Fierce Pride (31 page)

She rested her hand on his thigh. “Maggie would help you without expecting anything in return. Why don’t you wait until she comes home and talk it over with her?”

He was quiet a long moment. “Maggie will have her own perspective. She and I have been left out of the bestselling biographies, so it would be something new if we wrote one together. Apparently that’s what the publisher wants, the real story of Miguel Aragon from inside his family.”

“How soon do they want it?”

“By the end of September so they can rush it into the schedule for the Christmas market. Juan pointed out that while I have to stay out of the bullring, I might as well write the book.”

“If you don’t write it, someone else will, and no one will learn anything about your father they didn’t already know.”

“That’s sure to happen regardless of what I do,” he mused thoughtfully. “But if I did it, I’d want to write a real book, not some hastily scribbled memoir that wouldn’t do him justice. Do you suppose your mother would want to contribute?”

She never thought of her mother as one of Miguel’s wives, and the question jarred her. “Probably not, but Maggie might convince her to briefly describe their marriage. They were college sweethearts and really too young to marry. Unfortunately, they did. I see what you mean, though. If you don’t tell the truth about your father’s life and marriages and divorces, the book will be a hollow shell.”

“And worthless, but I don’t want to include rants from his ex-wives. Not that your mother would rant.”

“No, she wouldn’t, but if you included only what you saw yourself, you wouldn’t need the ex-wives’ comments, or you could include them at the end of the book after your story is finished.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Margaret Hyde-Fox is dead, and I wouldn’t even have to speak to Vida and Marina. I could send them to Juan’s office and have them tell their story to Sylvia. Maybe I’ll give them a form to fill out—what was your best memory, and what was your worst.”

“It sounds as though you’ve already decided to do it.”

He drew in a deep breath. “I loved him.”

She rested in his arms and marveled at how public his life truly was, and it extended far beyond the tabloid coverage. “How much of yourself would you put in the book? If you cover your father’s personal life, can you omit your own responses to his decisions?”

“Make the book about me, is that what you’re saying?”

She recognized the sharp edge to his voice and softened her question. “Your views as a child would change as you grew older. I’m thinking more of a continuum, a growing awareness of your father as a man.”

“I’m beginning to feel sick just thinking about it. Maybe it’s too soon after his death. People will buy whatever’s written about him, but I saw his mistakes, and he made the same ones over and over.”

“Did he realize it?”

He hugged her. “Maybe, but he didn’t stop making them.”

“Maggie will understand.”

“I wish we’d grown up together. It would have been nice to have had a constant friend.”

She turned to kiss him, but she couldn’t offer to be a constant friend while he’d planned the ending when they’d first met.

Chapter Thirteen

Thursday morning, Libby stayed home while Santos kept his appointment with the orthopedist. She hadn’t wanted to tag along, but to please him, she didn’t dare go past the patio. She’d discovered Fox had a bookcase full of English classics, probably read for school assignments, and she regarded it as an opportunity to reread some Charles Dickens. She read only a few pages of
Great Expectations
before the sparkling sea became too great a distraction, and she decided watching the waves roll to the shore was as valuable a pastime as reading fine literature. When Santos joined her, he wasn’t smiling, which worried her.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“He gave me a lecture on the importance of therapy to regain complete use of my knee. I didn’t realize there was a question I wouldn’t. I don’t have to use the brace, so I can finally wear long pants when I take you out. That’s the only good news. Therapy starts tomorrow. Apparently, swimming is good, but in a pool, not the ocean. I hate limping around like an old man.”

She regarded him with a sultry smile. “You don’t look old, and you don’t act like an old man in bed.”

He laughed. “You’re a very understanding woman. But I’m looking at six months of therapy before I can train for the ring, which means I’ll miss the rest of the year in Spain. I won’t tour South America or Mexico, so I’ll be out of work for a very long time.”

“If money will be a problem, you might not have any choice about writing about your father.”

He caressed her cheek. “The cologne should pay the bills, but it’s not money that worries me. A matador is as highly trained as an Olympic athlete. I’m not as good as I want to be now, and if I have to swim laps for six months, I may not ever regain my current skill. I’ll have to start over.”

She knew she ought to encourage him, but she didn’t want to sound insincere. “You’re tough, and I’ll bet you’ll come back better than ever.”

“I wish I believed that, but thank you. Let’s get out of here. If you’re ready to go shopping, let’s make sure everyone notices us. If Victoria is behind the attacks, she’ll soon hear I’m laughing and ignoring her threats. If that doesn’t make her careless and easier to catch, the police will have to find her on their own.”

“Let’s go.”

Libby waved to Abigail as they came through the boutique’s front door. “I told you I’d be back. Last week, I saw a tie-dye skirt in turquoise and black. Do you still have it?”

“Yes, we do.” She pulled it from the rack and walked toward her. When she recognized Santos, she stopped dead still. “Are you who I think you are?”

“I’m Santos Aragon. Is that who you were thinking?” he said loudly enough to be heard out on the beach.

Two young women who had been searching through the knit tops nearly pushed Abigail out of their way to reach him. The taller one clapped her hands. “Hi, Santos. I put one of your posters on my bedroom wall when I was fourteen. If you’ll give me an autograph, I’ll glue it on.”

“Find a paper and pen, and I’ll write whatever you want.”

“We have notepads,” Abigail offered.

Santos still had to use crutches, but he moved much more smoothly now. He made his way to the cashier’s desk and picked up a pen. “I’ll sign autographs for your friends if you like.”

“Would you?” the girls gushed.

Santos winked at Libby and then smiled at the shoppers. “Do you want to take photos?”

Abigail pulled a camera from under the counter. “I want one for the store bulletin board too.”

Libby remained out of the way while Santos posed with the girls, but he took her hand to pull her close when Abigail was ready to take one for the store. She smiled as though posing with him were something she did every day. When they were finished, Abigail pointed out the photo of Rafael and Maggie.

“I’d never met a matador, and we’ve had you and El Gitano in here. I wonder who’ll be next?”

“It’s a lovely shop,” Libby replied. “Now come help me try on this skirt, Santos. We’ve got places to be.”

He followed her into the small dressing room. “Where are we going?” he whispered.

“Nowhere I know of, but if we aren’t standing beside Abigail, maybe she’ll call Victoria and tell her we’re here.”

“All right. Do you really need help?”

“I’ve already tried on this skirt, so I know it fits.” She peeked out the louvered door. “Your fans have left, and Abigail’s on the phone.”

“Let’s hope she’s not calling her boyfriend. We should have planned this better. I’ll call Nuñez if Victoria comes in, but we should think of something to keep her here.”

“She doesn’t know she’s on our suspect list, so I can chat her up as though I simply remember her from the beach,” Libby posed. “Now come here.” She leaned against him and kissed him with a touching abandon. “Let’s hope no one else wants to use the dressing room.”

His eyes grew wide. “What do you think this is, an elevator?”

She kissed him again. “No, we don’t dare get that wild. Let’s just look as though we’ve been fooling around.” She stepped back and pulled a few strands from her braid.

“Ready?” She opened the door and carried the skirt up the desk.

“I definitely want this, and one of the black tops too. Let me look and see if there’s anything else.”

Santos stood near the fitting room. “You ought to wear red. Is there anything here, or should we look elsewhere?”

“A red skirt would be fun.” She sorted through the circular rack of long, full skirts. “Look at this one—it blurs from pale orange to bright red at the hem.”

“Try it on.” Santos opened the fitting room door.

Libby followed right behind. “I do like this. I wear too much blue.”

He kissed her before she described her whole wardrobe. The fitting room wasn’t large. There was room for a chair, hooks on the wall for hangers and a full-length mirror. She turned to look at their reflection while he kept his eyes on her. “I should have looked for a camera.”

“I already checked. There isn’t one.”

She searched the ceiling. “Maybe not an obvious one.”

“The management would want it to be obvious to discourage shoplifting, wouldn’t they?”

“I’ve no idea what people think in Spain.”

He nuzzled her throat. “Yes, you do.”

She loved the way he wrapped his arms around her as though he couldn’t hold her tight enough. She rubbed against him. “This is supposed to be an act.”

His smile verged close to a smirk. “It has to be convincing.”

He could be very convincing, and when Libby stumbled out of the fitting room, she looked as though she’d been thoroughly loved, while Santos’s hair was barely mussed. Another customer had strolled in, stared at them and nearly fell into the clothing rack she’d been perusing.

“I told you Santos was here,” Abigail called. “He’s signing autographs if you like.”

Santos came up to the desk with Libby. As she paid for her purchases, he picked up the pen and notepad. “Shall I make it to you, or would you rather give it to someone?”

“Oh no, make it for me. My name’s Helen.”

“To Helen,” he repeated and signed his name with a flourish.

Tears filled Helen’s eyes as she took the autograph. “Thank you. I’ve never met anyone famous, and everyone knows you.”

“You’re welcome.” He checked his watch. “It was nice meeting you, but we need to be on our way.”

“Wait a minute,” Libby said. “I really should buy a top for the red-and-orange skirt.” She found one in the perfect pale orange shade and added it to her bill. She took the lime-green shopping bags Abigail handed her and followed Santos out the front door.

Manuel opened the SUV’s doors for them. Libby shot a quick glance up and down the street before she slipped into the car, while Santos leaned against the door and searched more thoroughly.

Even without the brace, he was still more comfortable in the front seat. “Drive around awhile. It doesn’t matter where you go; let’s just see if anyone follows.”

Manuel nodded, but before they reached the corner, a black pickup truck pulled out of a narrow side street and entered their lane. “Don’t turn around,” Manuel advised, “but we may already have one.”

Libby watched the rearview mirror. “There’s just the driver. Do you suppose he left Victoria at home?”

Manuel changed lanes to make a right turn and the pickup followed. “I’ll go straight for a while and see if he turns.”

“He could be Abigail’s boyfriend and merely curious about where we’re going,” Libby offered.

“He could be someone who followed us earlier,” Santos argued. “Or he could be on his way to work.” He kept his eye on the side mirror. “Let’s try a left turn.”

Manuel had to wait for a pause in the traffic to compete the turn, and the light changed as he went through the intersection. Speeding to following them, the black pickup sped through the red light just as a large refrigerator truck surged into the intersection. Libby heard the scream of brakes, then a terrible crushing roar as the truck slammed broadside into the pickup.

“Pull over and stop,” Santos shouted, and Manuel pulled to the curb. “You stay here, Libby. You don’t need to see this.”

She felt too sick to move but opened her car door to look out as Manuel and Santos headed toward the intersection. The flow of traffic had stopped so suddenly, there had been several rear-end collisions. People were getting out of their cars to view the damage and check out the major wreck up close. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her stomach. They hadn’t caused the wreck; the driver of the pick-up truck had run the light, but she still felt as though it were her fault. The smell of burnt rubber stung her eyes.

The airbag had inflated, but the driver of the pickup was trapped in the twisted wreckage. The man who’d been driving the large truck sat on the curb, crying. A white-haired woman who’d been passing by stopped to pat his shoulder, while others shied away. Clerks came out of nearby businesses to stand around and observe, while Santos and Manuel remained unnoticed in the background. Santos called Detective Nuñez. The firefighters were still working to free the injured driver from the mangled pickup truck when he arrived.