Fierce Love Read online

  His cap was angled low to shade his face, and his sunglasses reflected Maggie’s troubled frown, but his features were unmistakably familiar. It was in the set of his mouth perhaps, or the firmly chiseled chin, but she recognized him instantly as more than a man in Miguel’s employ. She’d known her father had other children, if not exactly how many, but that he’d sent one of her brothers to meet her filled her with an awestruck wonder. The young man whispered her name, and she nodded numbly.

  “We can’t talk here,” he cautioned in softly accented English. He grabbed the handle of her carry-on bag. “Is this all you have?”

  Maggie glanced at him in amazement. The young man’s hair was as dark and straight as her own, and she was sure his eyes would be as rich and warm a brown as their father’s. “Yes,” she managed rather hoarsely. “I’m not planning on staying long.”

  A sly smile curved his well-shaped mouth. “Really?”

  Clearly he didn’t believe her, but before Maggie could argue that she always said exactly what she meant, he started back through the rapidly thinning crowd, and she had to quicken her step to keep up. As a dancer, she had considerable endurance, but by the time they crossed the airport lobby and burst out into the bright afternoon sun, she was gasping for breath.

  “If it’s much farther, I’d rather wait right here while you bring the car.”

  Indifferent to her breathless plea, the chauffeur curled his free hand around her upper arm and nearly lifted her off her feet. “There’s no need. It’s parked nearby.”

  Although shocked by his forceful grasp, Maggie refused to be manhandled by some arrogant sibling who’d lacked the manners to offer his name. Maybe he wasn’t really a brother but merely a handsome young man with sinister intentions. After all, her father was a major celebrity in Spain, and she might actually be in danger.

  “Let go of me right now, or I’ll scream I’m being kidnapped,” she threatened through tightly clenched teeth.

  The chauffeur swore softly under his breath and pulled her around to face him. “Please don’t waste our time with temper tantrums. We may already be too late.”

  They were surrounded by travelers shouting to their friends and hailing taxis and hotel vans. Overhead, a departing flight soared toward the clouds, and buffeted by the noise of the screaming jets, she desperately wanted to believe she’d misunderstood him. The seriousness of his expression was utterly convincing, however.

  “Too late for what?” she asked fretfully.

  He glanced around to make certain no one was standing close enough to overhear, and even then barely mouthed his reply. “Miguel’s dying. Why else would he have sent for you?”

  That he’d delivered the heart-wrenching news in such a cruel fashion doubled the hurt, and she recoiled in pain. “You bastard.”

  “I won’t deny it”—he laughed—“but I’m still the best of your brothers.”

  “Then I’m in worse trouble than I thought.” For a brief instant, she was tempted to run back into the terminal and book the first flight home, but she’d come too far to pass up what might be her only chance to meet her father. “Let’s go, then,” she agreed abruptly. “Do you have the limo to go with your uniform?”

  This time he took her arm in a gentle grasp and led the way around a man guarding an enormous heap of battered luggage. “I have something even better,” he promised.

  “Not your own airplane, I hope,” she replied, fearful he might shove her out with no parachute as soon as they were airborne.

  “Not yet.”

  She’d worn low heels with a black sweater and jeans for travel, but any woman would have needed track shoes to keep up with the pace set by her brother/chauffeur. She hadn’t slept well all week, and after a tiring flight, she was relieved when they entered the nearest parking structure. Rather than use the elevator, they headed down the ramp toward the lower levels.

  They didn’t have far to go before her newfound brother drew her over to a vintage sedan that easily outclassed any standard limousine. Black and low, it called to mind the impossibly romantic times of Rudolf Valentino as well as the notorious Chicago gangsters. The chrome hood ornament was a magnificent flying crane, the most elegant emblem she’d ever seen. The whole car was a stunning work of art.

  “You’re right,” she said. “There couldn’t be a more perfect car for a matador.”

  “It’s a Hispano-Suiza,” he announced as he opened the trunk. “It’s one of the finest automobiles ever built. There are a few in the States. Have you never seen one?”

  “I don’t usually pay much attention to cars, but I would have remembered if I’d ever seen one of these.” She’d thought all her father collected were beautiful young wives, not vintage automobiles.

  “Tell me your name,” she coaxed as she circled the car.

  “I’m Santos Aragon,” he replied proudly. “While that may mean nothing to you, here in Spain I’m more popular than Brad Pitt. We were lucky to leave the airport before I was recognized.”

  He tossed her bag into the car’s cavernous trunk with an easy swing, then peeled off his coat and laid it inside with his hat. There was the mellow thud of fine steel when he slammed the trunk shut, and with a sweeping gesture, he ushered Maggie to the passenger side of the car.

  “You’ll sit up here with me so it will be easier to talk.”

  It was an order rather than an invitation, but because it suited her purpose, she climbed into the elegant sedan. The leather seat was cool to the touch, and she shivered slightly as she fastened a seat belt that had been added decades after the car had been built. As soon as Santos had eased into the driver’s seat, she issued a command of her own.

  “My mother was the first of Miguel Aragon’s wives. Tell me where you fit into the family.”

  Santos shot her a menacing glance, then turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the sleek car’s powerful engine to underscore his words. “I’ll tell you what I was told, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He raised his hands slightly from the wheel. “You’ll soon discover Father always prefers a colorful story to the truth, but for now, you’ll have to trust me.”

  “That might be unwise,” she shot right back at him.

  “Time will tell, but then, you’re not staying long.” He gave his immediate attention to safely exiting the parking structure, then waved as the attendant raised the barrier without charging him. “In Spain, there are many advantages to being the son of a famous matador, or daughter, as well.”

  She was embarrassed by the fierce pride of her childhood and shook her head. “Just tell me your story before I fall asleep.”

  “It’s a very sad tale. Better take out your handkerchief.”

  “I should have just asked what’s the matter with our father,” she responded impatiently.

  “It’s his heart,” he replied. “He needs a new one but fears he won’t be the same with another man’s heart beating within his chest.”

  Craig had suggested Miguel might want her forgiveness, but she hadn’t dreamed he would have such a tragic motivation. “So he’s not on a transplant list?”

  “No, he’s waiting to die and wants his children gathered around him.”

  Then she was just one of the many, nothing special at all. She swallowed hard. It was a glorious afternoon, bright and pleasantly warm, but she felt chilled clear through. Santos had entered the freeway, and they were traveling south along the coast. The palm trees and red-tiled roofs reminded her of America’s southwest, but the beautiful view provided no solace.

  “Is there a real danger we might be too late?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Yes. I wasn’t trying to scare you. Now you interrupted me, and you should know who I am.”

  She gestured for him to continue. He so closely resembled her mother’s treasured photographs of Miguel that looking his way made her heart ache. They had gotten off to a poor start, but she couldn’t help but feel the fault was his.

  “My mother’s name was Rosa Sanchez,”
he began. “Her parents worked for my, our, grandparents at the ranch outside Zaragoza. She and Miguel grew up together, but she was merely a servant’s daughter and not nearly good enough for him. He says he didn’t care what his parents thought and wanted to marry her. That’s why he was sent to the United States for college, although he was no scholar. He swears he didn’t know my mother was pregnant when he married yours. By the time he returned home, I was a year old and my beautiful mother was dead.”

  She wondered if Miguel betrayed every woman he met. She had to force herself to ask, “What happened to her?”

  Santos waved as they passed two pretty young women in a convertible Porsche. “When our grandmother told her that her beloved Miguel had married an American girl, she hanged herself in the stable.”

  “Dear God,” Maggie cried. “It’s no wonder you don’t like me. I’m surprised you agreed to meet me at the airport.”

  He replied with a softly voiced curse. “I wasn’t given a choice, Magdalena. You’ll soon learn how Miguel Aragon runs his household or how our grandmother runs it for him. I despise the bitch. She’ll tolerate your presence rather than welcome you to our home. Our Aunt Cirilda is equally vicious. She’s a viper in high heels and blood red lipstick.”

  Even if snakes lacked feet and lips, it was a convincing mental image. His hostility echoed her own so loudly she felt an unexpected kinship with him. Another woman would have reached out to touch his arm in silent sympathy, but her hands reminded tightly wound in her shoulder bag’s long strap.

  “Thank you for the warning. I haven’t kept up with the Aragon family tree. How many brothers and sisters do we have, and will they all be clustered around our father’s bedside?”

  “He refuses to stay in bed, and I doubt he even knows how many children he’s sired, but the others you’ll meet are all legitimate. Vida Ramos was his second wife, and she gave him a daughter and son. Maria Luisa is twenty, and as silly and conceited as her friends. Enrique is seventeen and too wild to care that his father’s dying.”

  Maggie nodded thoughtfully. Clearly he could provide a ready reason for disliking everyone he mentioned, and while his opinions would undoubtedly prove valuable, she thought it would be wise to keep an eye on him too. And how does that make you feel? Craig’s voice whispered in her ear.

  She glanced toward the clear blue of the Mediterranean. They were driving along the Costa Daurada, or Golden Coast, and she realized Santos hadn’t told her where they were bound. “Is Father in a hospital?”

  “No, he’s at the house near Tarragona. It’s not nearly as large as the ranch, but it’s easier for everyone to reach, and he loves the sea. The twins are there, Esperanza and Concepcion. They’re the daughters from Father’s third marriage to the opera diva Marina Nuñez. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m not much of an opera fan.”

  “There’s no cause for sorrow there. The shrew can barely carry a tune. The twins are thirteen and so thin they are no more than hangers for their designer clothes. They hope to become super models like Heidi Klum and marry rock stars. They wear so much makeup they look like circus clowns. After Father divorced Marina, he wed an Englishwoman, Margaret Hyde-Fox. She died in a plane crash, and Father adopted her son, David, but he refuses to use the Aragon name. He’s also seventeen. Everyone calls him Hide the Fox, or just Fox. He hates us all, but I prefer him to Enrique.”

  Santos was so relentlessly negative she wished she could overhear his description of her, but decided she’d rather not. “So, there was your mother, then mine, followed by a woman named Vida, then Marina the opera singer, and Margaret was Father’s last wife?”

  Santos sent her a quick scowl. “You can’t count my mother among the wives, and he may marry again. His nurses are all young, pretty blondes, just what he likes.”

  Her curiosity piqued, she turned toward him. “What sort of woman appeals to you?”

  Santos flexed his hands on the wheel. “The same kind, but I’ll never marry.”

  “You’re awfully young to make that decision.”

  “I’m not swearing myself to celibacy,” he exclaimed with a deep chuckle. “I’ll just avoid marriage. I’m the only one Father raised. He always expected me to embrace whatever woman occupied his bed, and there were a great many he didn’t bother to marry.”

  “Santos,” she sympathized softly.

  “Did you imagine Miguel Aragon was a saint? Now, let me finish without interrupting me again,” he scolded. “I don’t recall how many times I came downstairs for breakfast and found a new woman seated at the table. They were all beautiful redheads or blondes. Father has an absolutely pathetic weakness for blondes.”

  Now positive her father would be disappointed to find her hair as black as his own, Maggie slumped down in her seat and cautiously kept quiet.

  “Often the new woman would have a child or two, and I was expected to share all my wonderful toys with my new playmates. The few women Father did wed remained awhile longer, of course, but like all the others, the end always came. One morning I would wake to find my new brothers and sisters had vanished during the night, but another set would soon arrive to take their places. A few I had actually grown to love and missed terribly, but there were so many over the years that now I can’t recall all their names.”

  Maggie could scarcely imagine the chaos of growing up in a home with a constantly shifting cast of characters, but Santos made it plain he didn’t want sympathy. She offered her own story instead. “I was raised by my mother and stepfather. I have two half sisters but no brothers, and I’m very glad to have met you. Although I can’t stay long, I won’t slip away like the others, but you’ll have to help me stay in touch.”

  After a brief hesitation, he dipped his head. “I can’t promise much, but I suppose I could try.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have to make a note of everyone’s names or I won’t be able to keep them straight.”

  At last a relaxed smile crossed Santos’s lips. “Names will be a challenge, but I’ll help you. Perhaps you’ll stay long enough to hear all of Spain shouting mine.”

  He had bragged he was popular, but she hadn’t stopped to consider why. The most obvious reason terrified her. “Dear God, Santos, are you a matador too?”

  “Of course,” he responded with a booming laugh. “What else would the eldest son of Miguel Aragon be?”

  Maggie just shook her head and shuddered.

  Chapter Three

  The other lavishly appointed villas hugging the Golden Coast also had whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs, but those were the only features they shared with Miguel Aragon’s imposing estate. Obviously inspired by Barcelona’s visionary genius Antonio Gaudí, the architect had foresworn right angles for undulating curves. Exposed beams, stained glass and bougainvillea bearing a profusion of magenta flowers adorned the exterior, and had Maggie not been so eager to meet her father, she would have insisted upon an immediate tour.

  Santos parked the Hispano-Suiza at the front of the garage, and a tall man clad in overalls came out to meet them. “That’s Manuel. He serves as chauffeur for our grandmother and aunt and keeps all our cars running. Let’s hurry. I want to take you up to Father’s room before anyone else notices we’re here.”

  Maggie had already stepped out onto the gravel driveway before he reached her car door. Her arrival in Spain hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped, and she feared the strangeness of her father’s beach house did not bode well for her stay. “Does this place have a name?” she asked as they entered through an arched doorway.

  “It’s La Casa Contenta, the House of Contentment, which makes it ill-named for our family.”

  Maggie hadn’t needed the translation, but after Santos had greeted her in English, their conversation had become heated so rapidly she’d failed to mention she was fluent in Spanish. Now concerned her grandmother and aunt might actually be as self-serving as he’d described, she fought a brief twinge of guilt, then decided to keep her linguistic ta
lents a secret awhile longer.

  Santos led her through a starkly modern kitchen decorated in arctic white and matte-finished steel without speaking to the chef and his helpers, but an exotic mixture of savory aromas provided convincing proof the man was preparing a culinary masterpiece for supper. Maggie hadn’t eaten on the plane, but despite the rush of enticing scents, she felt more hollow than hungry.

  Santos gestured for her to precede him up the narrow rear staircase to the second story, but now that she was just seconds away from meeting her father, her mind went maddeningly blank. She’d been too angry with him to memorize a set speech, which might have been a foolish oversight, but she hadn’t known he was ill. Shaking slightly as she reached the landing, she drew in a deep breath and moved aside for Santos to lead the way. All too quickly, he paused before a door set in a deeply recessed arch and rapped lightly.

  Before they heard a welcoming response, Maggie had time to note the door’s wrought-iron hinges were adorned with swirling arabesques and attached to the wood at odd angles. The strange house made her feel as though she were a character in some dream-set play, and she wished she’d had sense enough to freshen her makeup and comb her hair before meeting the star.

  “How do I look?” she whispered.

  Santos leaned down to brush her cheek with a mere hint of a kiss. “You needn’t worry. Father will be proud,” he breathed out against her ear. He then opened the door, gently propelled her on through it and closed it softly behind her.

  The large master bedroom faced the sea and was aglow with the radiant light reflected off the water. Momentarily blinded, Maggie looked down at the bare hardwood floor, then toward the massive bed. The four posts had been carved to resemble gracefully twisting tree trunks topped with delicate branches sprouting upwards to form a lacy canopy. A forest green duvet covered the matching sheets and tumble of pillows, but the rumpled bed was empty.

  “Magdalena,” Miguel called, his voice low and deep.

  Maggie turned toward the sound and was startled to find the opposite end of the room completely open to the balcony overlooking the shore. Leaning back against the rail, her father stood out as a dark silhouette against the brilliant sea. She could make out only a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in dark pajamas and a matching robe, but his face was hidden in shadow.