“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?”