maybe we could have something delivered.”
“I didn’t mean to starve you,” he replied. “I forget food if I’m not careful. I don’t have many favorite places. I’m not like Santos. I haven’t been entertaining a different woman every night of the week.”
“You needn’t explain.”
“No, I do. I convinced myself I could live without women until after my Alternativa. You arrived a little early.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you at all.” Her phone began to throb in her purse, and she checked it to make certain it wasn’t her mother. It was Craig. “A friend from home. I’ll speak to him later.”
He cocked a brow. “Only a friend?”
“Let’s leave the past where it belongs. He’s the one who encouraged me to come here, but he didn’t expect me to meet you.”
“So he’s anxious for you to go home?”
“He is, but I’m not.”
“Good. Let’s dance while we wait for our food to be delivered. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping. I have a dark suit, but you’ll want something new, won’t you?”
“I have things I could wear.”
“You’re Miguel Aragon’s daughter, and you’ll be expected to attend the funeral dressed in something new.”
“Something expensive and more fashionable than my present wardrobe, is that what you mean?”
“I don’t want reporters to make fun of you.”
“It won’t matter what I wear if Carmen spreads her version of how her son died.”
Rafael waited until they had entered his apartment to respond. “We’re alone. Tell me what really happened.”
“You’ve heard it. There’s nothing more.”
He ran his hands up her arms. “There’s a lot more. I can see it in your eyes. Are you trying to protect me? What can be worse than learning he didn’t care whether I lived or died?”
“He didn’t say that to me.” She slid her arms around his waist to pull him close. “He died, Rafael. Let him go.”
