Fierce Love Read online

  “It was good of you to come,” he murmured softly. “How was your flight?”

  He had posed the casual question without the slightest effort at dramatic effect, as though good manners required it. Because her mother spoke no Spanish, Maggie had expected him to speak English well, but the rich timbre of his voice was a surprise. It was a deep, seductive baritone an actor would kill to possess, and it carried easily over the low roiling rumble of the sea. The sound played on her senses, coaxing her near while wary instincts held her back.

  “I’ve never enjoyed flying,” she replied, hesitantly moving closer, still unable to make out her father’s face clearly.

  “Neither have I, but my work required it.”

  Maggie took another cautious step. Did he actually regard bullfighting as work? she wondered, as though it were merely a way to earn a living, as long as he survived. “That makes it no easier,” she replied.

  She felt the cool, salt-scented breeze against her face and dug her nails into her palms. She hadn’t expected a welcoming hug and kiss from the man who’d forgotten all her birthdays, but this sterile exchange troubled her.

  “Oh, but it does,” Miguel argued, “because I had no say in the matter. But then I have a regrettable tendency to make foolish choices whenever I do.”

  Maggie’s voice rose as she lost all hope of controlling her temper. “Are you referring to your marriage to my mother?”

  Miguel’s response was a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “No, querida. She was an excellent choice. Marrying her was one of my few good decisions.”

  “Then why did you leave us?” Instantly ashamed of the pathetic question, Maggie swung her gaze past him to the sea. Sailboats glided by in the distance, their colorful pennants a reminder of all the childhood parties he’d missed.

  Unfazed by her bitter accusation, Miguel tightened his loosely belted robe, then folded his arms across his chest. “Is that what your mother told you, that I left her? I’m surprised. I believed Linda incapable of deceit.”

  Maggie remained aloof, but her traitorous body took another step toward him. “She never speaks of you, but I’ve always assumed…” Her voice faded to an uncertain hush.

  “That I was the one to end our marriage? No. Your dear mother left me, but I cheated on her within weeks of our wedding. I’m not proud of it, but then, I’ve cheated on all of my wives.”

  Maggie was amazed by his candor while at the same time positive a father ought not to admit such a failing to his daughter. “How can you be so nonchalant? Santos’s mother took her own life because you’d left her.” She cursed silently, then bit her lower lip. This wasn’t the conversation she’d longed to have either.

  Miguel glanced away, and his profile stood out in sharp relief against the orange-tinted sky. His trim build had changed little since he’d posed for Maggie’s cherished photographs, but his posture wasn’t nearly as proud.

  “I didn’t leave Rosa; I was sent away. There’s an enormous difference in the two. She was lovely but lacked your mother’s strength. As I said, I’ve made many poor choices, although the sad affair with Rosa could easily be blamed on our youth.”

  With that flippant response, he shrugged off Rosa Sanchez’s suicide as though it had been a thoughtless prank. Maggie felt sick. “Santos said the two of you had grown up together. Didn’t you have any deep feelings for her?”

  Indignant, she’d moved closer without realizing it, and when Miguel turned toward her, she saw his face clearly. He was nearing fifty but aging well, and the fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes barely marred his extraordinary good looks. The hint of gray at his temples was a flattering accent. As with the photographs, she saw so much of herself in him her anger lost focus. There was nothing feminine in his features and nothing masculine in hers, and yet they were unmistakably kin.

  For a long moment, Miguel regarded her with equal intensity, and, obviously pleased with what he saw, he smiled. “Querida, your mother is the only woman I have ever truly loved, and I broke her heart. After all these years, God has extracted his revenge and shattered mine.”

  Touched by the sincerity of his sad revelation, Maggie felt as though she had at last glimpsed the real man beneath the legend. Tears welled up in her eyes, and when he reached out to enfold her in a gentle embrace, she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned close.

  He rested his cheek against her hair. “Please don’t cry,” he urged softly. “I’ve never known how to deal with a woman’s tears.”

  He sounded perplexed rather than troubled he’d been the cause of such abundant sorrow. Maggie had never enjoyed being held and would have pulled away had she not realized how heavily he was leaning on her. She felt the tough leanness of his build, but it was overlaid with a weariness no amount of sleep would quell.

  She’d intended to tell him precisely what she thought of him for abandoning her mother and her, but if the truth were different than she’d always imagined, her whole view of him was wrong. Her father’s pajamas and robe were black silk, and snuggled close, she caught the scent of a spicy and undoubtedly expensive cologne. Miguel Aragon was incredibly brave and disastrously flawed, but had a knock not come at the door, she would have stood in his arms until he sent her away.

  “That will be my nurse with more useless pills,” he explained apologetically and dropped his arms. “Come talk with me later.”

  Readily dismissing her, he turned toward the sea before Maggie had taken two steps away, and she hurried to open the door for a pretty, fair-haired nurse. She was dressed in a closely fitted white uniform that was more beguiling than practical, but Maggie wasn’t in the least bit surprised. She pulled the door closed behind her but left her hand resting lightly on the cool wrought-iron door handle.

  She was relieved not to have found her father on oxygen and hooked up to monitoring machines, but their conversation had still left her feeling torn and confused. She wished she knew the house well enough to find a quiet corner to think, if such a place even existed there, but she was a guest and first would have to introduce herself to her grandmother, aunt, and whomever else she might find.

  Rather than return to the first floor by way of the kitchen stairs, she continued on down the long corridor to the wide, curved staircase at the center of the house. As she neared the landing, she overheard Santos and another man arguing in hushed voices, but it was immediately clear Santos was attempting to bar access to their father’s room, while the other man was equally adamant he would be welcome.

  Maggie had no wish to intrude, but she was curious as to how the dispute would end and leaned over the banister to improve her view. Santos was standing at the bottom of the stairs while the other man had his back toward her. He was as tall as her half brother, dressed in black, and his thick ebony hair brushed his shoulders. He was a grown man, so clearly he wasn’t either Enrique or David Hyde-Fox, and Santos hadn’t mentioned any other men living there.

  Perhaps he was Cirilda’s husband and Santos hadn’t had time to describe their uncle. Then, as if sensing her presence, the man turned and looked up at her. Framed by expressive brows, his eyes were as black as his hair, and his gaze traveled over her with an insulting sweep that made her draw back.

  Perhaps it was only the stress of the day or the view down the curved stairs, but a wave of dizziness overtook her. She tightened her hold on the coiled wrought-iron banister and held on as the man brushed by Santos and came up the stairs. His defiant gaze remained fixed on her the whole way, and when he paused two steps below her, their eyes were nearly even.

  Despite his forbidding glance, he was a remarkably handsome man. His deeply tanned skin was proof he spent his days outdoors, and there was an unmistakable aura of drama surrounding him. She longed to hear him speak.

  “I’m Magdalena Aragon,” she offered as a prompt.

  He nodded dismissively. “The American. I’ll give you the same warning I gave your brother. Stay out of my way.”

  His voice had a harsh edge but
the same seductive depth as her father’s. He’d meant to frighten her, and had succeeded, but she raised her chin proudly rather than let it show. “With that arrogance, you must be another matador. What are you afraid of? That I might steal your best cape to make a cocktail dress?”

  Her question brought a howling laugh from Santos, but the stranger’s expression barely softened. “Your sister has a keen eye, Santos. Bring her to my next corrida so she’ll see a real matador fight.”

  “I’d sooner escort her to hell,” Santos shouted up at him.

  “I’m Rafael Mondragon,” he announced proudly and continued on up the stairs.

  The name meant nothing to Maggie, but as Rafael passed by her, she caught a faint hint of the cologne she recognized as her father’s brand. She turned to look up at him, but his sinewy grace quickly carried him down the long corridor and out of view. She found the whole encounter disturbing. As she made her way down the stairs, Santos observed her with an impatient frown. She was embarrassed he’d caught her staring at a man he heartily disliked and even more puzzled she’d been inspired to do so.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “His anger took me by surprise. Should I have blocked his way?

  Without his sunglasses, Santos even more closely resembled their father. His eyes were a deep brown and his lashes long and dark, but there was no conceit in his bearing. “You could have more easily stopped a locomotive,” he declared, “and you needn’t have bothered. Father actually encourages Rafael’s visits, but the Gypsy dog doesn’t understand how badly he tires him.”

  For the second time that afternoon, Maggie felt unsteady, and she leaned back against the newel post. “Is he really a Gypsy?”

  “While I don’t trust anything he says to be true, he calls himself El Gitano and claims to be from Andalusia. He spent half a dozen years in prison for killing a man in a knife fight; that’s why he’s still a matador de novillos, a beginner, at his age. He hopes to convince Father to use his influence to arrange an Alternativa so that he can move up to the rank of full matador de toros. Then he’ll face the bigger bulls in larger arenas and earn much more. Believe me, I’ve worked hard to earn my title, and Rafael Mondragon is neither ready nor worthy of it.”

  Maggie nodded to acknowledge her brother’s opinion. Rafael’s menacing glance convinced her he was equal to any challenge. She’d had a few belligerent students, teenage boys out to prove they were men. None of those kids displayed such tautly controlled rage. Clearly Rafael was furious about something, although it could be dangerous to find out why.

  Rafael waited impatiently for the nurse to leave Miguel’s room and then, without returning her appreciative smile, he burst through the door in a single long stride. He meant to continue the argument he’d begun downstairs and then remembered the manners Miguel had struggled to instill and caught himself.

  “Are you feeling well enough to talk? If not, I’ll return tomorrow.”

  Miguel was seated on the side of his bed. He tossed his pillows carelessly into place and stretched out to lean back against them. “When I can’t promise to be alive tomorrow, you’d be wise to talk to me today.”

  Grateful for the opportunity, Rafael raked his hair off his forehead with a distracted swipe and paced at the side of the oversized bed. “I have done everything you asked of me. I endured a wretched winter in Mexico and South America, appearing in bullrings so small I could barely twirl my cape without slapping a spectator. As for bulls, many were unworthy of the name. They might as well have been oversized goats. Still, I was praised and could have had my Alternativa in Mexico City. It’s because of you that I came home for that honor.”

  Miguel responded with an amused smile. “I’m deeply flattered, of course, but it was time well spent if you learned how to make your kills in a single thrust. Or are you still hacking the poor beasts to death with your estoque?”

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” Rafael warned darkly. “I can handle a sword.”

  Miguel shook his head sadly. “Yes, you can. But the distinction between a competent matador and a great one is razor fine. If you’re satisfied with merely being competent, then you should have stayed in Mexico. If you wish to be among the truly great, the gran artistas, however, you will need another season as a novillero.”

  “No, I don’t.” Rafael swore emphatically, then, fearing Santos would hear him and escort him out, he lowered his voice. “I’ve followed you since my teens. I practiced your moves when I had to steal a tablecloth for a cape. I’m already better than Santos will ever be. I want my Alternativa now.”

  Miguel sighed deeply and turned his face toward the sea where the light shone with a muted gold. “Shall I tell you what I want, Rafael? At times such as these, it’s simply to die in peace.”

  Appalled to have filled his mentor’s head with such a dismal wish, Rafael halted at the foot of the bed. Miguel had taught him more than he realized, and with no family to cheer for him, he desperately needed the great matador’s approval.

  “Please,” he begged softly. “Help me arrange an Alternativa now so that you may attend.”

  He strained to hear Miguel’s reply, but after a long hush realized the ailing man had fallen asleep. He’d never begged for anything before, and although he hadn’t been heard, he doubted he could stand the shame a second time. Badly disappointed his visit had gone so poorly, he stepped out on the balcony, but all he could see was the sea’s churning violence rather than the soothing view of eternity Miguel Aragon sought.

  Too restless to remain while Miguel slept, he was about to go when Santos and his American sister stepped out on the path below, and he lingered a moment to watch them. How he envied the striking pair their perfect lives. They’d been born with more than they could ever want, while he had only his dreams.

  Obviously showing off, Santos strutted about, gesturing dramatically while Magdalena stood in a relaxed pose, concentrating on the sea. Her taunting humor had impressed him as much as her beauty, but women were a luscious distraction he intended to postpone until he was at last named matador de toros.

  He glanced back toward his sleeping mentor and then pushed away from the balcony rail. He prayed Miguel had many months to live rather than only days, but there were times like this discouraging afternoon when he feared he had mere hours to gain Miguel’s approval, and sadly, he’d again failed. If only there were someone he could depend on to further his cause.

  An intriguing thought lured him back to the balcony, but Magdalena was no longer in view. He doubted Miguel would be favorably impressed if he seduced his American daughter, and he swiftly discounted the idea. But, like a gentle sea breeze, the enticing possibility teased his senses and stirred a nearly unbearable longing.

  Chapter Four

  Halfway through dinner, Maggie recognized the pen-and-ink drawings encircling the dining room as Picasso originals. A master of the dancing line, the renowned artist had captured the essence of a bull’s grace and power in a variety of dramatic poses. She didn’t want to consider the cost of such a spectacular series but could imagine no more appropriate home for the stunning artwork.

  Santos gave her a gentle nudge to refocus her attention on their dinner companions. It was difficult to believe the woman seated at the foot of the table was her grandmother. Dressed in black crepe, Carmen Aragon was still a beauty who exuded an aura of dignity a dowager empress would envy. When Santos had introduced Maggie, she’d responded with a barely perceptible nod and inquired as to Maggie’s favorite opera.

  When Maggie had responded with a startled stare to unwittingly reveal her lack of expertise, Carmen had promptly dismissed her with an imperious shrug and spoken to her daughter, Cirilda. Both women were tall and slim, with large brown eyes and jet-black hair, but Carmen wore hers in a chignon, while Cirilda’s hair was cut with the angular perfection of a china doll’s.

  There was no doll-like innocence in Cirilda’s gaze, however. She was thirty-eight, and unlike her brother, Miguel, childless after multiple
marriages. She had an exquisite, chilly beauty. As she and her mother had led the way into the dining room, Maggie had moved close to Santos.

  “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” she’d whispered, and he’d winked to agree. She’d wanted to form her own opinions of the family, but his sarcastic descriptions of their kin were proving remarkably apt.

  Carmen was seated at the foot of the table, and Maggie was on her grandmother’s right with Santos at her side. The twins, Esperanza and Consuelo, were seated opposite them with Cirilda. The girls had asked Maggie to call them Perry and Connie, but she was at a loss for a way to tell them apart. They were the only blondes at the table, and as pathetically thin and heavily made up as Santos had described.

  Throughout dinner, Maggie’s grandmother and aunt kept up a running commentary on the opera and symphony companies scheduled to appear in Barcelona in the fall. While they’d spoken in elegantly phrased English as though their intention was to include Maggie, they couldn’t have chosen a more exclusive topic. Neither posed a single question about her life, while the twins giggled amongst themselves and exchanged asides in French.

  Santos offered an occasional comment on the delicious meal, but the flavorful food scarcely made up for the lack of welcome Maggie felt in her father’s home. His chair was empty at the head of the table, but with Carmen so closely entrenched at the foot, Maggie thought it no wonder all her father’s relationships had failed.

  “Magdalena?”

  Santos’s sudden prompt made her fear she’d missed a question, and she sent her grandmother an inquiring glance, then had to wait while Carmen sampled the dessert, raspberries laced with whipped cream. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”