Fierce Love (25 page)

“Yes.”

“He didn’t. He wanted to meet you, and I told him no.”

She nodded. “Fortunately, we’re a long way from my friends, who I wouldn’t introduce to you either.”

He gave her a light, teasing kiss. “Are you hungry?”

“No, this apple is enough. I feel sick clear through.” She snuggled against him. It felt good to cuddle close, but the scene in her father’s bedroom spun through her mind in a continuous loop. She’d seen right into his soul when she guessed what he’d intended for Rafael. Whether it had been only a wish or a carefully structured plot she might never know, but it was a story she’d carry with her to the grave.

An overwhelming sense of loss washed through her. It was more for the father she’d once dreamed Miguel to be rather than for the man she’d recently gotten to know. She closed her eyes to offer a silent prayer of thanks that Rafael and Santos had survived the day. She couldn’t bear years of the awful strain the corrida had caused her today, nor could she pretend she didn’t love them.

If they hadn’t met last week on the stairs, Rafael might not have asked her to dance that night. They might have seen each other when he visited her father, perhaps exchanged a distracted nod without ever speaking a word. They’d have both been at the ranch, though, and perhaps would have gotten to know each other there. But if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might have only watched a bit of Santos’s first fight and left her father’s room without asking what his plans truly were for Rafael. He’d probably still be alive, and she’d be making her plans to fly home.

“Rafael? You usually visited with my father in the morning, but the first time I saw you, you’d come to his house in the afternoon. Why?”

He stretched his legs. “I’d gone to pick up my black suit. The tailor is open only in the morning on Saturday. I tried it on to make certain it fit well, and when we finished, he began reminiscing about all the men who’d ordered suits from him. A matador will go through five or six trajes de luces in a season, and he is one of the finest tailors in Spain, so he has plenty of work. He recalled every suit with an amazing clarity. It was a history lesson, and I sat there and listened. He made your father’s suits; that’s why I went to him.”

“Is a matador buried in one of his trajes de luces?”

“If he died young and still fit into one, maybe. If he’s an older gentlemen and heavier, probably not. I don’t know what your father would want.”

“I don’t either. He must have left instructions.” She hadn’t thought of his will, but she’d have to stay until it was read to make certain Fox was cared for. “I’m glad you were there that afternoon. There was something magical about the way we met on the stairs.”

He pulled her close. “Magical? If I’m ever so poor I must tell fortunes for a living, I’ll remember that.” He lowered his voice. “The stranger you meet on a stairway will change your life. How’s that?”

“It was true in our case, or at least for me.”

He growled against her throat. “Even if you won’t admit it, you do love me.”

She curled into his arms. How could she say she loved him when she couldn’t accept the way he earned his living? It would be far safer just to dance. She longed for what she could give him. “Could we dance without disturbing your downstairs neighbor?”

He sat up, rolled off the sofa and gave her a hand. “She is a very sweet lady who is profoundly deaf, so we can dance until dawn if you like.”

“Let’s try.” She slipped the red dress over her head and unpacked her dancing shoes. Rafael changed his shirt for a black silk one he preferred for dancing. He moved the coffee table, rolled up the small rug in front of the couch and put on the music.

She remembered her castanets and rummaged through her bag to find them. At last ready, she struck a favorite dance pose and looked over her shoulder at him. He wore an indulgent smile. “It’s better to celebrate a man’s life than dwell on his death,” she offered.

He tapped his heels in a spirited rhythm. “I agree.”

She clicked her castanets in time with his steps and lost herself in the music. Emotion rose within her, but it was neither sorrow nor regret, only the deep joy of knowing him. When he pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though they’d been parted for centuries, she welcomed his unbridled affection and returned it in full measure. Their clothes went flying toward the couch. Her castanets bounced off the ceiling when she flung them away. Whether his passion was a celebration of the day, or from the depths of grief-laced despair, she craved it all.

Chapter Sixteen

They had gone to sleep so late they were still in bed when Santos called the next morning. Rafael got up to hand Maggie her phone, and she yawned through a mumbled hello.

“I have Augustín’s memoir. Come to my place, and we’ll read it.”

She sat up straight. “Cirilda felt up to visiting her bank?”

“There’s a great deal to do, and Grandmother won’t leave her bed. Cirilda and I are making all the plans, and it was one of our stops. The funeral will be at the
Basilica de
Nuestra Señora del Pilar
in Zaragoza at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning. Grandmother wants it private, but the news will get out, and hundreds, if not thousands, will attend. Now let me talk to Rafael, and I’ll give him the directions to my apartment.”

“We need to go to Santos’s place.” She handed him the phone and a curt exchange of information followed. She left the bed to shower first, and dressed in dark pants. Knowing Rafael would wear black as always, she dug through her bag for a dark print knit top she hadn’t worn yet so they wouldn’t look like a silly couple who dressed alike.

As he pulled the car away from the curb, he turned to ask, “Was I too rough last night?”

“No, not at all. I find passion very appealing.”

“Just any man’s passion?” he asked.

A night in bed with him had left her so relaxed she responded easily to his teasing. “Excuse me, dearest, of course I was referring to you, not the general male population. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He laughed in spite of his effort to remain serious. “I’m sorry. I was just worried about you.”

“If you’d been too rough, I would have said so. It was a wonderful night, and I have no complaints.”

“We should have hung up your dress.”

“The wrinkles will fall out today.” She’d hung it in the bathroom so the steam from the shower would melt them. The dress also blocked the sight of his black-as-evil traje de luces. It was still there though, a dark, lingering reminder of the danger he took on so willingly. Every day she cared for him more. Delaying their inevitable parting wouldn’t change things. She couldn’t stay in Spain. She ought to make her reservation to fly home the day after the funeral. But what she ought to do, had to do, just didn’t register today.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon when they took the elevator up to Santos’s apartment. They’d brought coffee, soft drinks, and half a dozen roast beef sandwiches on thick rolls.

Fox opened the door. “Food, perfect. Come on in.”

Santos came up behind him to welcome them to his spacious apartment. “Thanks for bringing something to eat. Fox has eaten his way through everything edible here. Let’s eat before we look through Augustín’s papers.” He directed them into the dining room that opened off the starkly furnished living room. There was a view of the sea from the wide windows. The glass tabletop rested on a steel frame. The chairs were metal with mesh backs and seats but surprisingly comfortable.

Maggie noted her brother’s slight limp. “How’s your leg today?”

“It hurts, and I’m supposed to stay off of it, but Fox is an insolent servant.”

“Where’s Ana?” Rafael asked.

Santos shrugged. “History. She’ll not rate more than a single paragraph in my memoir, if I write one.”

“You should,” Maggie encouraged. “You’ll have an entirely different view of the family than someone outside would.”

“Before you leave, I’ll show you the books written about our father. They cover what he did in the ring but printed only rumors about his private life.”

“I’d still love to see them.” Maggie hadn’t reconciled her part in yesterday’s tragedy and nibbled her sandwich while her male companions ate with unabashed gusto. She didn’t understand how they could be hungry when Miguel had been such an important part of their lives. Craig would point out how adept men were at hiding their feelings, and maybe that was all her companions were doing. “We should have brought more.”

“No, this is fine,” Santos assured her. “Later, we can order in if we want to. We ought to think about Wednesday and plan to go together to the funeral. I’ll have limos from Zaragoza come to the ranch for us.”

Maggie quickly saw a problem. “I doubt Carmen will ride with me.”

“That’s why I’ll hire more than one.”

“We should take the Hispano-Suiza,” Fox offered.

“Have you seen it?” Maggie asked Rafael.

He nodded. “Once, when it was being washed. It’s a magnificent car. Nothing today comes close to it.”

“We can’t use it,” Santos said. “There’s too great a risk it’ll be damaged by the crowd. They’d break off the crane emblem and everything else they could pry off as souvenirs.”

“While we’re talking about the funeral,” Rafael began, “I appreciated all Miguel did for me, and I’d like to speak if your grandmother will allow it.”

Fox laughed. “He said your death would be no great loss to the world.”

Santos swore, put down his sandwich and wiped his hands on his napkin. “That was cruel, and there’s no excuse for it. Go eat in the kitchen before I wring your neck.”

“It’s the truth,” Fox swore, but he got up as ordered and ambled into the kitchen.

Disbelief clouded Rafael’s expression as he sat back in his chair. “Miguel actually said that my death would be no great loss?”

Santos sent Maggie a desperate glance. “He was annoyed with me for insisting you weren’t ready. He just wanted me out of his room. He didn’t mean it.”

Maggie knew he did and hated that Rafael had heard it. Her appetite gone, she put her sandwich on her plate. Rafael looked as distressed as he had when he’d first learned of her father’s death, and she laid her hand on his thigh. “This is such a difficult time for us all. Please remember what my father said to you, not some off-hand remark he made to someone else.”

Rafael got up and pushed his chair back into the table. “I need some air. I’ll come back for you later.”

The pain in his gaze was too deep for her to offer another apology he wouldn’t accept. He closed the front door quietly, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if he never returned. “Fox has no sense at all,” she complained.

“He’s a kid,” Santos argued. “But you’re right, he was cruel, whether it was deliberate or not, and I doubt Rafael will forget it.”

“No, he won’t. What man would?”

Santos looked toward the kitchen. Fox had turned on the small television he watched while he cooked. “Now that we’re alone, tell me what really happened yesterday.”

Maggie would never tell the whole story. She repeated what she’d said earlier with the addition of her father’s criticism for the first two matadors. “He was proud of you and surprised Rafael was better than he’d expected. He was enjoying the afternoon, excited, and then…”

Santos stared at her, then gave up hope she’d say more. “Dr. Moreno said he was still alive when he reached the hospital but died soon afterward. Didn’t it strike you as odd there was an ambulance there?”

“He said it was Dr. Moreno’s idea.”

“So he anticipated a heart attack? If watching a bullfight was more excitement than he could stand, why didn’t Moreno forbid it?”

Maggie supplied the excuse her father had given her. “Hasn’t an ambulance been there whenever you’ve fought in Barcelona?”

“I don’t know. I’ve come here on the way home and gone by the beach house later to celebrate with him. He’d drink champagne, although he wasn’t supposed to. He loved bullfighting. Maybe he would have wanted to die the way he did. Wherever we bury him will become a shine. Grandmother might suggest the ranch, but we can’t have people wandering through our home on a pilgrimage.”

“Where’s Augustín buried?”

“In the Basilica cemetery. He has an impressive monument. I’ll show it to you when we’re there.”

Maggie rolled what was left of her sandwich in its wrapping. “I’ll save this for later.” She carried it into the refrigerator and dealt with Fox. “You’re young, but that’s no excuse to broadcast every comment you’ve ever heard without considering the consequences. Rafael idolized Miguel, and you hurt him badly. Was that your intention?”

His eyes widened in astonishment. “You think I’m jealous of him? I never wanted to be Miguel’s son, and Rafael did. He can have him. May I have the rest of your sandwich?”

She knew teenage boys were often blind to everything past their noses, but the damage was too severe to repair. “Help yourself.” She washed her hands in the sink and waited while Santos washed his.

He led her into the living room and picked up an accordion file. “It looks as though Cirilda threw everything into this when our grandmother told her to get rid of it. Help me organize it by date first, and then we’ll see if we can make something out of it.”