by Phoebe Conn
Carlotta looked down and glanced up at him through her thick false lashes. “You do have two younger brothers. Wouldn’t you like to meet them?”
“No, why would I?”
She wrung her hands. “I sent money to your grandmother for you and your sister whenever I could.”
His voice sank to a threatening whisper. “My grandmother and sister are dead.”
Her eyes filled with huge tears. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Too sorry to visit me while I was in prison?”
She took an unsteady step back, and the chauffeur moved forward to catch her elbow. “You expected me to share in your disgrace?” she asked.
He shook his head. “You’re the only disgrace in our family. Luckily, I thought you were dead and forgot you.”
“Well, I missed you. When I saw you in the bullring last Sunday, I couldn’t believe my eyes. You’d wanted so badly to become a matador, and you’ve succeeded.”
“So now you’re proud of me and want to be my mother? You’re too late. Go back to Ortiz’s penthouse and stay there.”
He turned his back on her, grabbed their luggage from his car’s trunk and followed Maggie up the stairs to his apartment. Once inside, he locked the door and leaned back against it. “All these years, I thought one of her men had slit her throat and tossed her body in the sea, and she’s been chauffeured around in a limousine. Ortiz is one of Spain’s wealthiest men, but clearly he has no taste in women.”
Maggie couldn’t argue with his observation. She picked up her bag and set it on the sofa but lacked the energy to unpack. “She’s younger than I thought she’d be.”
“She was only fifteen when I was born. I’d no idea I’d ‘disgraced’ her.”
Maggie sat on the sofa rather than approach him while he was so angry. She didn’t blame him when Carlotta had selfishly sacrificed the children who loved her to improve her own lot. She breathed deeply and waited for him to calm down enough to say more.
He lifted the curtain to check the front of the building. “She’s gone. Rather than break up the furniture, I’m going out for a walk. I’ll be back later and take you dancing.”
“We don’t need to go out if you’d rather not.”
His voice held a convincing depth. “Believe me, I need to dance.”
When he left, she called Santos for Dr. Moreno’s telephone number and contacted his office to make an appointment. When she gave her name, his receptionist offered her sympathies, and while Dr. Moreno did not usually see patients on Saturday morning, he made an exception for her. Maggie thanked her and hoped her questions wouldn’t stun the physician as they had her father.
Unable to sit and worry, she got up to make herself useful and prepare dinner by the time Rafael returned. There wasn’t a morsel to cook in the kitchen, but there was a little market on the corner, and after making certain he owned a few pots and pans, she walked there and bought pasta, fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, onions, zucchini and ground beef. She had to make a second trip for a few spices but soon had a thick vegetable sauce simmering and began making meatballs.
She heard Rafael close the door and stepped out of the kitchen. “I hope you like spaghetti.”
His mouth nearly fell agape. “I can pay for our dinner. You don’t have to cook.”
She understood why the ability to pay was so important to him, and wondered if women had ever done anything for him out of bed. “I love to cook, so please do me a favor and pretend to like spaghetti even if you don’t.”
He came to the kitchen door. “I love spaghetti, but you really don’t have to–”
She kissed him, taking care not to touch him with sticky hands. “Can we please let life slow down for an evening?”
“You mean sit here and pretend we’re normal people, even if we aren’t? I should apologize for that scene with my mother. I didn’t introduce you, and she would have been thrilled had she known you were Miguel’s daughter.”
“No apologies are needed. Frankly, I admired your restraint. She deserved a lot worse.”
He laughed and tried to hug her without getting bits of ground beef in his hair. “I have the awful feeling I haven’t seen the last of her. My grandmother made excuses for her, blamed her youth every time she stayed out late and left us to fend for ourselves. She’s the kind who give Gypsies a bad name.”
She finished the last meatball and washed her hands. “Do you suppose Mr. Ortiz knows he married a Gypsy?”
His eyes lit with a dangerous glow. “No, I doubt she admitted it, and I’ll bet she lied about her age.”
“Then she can’t suddenly reveal she’s El Gitano’s mother, can she?” She leaned against the counter. “If she comes back, you might insist upon meeting her husband rather than your half brothers.”
“That’s a wicked thought, Magdalena.” A wide grin showed he loved it.
He had no idea how wicked her thoughts might be. “Thank you. I called Dr. Moreno’s office and made an appointment for tomorrow morning. You’re right. I haven’t been myself, and it wouldn’t hurt to see a doctor.”
“I just want you to be happy.” He pulled her into his arms and squeezed her tight.
She relaxed against him and closed her eyes. It sounded like such a simple goal, and yet she hadn’t been truly happy with her life until she’d danced with him. “Maybe it wasn’t meeting you on the stairs,” she whispered. “Maybe it was that first dance.”
He began to move very slowly, an easy rocking sway, and she nestled against him and wished they never had to leave a dance floor.
Bailaora was as crowded as it had been on their first visit, and when they came through the door dressed for dancing, Felipe Muñoz clapped his hands and rushed toward them. “Sonia has run off with her lover, and I am in desperate need of dancers. To have El Gitano join us is an answer to my prayers.”
Rafael leaned down to whisper in Maggie’s ear, “He exaggerates.”
“We came here to dance, so let’s not keep anyone waiting.” She took his hand and led him up on the small stage. The guitarist had been absently strumming one of his own tunes and sat up straight to play for them.
Rafael pressed close to her back. “It’s a shame there are no open tables in front.”
“We’re dancing, that’s all.” She whipped her skirt to emphasize her point and then snapped her castanets in time with the guitarist’s music. “I love dancing.”
“I love only you,” Rafael replied, but his steps were taunting, shadowing hers and forcing her to step away time and again. Growing bold, she remained where she stood, stamping out the rhythm and daring him to come closer still. The crowd cheered, whistled and clapped in time to their steps until not only Rafael and Maggie but everyone in the room was exhausted.
No longer playing the demure lady, Maggie came to a halt. She wrapped her arm around Rafael’s neck and pulled him into a lingering kiss. It was a surprising reversal of the usual end to flamenco, and she didn’t care a bit.
He led her off the stage and around the hooting crowd to a small empty table in the back of the room. “You’re better each time we dance. Soon you’ll be looking for another partner,” he said.
She needed a moment to catch her breath. “I’ve danced with other partners, and it isn’t the same. You’re the best. Everything’s better with you.”
He ordered Ribeiro, the sparkling wine she liked, and sat back. “Thank you. Let’s just enjoy this moment.”
She understood his reasoning for concentrating on now, but people were turned in their seats to stare at them as though the show had continued at their table. “This would be a good place for the Post-it note autographs.”
He touched his wine glass to hers. “You’re all I’m signing tonight.”
She rubbed her foot up his leg. Wearing her red dress and sipping wine, she looked a part of the noisy room. The people might know she was Miguel Aragon’s daughter or merely think of her as El Gitano’s woman, but no one here knew she was an American teacher. It would
be a terrific disappointment to people hungry for a celebrity.
She leaned close to be heard. “You mustn’t lose yourself in the applause.”
Startled by her unexpected advice, he shrugged. “Augustín said the secret was not to hear it. He meant inside the ring, but it works outside it too. It’s just noise. Do you want to dance again, or should we go?”
She finished her wine. “Let’s dance one more time, but ask for a slower tune, one with mysterious undertones.”
He rose and took her hand. “I know just the song.”
She’d known he would.
When they returned to Rafael’s home, Maggie slipped out of her shoes and lingerie but remained in her red dress. “Let’s pretend we’re somewhere we shouldn’t be having sex.”
“You’re a teacher, what about a library?”
“Definitely not. We’d bump into the stacks and end up buried in books.”
He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt but left it on with his pants. “It’s an imaginary place, not real. What about the dressing room of the boutique where the salesclerk thought we were famous?”
She turned slowly in front of him. “That would do, but we’d have to be very quiet.”
“Was there a chair?”
“Yes, a small, dainty one.” She pulled a chair away from the table. “Do you want to sit down?”
He flashed a sly grin and shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I’m just going to bend you over the back. Put your hands on the seat.”
She leaned over as told and rested her hands on the seat. She looked over her shoulder and smiled, but he picked up the hem of her long dress and tossed it over her head, where it floated into a red tent around her. All she could see was the soft fabric, while he had the perfect view of her legs and bottom. He ran his fingertips up the back of her legs, then slowly up her more sensitive inner thighs. His touch had a captivating sizzle.
“I’ll never be able to enter a dressing room without thinking of this,” she murmured.
“Quiet, or the clerk will hear,” he cautioned. He caressed the smooth curve of her bottom, then leaned over to trail kisses down her spine.
Her gown was better than a blindfold, surrounding her in vibrant color and creating a dreamlike world. The fabric of his pants was soft and warm against her legs. He played on her senses with his delicious scent and magical touch. Bathed in love, she didn’t need the words others had spoken a thousand times. He knelt behind her, bent her knee and put the mark of his kisses on her right thigh and then the left as he had the first time they’d been together. She hadn’t kept count, but every moment of intimacy they’d shared had had its own special wonder. He slid his hand along her cleft, teasing her with a gentle caress that left her aching with desire. When he spun two fingers up into her, she cried out.
“Hush,” he breathed out on her bottom. “The clerk will come with her camera if you make any noise.” He pulled his hand away to lick up the salty fluid that dripped down her thighs. “You’ve always tasted so good.”
She was dizzy now and moved her hands to grip the bottom of the chair and held on. He teased her with his fingers and then his lips until she couldn’t have stood on her own. He brushed her clit with a fingertip, and when she came in a rolling wave, he caught her waist to steady her.
He had a condom in his pocket and donned it after shedding his pants. He guided his cock into her and rode her undulating contractions. He moved the way he danced, with forceful thrusts until she came again, and he found his own release. He grabbed the back of the chair until he could catch his breath, drew her dress off over her head and left it lying across the chair.
She looked up at him, her eyes not quite focused, and sighed. “I don’t believe we can ever visit this shop again.”
“Oh no, I want to go there tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Maggie snuggled against Rafael. He always slept cuddled around her, which she loved even when she couldn’t sleep. Maybe he wanted to pull her into his dreams or just be certain she’d be there when he woke. Whatever his reason, it was an endearing habit. Saturday morning, however, she was too anxious to see Dr. Moreno to rest in her lover’s arms.
She eased herself out of bed, showered, wrapped herself in a towel and found the journal she’d barely opened. She sat at the small table in the chair that had played such a prominent role in their games last night and worked on forming questions. Her first efforts were too blunt, but inspired, she wondered if she shouldn’t let the physician assume she knew more than she did.
She looked up and found Rafael watching her. “Good morning. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He sat up and yawned. “You didn’t. I hope you’re writing about last night.”
“I’m not sure I could do it justice, and even without a written reminder, I won’t forget a second. I’m working on questions for Dr. Moreno. I’d like to know more about my father’s heart condition.”
“Your grandfather died young, and now your father. Are you worried you might not live past middle age?” He got up and went into the bathroom for a towel to wrap around his hips and flipped his hair out of his eyes.
He was so sincerely concerned, and she hadn’t given her own health a thought. “No, I’m not sure there’s a pattern. My great-grandfather died in the bullring in Madrid at thirty-six, so he didn’t live long enough to fall victim to heart disease.”
He frowned and took the chair opposite hers. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“I thought you knew. His name was Juan Diego Aragon. I found his obituary in one of the albums at the ranch.” She chose not to reveal the terrible fright the notice had given her.
“I’ve not heard of him. I’ve studied technique, style, not the history of every matador who ever stepped into the ring, but I should have known about another Aragon.”
She reached across the small table to squeeze his hand. “You can look him up later. I’ve never thought much about the Aragon family, and I hope Dr. Moreno can provide some useful medical information.”
“Of course. My mother told us our father was a merchant seaman who was away on a long voyage. By the time I turned five, I knew no voyage could last as long as he’d been gone. My mother cried and told us our father had been lost at sea, and she’d not wanted to tell us when we were so small. My grandmother rolled her eyes, and I knew the story, like most of my mother’s tales, was untrue.”
“Whoever your father was, clearly he was a handsome man and undoubtedly fond of adventure.”
“Thank you, but he was probably a sailor from so far away he spent a single night in Barcelona and never returned. My sister and I didn’t resemble each other, so her father must have been another man.”
She offered a sympathetic smile. Carlotta was still a beauty, and at fifteen she would have been stunning and easily misled by a handsome man. “I don’t suppose your mother will ever tell you the truth?”
“About my father?” he scoffed. “She probably can’t recall who he was, let alone his name.”
“The only name I need is yours,” she assured him. She closed her journal, slid it into her bag and made coffee while he was in the shower.
Dr. Moreno had no receptionist or nurse working on Saturday and welcomed Maggie into his office himself. Rafael waited for her downstairs, but she hadn’t expected to be alone with the physician and wished she’d asked Rafael to accompany her. Moreno showed her into his private office, gestured to the black leather armchairs in front of his desk and took the swivel chair behind it.
His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and in his shirtsleeves and tie, he looked more relaxed than he’d been on his visits to the house. They’d talked briefly in the hospital, but not at the funeral reception, and she didn’t really know him. His eyes were gray, and with silver hair and pale skin, he could have been a black-and-white illustration.
She opened her journal. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“No, not at all. My pa
tients frequently do. Miguel did not let anyone know how ill he was until this year, and his death came as a dreadful shock to many who loved him.”
“He was a proud man,” Maggie added.
“Yes, and with good reason.”
She jotted notes as Moreno provided details on her father’s illness. He referred to the plastic model of a heart he kept on his desk. When he sat back, apparently finished, she closed her journal. “He was still in his forties. Why do you suppose he refused to put his name on a transplant list?”
The physician frowned. “He had the peculiar notion it would change him.”
“What if he’d been given a matador’s heart?” she asked.
“He might have wanted a unicorn’s heart,” he countered. “It was equally unlikely to become available.”
Color flooded his cheeks, and his hands fisted on his desk. She’d gone too far. He’d been her father’s confidant, and he’d keep Miguel’s secrets. “I’m sorry if my question sounded presumptuous.”
“That kind of thinking could lead to the worst sort of rumors. You mustn’t repeat it. Your father often lived on the edge of scandal, and he doesn’t need vicious rumors circulating about him after his death.”
He made it sound like a real possibility. “Are you referring to his multiple affairs and marriages?”
“Yes, what else could I mean?”
She kept her voice soft and low. “I wasn’t raised here, so I’ve no idea. Now that my grandfather and father have died relatively young from heart disease, is there a danger all the Aragon children may suffer the same fate?”
For a long moment, he gazed toward the beautiful day beyond the window. “That was also Miguel’s concern. He asked me to examine Santos, and his heart is sound. I don’t know about Enrique and his sister, or you and the twins.”
Apparently her father had concerned himself only with Santos’s health. She could think of only one reason why he wouldn’t have cared about all his children. He wouldn’t have wanted to go through the pain of a heart transplant to receive a new heart only slightly better than the old. She either had a desperately dark imagination, or the physician had confirmed the horrible truth. Gaining Rafael’s heart or Santos’s would have satisfied him. She stood. “Thank you for your devotion to my father and your excellent care.”
