Fierce Pride (6 page)

“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?”

He turned to look. “Yes, she has tickets for the whole season. She’s holding her camera, and her photos are very good, but Santos values his privacy.”

“Are you going to sell photos of the wedding?”

“What? Who suggested that?”

His dark scowl surprised her, and she hadn’t meant to upset him. “Santos mentioned it. Celebrities in America sell personal photos all the time, often to raise money for their favorite charity.”

He relaxed and nodded. “This isn’t America.”

“I noticed.”

The arena’s brass band played a lively march for the entrance of the three matadors. Their suits were heavily decorated with gold trim, and each wore an embroidered cape slung over his left shoulder. As promised, Santos had worn a blue suit of lights, and his two companions were dressed in red and green. The crowd erupted in wild shouts and applause, and, just as Rafael had predicted, fans began chanting, “Santos! Santos!”

Next came the
banderilleros,
also on foot. Their suits were as beautifully decorated as the matadors’ but with silver thread rather than gold. Finally the
picadores
rode in on heavily padded mounts.

Santos turned to wave to the crowd and then came to the edge of the ring below their seats and looked up at Libby. He doffed his hat and smiled.

Frantic, Libby asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stand up and blow kisses.”

She leaped to her feet and blew the required kisses, but, flustered, she quickly took her seat. “He didn’t warn me he’d do that.”

Rafael patted her knee to reassure her. “You did fine.”

“Well, I didn’t want to insult the whole nation.” She turned to look up at Ana and looked right into her camera. She whipped around but not soon enough to avoid being photographed. She wondered if Ana had taken her camera into Santos’s bed. The couple seated beside her regarded her with a quizzical glance, and she smiled. She’d worn her hair up and a nice blouse and skirt, so she hoped they mistook her for someone they ought to know.

Now that the matadors had entered, the arena filled with an electric excitement. She’d wanted to come so she could tell everyone at home she’d been, but this was no colorful outdoor fair. The noise of the crowd increased, surrounding her with a staccato soundtrack, but suddenly the whole scene struck her as ghoulish. The heavy scent of cologne and sweat in the air nearly strangled her. “How long does this last?”

Rafael leaned close to be heard. “Each matador fights two bulls, and each fight is fifteen minutes long. Trumpets announce each
tercio
, or third. In the first tercio, the matador will play the bull with his cape. The picadores and banderilleros work the bull in the second tercio, and the matador returns for the kill in the final third.”

“They do all that in fifteen minutes?”

“Yes, but it seems like hours when you’re in the ring.”

“I’ll bet.” She leaned against him as the first matador challenged his bull, a huge black beast that charged into the ring with a snorting fury.

She spent most of the contest with her eyes shut, while the spectators all around her yelled, “Ole!”

Rafael gave her a comforting hug. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave.”

She felt sick and couldn’t watch the bull die, but she couldn’t leave now.

“I want to see Santos, at least the first part of the fight.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Are you always this agreeable?”

“Always. What did your sister tell you?”

“She loves you too much to complain.” She hugged his arm through the second matador’s fight and didn’t open her eyes until she heard the crowd screaming for Santos. She risked opening one eye and was swiftly caught up in his fans’ excitement. She sat up to watch him lead the charging bull through a wild dance of intricate circular patterns. The bull followed each of Santos’s graceful moves, but the beast caught only the fluttering edge of his cape.

The sun was beginning to set behind her, and shadows crept across the dusty ring. “He’s the best of the afternoon, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s—” Rafael gasped as the bright reflection from a mirror flashed across the ring. Blinded, Santos jumped back, but not quickly enough, and the bull’s powerful shoulder caught his hip and sent him flying. The other two matadors and the banderilleros rushed into the ring to draw the bull away, but as Santos rolled to rise to his feet, his right knee buckled beneath him.

Terrified for him, Libby leaped from her seat. She didn’t want to see the bull outrun the men chasing him and circle back toward Santos, but she couldn’t look away. Two banderilleros broke away from the others to help Santos up and half carried him out of the ring. The whole horrible incident had taken no more than a few seconds, but, badly shaken, she trembled from head to foot.

Rafael grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him. “Come on, he’s done.” He led her down the arena steps and stopped at the bottom, where a security guard was speaking into his walkie-talkie. “Someone flashed a mirror.” The guard nodded and gestured to the far side of the arena, where two guards were looking up into the stands.

“Good, someone else saw it.” He pulled her into the corridor leading to the infirmary. They ran into the stark emergency facility just as the banderilleros placed Santos on the examining table. Rafael kept out of the doctor’s way, and Libby stayed behind him. She had to rest her hands on her knees to breathe deeply, but she couldn’t recall ever being so badly frightened. Santos was cursing loudly, or at least it sounded like cursing even if she didn’t speak his language.

“Someone had a mirror. Did you see it?” he asked

The banderilleros shook their heads and backed away.

“I did,” Rafael assured him. “They were seated directly opposite us on the sunny side of the ring. I couldn’t see who held it, but it was deliberately aimed at you, not an accident.”

“If they wanted to see me gored, they missed their chance. Don’t you dare cut off my pants,” Santos ordered sharply.

The doctor raised his hands. “Your knee has already begun to swell.”

“I don’t care. They’re too damn expensive to rip up.”

Rafael moved to the doctor’s side. He spoke in a soft, encouraging tone. “I’ll help you. We’ve all seen naked men. It won’t matter if you’re wearing nothing underneath.”

“I always do,” Santos said and continued to curse.

“Help me,” Rafael called to the men who had carried Santos from the ring, and the three of them eased off Santos’s jacket and unfastened his suspenders. He’d lost his right shoe, and Rafael removed the left and tossed it aside. Libby scooped it up.

The doctor hovered beside them. “As soon as you have him out of his clothes, he’ll go to the hospital. He’s torn ligaments in his knee, and I can’t treat him here.”

Libby reached out to take Santos’s jacket, vest, ruffled shirt, and pants that were too expensive to cut. He had on white socks beneath the pink ones, and she was relieved to see he was wearing briefs. Apparently his knee was his only injury, but it looked like a torn ACL to her, and athletes who’d suffered similar injuries were usually out for the season.