Fierce Pride Read online

  Julian brought them juice and quickly set the table. Libby took a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. “This is awfully good. I can’t imagine having a staff to see to my every need.”

  “You’d get used to it. My father was a very gracious man, and people loved working for him. Everyone has known me since I was a child, so I don’t command the same respect.”

  It was an offhand remark, but he looked away quickly as though he regretted admitting it. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet your father. Maggie never talked about him. My sister, Patricia, and I always wondered why she’d had a different father, but it wasn’t a topic discussed in our home.”

  “All families have secrets,” Santos observed. He leaned back as Julian served their omelets garnished with sliced tomatoes.

  “Thank you so much,” Libby said. “This looks delicious.”

  Julian blushed and backed away before turning to enter the house.

  “I’m afraid I embarrassed him.”

  “No,” Santos assured her. “He’s delighted to have such a pretty girl to serve.”

  “Thank you.” Libby took a bite of omelet and found it even tastier than it looked. Santos was very free with compliments, and she assumed he’d had plenty of practice. Still, it was difficult to remember Maggie’s warnings when he sounded so sincere.

  They had just finished eating when Cirilda came out the kitchen door and joined them. She was dressed in a navy top, white slacks and red stilettos. “Are you one of Magdalena’s sisters or this week’s hot chick?”

  Santos nearly choked and had to take a drink of juice. “May I present Maggie’s sister, Libby Gunderson. Cirilda is our favorite aunt. I’m surprised to see you up this early. What do you need?”

  “Nothing from you. I still have things to move into Alfonso’s home, our home. I’m remarrying my second husband,” she added for Libby’s benefit. “He’s been single since we divorced, and everything is the way I left it.”

  “How convenient,” Libby replied. It was difficult not to stare at the woman. Her black hair was cut short like a china doll’s, with straight bangs to frame her dark eyes. She was beautiful, easily recognizable as an Aragon, but unlike Santos’s easy manner, she radiated not a speck of warmth.

  Julian brought her a cup of coffee on a silver tray complete with a silver creamer and a bowl of sugar. “Would you care for anything more, Miss Aragon?”

  “A few strawberries if you have them.”

  “Of course.” He again left them with a backward step followed by a quick turn to enter the kitchen door. He soon reappeared balancing a small crystal bowl filled with sugar-dusted strawberries on his silver tray.

  “Have you set a wedding date?” Santos asked.

  Cirilda swallowed a bite of strawberry. “Not yet. Alfonso wants to be certain his practice will be covered before we plan a trip. I’m thinking Tahiti. We might wait and be married there.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful place,” Libby said.

  Cirilda nodded and finished her last strawberry. She wiped her hands on her napkin and rose with a regal stretch. “It was so nice to meet you, Libby. I’ll see you again on Saturday for the wedding.”

  Santos stood as she left them, then sank down into his seat. “She’s been on her best behavior since her mother went berserk.”

  “How many times has she been married?”

  “Only three. Alfonso is the prize of the lot, and they reconnected at my father’s funeral. He’s a pediatrician.”

  Libby leaned close to whisper, “And he’s marrying her twice?”

  “I know. The poor fool must really love her.”

  “I’m all for love, but people ought to use some common sense.”

  “Common sense?” His eyes flashed with a teasing light. “You mean analyze the pros and cons before beginning a relationship?”

  She struggled to sound more mature than she felt. “Yes. Why do you sound so skeptical?”

  Santos regarded her with a lazy grin. “Someone either sparks your interest or they don’t. Last night was a good example.”

  As if she could forget. “True, but nobody wants to get scorched if that spark turns into a destructive inferno. If Cirilda is your favorite aunt, what are others like?”

  “That’s a joke. She’s my only aunt.” He leaned forward. “Now let’s get back to scorching.”

  Maggie walked around the corner of the house and found them whispering and so close they nearly touched noses. “I shouldn’t have left you last night, but it looks as though you and Santos are getting along.”

  “Not nearly well enough,” he responded.

  Libby gave his arm a playful shove. “I wish you’d been here to go sailing with us.”

  Maggie took Cirilda’s chair. “There wasn’t time today.”

  “Where’s Rafael?” Santos asked. “He’s usually trailing you like a bloodhound.”

  “He does not,” Maggie denied. “He brought me home and went on to the university. There are papers to fill out, that sort of thing for his scholarship.”

  “Couldn’t he pay on his own?” Libby asked.

  “He’s not been a matador long,” Santos interjected. “He probably needs all the financial help he can get.”

  “It’s more a matter of being accepted without the usual entrance requirements. We’ll be all right financially,” Maggie insisted. “I plan to teach. After we’re married, I’ll begin applying to the private schools.”

  “You’ll be well paid for photos of the wedding,” Santos said. “Don’t overlook that source of revenue.”

  “That El Gitano married Miguel Aragon’s daughter will be news, won’t it?” Maggie replied. “I’ll have to talk to Rafael about it.”

  “At home, celebrities sell rights to photos all the time,” Libby reminded her. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

  “It depends on who’s selling the photos.” Santos stood and rested his hands on the back of his chair. “I’ve got things to do and probably won’t see either of you until after the bullfights tomorrow.”

  “Do you really have a blue suit of lights?”

  His gaze brightened. “Would you like to see it?”

  Libby looked at her sister. “Did he just invite me up to his room?”

  “No, I’ve got a dozen trajes de luces and they’re in a closet upstairs, not my room. Of course, if you’d care to see my room, you’re welcome.”

  “Just the suits, please. Do you mind?” Libby asked.

  “No,” Maggie assured her. “Go right ahead.”

  Libby followed Santos upstairs to a huge cedar-lined walk-in closet. It was located on the side of the hall facing the street and had no window. When Santos turned on the light, he stood back to let her see the colorful array of showy garments carefully stored in clear hanging bags. There were neatly pressed white ruffled shirts, and the black flat-heeled shoes were on the shelf above the suits. Hats were stored in boxes.

  “Are these all yours?”

  “No, the ones on the left were my father’s. Fans would pay a great deal to own one, so I should probably rent a vault to store them. I go through five or six suits in a season. I can’t walk into an arena in a suit that’s torn or stained, so I always have a new one on order.”

  The jackets were covered in ornate gold embroidery, and she recognized several of the suits from the photos on his website. “Which one is your favorite?”

  He leaned back against the open door. “The one I wore last. Clearly it was lucky.”

  “Don’t you think you’re the one with the luck, not the suit?”

  He winked at her. “You’re right. I’m very lucky without a suit.”

  Libby rolled her eyes. There was simply no end to his cocky attitude. He was a spectacular specimen from every angle, but he had more than enough fans, and she planned to appreciate him from a distance. “I bet that works on the chick of the week. Thanks for showing me your fancy clothes. I need to go shopping with my sister.”

  Hoping she’d won that
round, she walked into her room and out on her balcony to call to Maggie. “I’ll get dressed and be down in a minute.” Maggie waved.

  Santos closed the closet and locked it. He hadn’t ever shown off his clothing to another woman, but Libby had seemed only mildly interested. He’d expected the joyous admiration he received from Spanish women and was disgusted for being disappointed. Maggie was as serious as a stone, but Libby skipped over the top of things. Maybe he ought to take up flamenco if it would help him pick up American girls as easily as Rafael had.

  In no real hurry, Maggie and Libby carried their sandals and wandered along the shore. “I’m donating all my black and gray clothes,” Maggie explained. “They were fine for school, everything mixed and matched, but here in Spain, I don’t want to be mistaken for a widow.”

  “Of course not. I’ve always liked bright colors. I’m glad you haven’t picked out dresses with big bows on the butt, but do you suppose Patricia will like anything we choose?”

  “You don’t have to dress alike. We’re getting married on the beach, so you don’t even have to wear shoes. I just like the tiered skirts and long-sleeved tops this place has. Whatever color you want is fine. If you don’t like them, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  Libby picked up a smooth stone and skipped it over the water. “Mom’s disappointed you aren’t having the wedding at home.”

  “I’m sorry if she is, and I know this might sound strange, but I feel at home here.”

  “Maybe it’s your Spanish blood. I wish Patricia and I had grown up knowing your whole story. I suppose Mother did what she thought was best.”

  “I knew who my father was, and that must have been all she thought necessary.”

  “But it wasn’t. She hid a big part of herself, and we didn’t really know her,” Libby stressed.

  “Maybe no one truly knows their parents. How did we become so serious? Let’s get back to the wedding.”

  “Ah, yes, the wedding. I’d just as soon get married on a beach too, but Patricia will want the full frou-frou nuptials.”

  “Definitely.” Maggie agreed. “Here we are.” She cut across the sand to the El Sol y La Luna boutique she loved and slipped on her sandals. “Don’t mention why you want the dress, or it will hit the tabloids by this afternoon.”

  The salesclerk greeted her warmly. “Miss Aragon, where is El Gitano today?”

  “He’s busy. This is my sister, Libby. She’s visiting from Minnesota and wants something new.”

  “I’m Carmela. What a beautiful figure you have. Everything will look wonderful on you.”

  Libby looked down at her narrow-legged jeans and cropped yellow sweater. “Come on, a pencil has more curves than I do.”

  Carmela quickly disagreed. “Men love women with long legs. After a few babies, you’ll have pretty curves too.”

  “Maybe,” Libby replied. The boutique had a colorful abundance of party clothes, and while she was afraid the tiered skirts might be too short, she found several that brushed her ankles. “What about this one? I love the big roses on the skirt.”

  “That’s a vintage print,” Carmela interjected. “All the designers are showing floral prints for the fall. You could wear it with a pale sweater now and a dark green top later to pick up the color in the leaves.”

  Libby stepped into a fitting room to try it on and came out to turn in front of the full-length mirror. “This is pretty, but now that I see it on, it’s too sweet for me. I think I’ll try on the aqua tie-dye. I could wear it with a black or aqua top.”

  Carmela left them to see to a pretty young woman with long black hair who’d entered the shop, and Maggie used the shop’s padded bench to wait. She tugged on her sleeves to cover the telltale scars. When she looked up, Libby came out of the dressing room to make a quick twirl and again shook her head.

  “This isn’t quite right, is it?”

  “It’s pretty,” Maggie said.

  “But if Patricia wants the rose skirt, this will look silly beside it. Maybe we should wait and shop with her.”

  Maggie covered a yawn. “We could, and she might bring something she wants to wear.”

  “She couldn’t make up her mind when I left, but if she does bring a dress, I’ll find something in the same color or close. Is there a place to get ice cream or yogurt nearby?”

  “Yes, just up the walk.”

  Maggie ordered chocolate ice cream and Libby raspberry sorbet. She licked the sweet icy treat from her spoon. The last few years, she’d only seen Maggie during the winter holidays and briefly during the summer. Her older sister had always been the serious one, but when she was with Rafael, there was a newfound joy in her expression and mood. She’d never seen her so happy, but Rafael’s history still gave her pause. “Is this really going to happen, Maggie?”

  Maggie smiled with the sheer joy of it. “Yes, it is, regardless of what you wear.”

  “I’m worried about you, not clothes. You’ve always been so level-headed and practical.”

  “Not the type to run off with a matador?” Maggie swirled her spoon in her ice cream. “I know it’s an outrageous thing to do, but we’re doing it.”

  “There’s no one is Arizona?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I was dating our school counselor. I’ve talked to him a couple of times since coming here. He thinks I’ve lost my mind, but I wanted more than he could give.”

  Libby raised a brow and leaned forward to whisper, “Rafael has more?”

  Amusement lit Maggie’s eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, but in every way, Rafael and I are a better match.”

  Libby hesitated briefly, then spoke her mind. “That’s what Mom thought about your father, but not for long.”

  “She was nineteen, Patricia’s age. Can you imagine Patricia being married to anyone for long?”

  “No. She has the focus of a mosquito, but I suppose eventually someone will catch her attention and hold it.”

  “As long as it isn’t Santos,” Maggie sighed.

  “Santos?” Libby concentrated on the last drop of her sorbet. “If he dated Ana Santillan, he must prefer more sophisticated women.”

  “Yes, but he swears he’ll never marry, and after the way our father shuffled families, he must mean it.”

  “He may, but wouldn’t most of the girls he dates try to convince him otherwise?”

  “Probably, as long as you and Patricia aren’t among them.”

  Libby shrugged and attempted to sound sincere. “I’m not staying in Spain long enough to bother.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Maggie reminded her. “Rafael changed my mind.”

  Libby set her empty cup and spoon aside. “Rafael would catch any woman’s notice. But if he’s been in prison, aren’t you worried he might become violent?”

  Maggie leaned back in the booth. “No, he blames himself for not protecting his sister. He doesn’t walk around looking for a fight, and he’d never harm a woman.”

  “How are you going to convince Daddy of that? After the word prison, he’ll be too angry to hear anything more.”

  Maggie drew in a deep breath. “I know. That’s why I wasn’t going to mention it, but Rafael insists we must. It was a significant part of his life, and he won’t hide it.”

  “That sounds like looking for a fight to me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Are you afraid to go to the bullfights with him on Sunday?”

  “No, I’m looking forward to it. Santos is so proud of himself, he has to be good.”

  “Yes, but apparently no one lives up to Miguel’s well-deserved fame. That has to grate on him.”

  “He’s young,” Libby reminded her. “Maybe someday he’ll surpass his father’s success.” He certainly looked the part. Patricia would positively drool over him. Maybe she ought to claim the handsome Spaniard as her own man of the week before Patricia could. Sadly, the term had a sad hollow ring. The man confused her. She might admire the Vikings’ spirit of adventure, but when it came to Santos, she
intended to be far more cautious.

  Chapter Three

  Sunday afternoon was sunny and warm, a perfect day, but Libby struggled to find something intelligent to say as she drove to the arena with Rafael. He appeared content to remain silent, so she gave up rather than blather and studied the passing scenery. Barcelona had a fascinating mix of ornate nineteenth-century architecture and modern glass and steel, as she supposed most European cities must. As they neared the arena, protesters stepped off the curb to wave their placards and shout to passersby.

  “They want to see the end of bullfighting,” Rafael explained. “Some praise it as a glorious tradition; others, like those people and Maggie, denounce it as a barbaric relic that ought to be abolished.”

  “Have you seen any of the popular video games? They’re far more violent than a bullfight, and they’re murdering people right and left with blood splattering everywhere.”

  “I’ve missed those.”

  “Well, you haven’t missed anything.”

  He knew a good place to park and took Libby’s hand to lead her through the crowd lining up at the entrance. People called to him, and he waved, but he didn’t tarry to talk to anyone as they made their way inside.

  “Won’t you miss all that adoration?”

  He responded with a half-smile. “I appreciate their enthusiasm, but they’ll love the next new matador just as well.”

  They had seats on the shady side of the arena. The people around them were laughing and talking, eagerly looking forward to an entertaining afternoon. “Is Santos as popular as he believes he is?”

  “Yes, you’ll see when he enters the arena. The crowd will call his name as they did at Bailaora. He’s good-looking, young, single. What more could the crowd want?”

  “I suppose that’s the whole package.” She felt right at home among the loud, animated crowd. She loved football games, where she could stand up and yell and no one would tell her to hush. When she recognized a face, she grabbed Rafael’s arm. “Isn’t that Ana Santillan sitting a couple of rows above us?”