Fierce Love (6 page)

Ana dipped her head to trail the tips of her long, tawny hair across his bare chest. “There’s no comparison between you and Miguel.”

Santos loved the feel of her body against his. He loved every ounce of her—her perfumed hair, silken skin, lacquered nails and delicious lips. He remained still beneath her. “No two men are exactly the same,” he breathed out in a contented sigh.

Ana moved astride his hips. “I didn’t say you were the same, and that’s enough of such a tiresome subject.”

He slid his hands into her robe and ran his fingertips over the soft swell of her breasts. They were her own rather than surgically enhanced and fit his palms perfectly. “All right. You really should have been with me tonight. How long do I have to wait for you to appear in public with me?”

She thumbed his nipples. “Not yet. It would embarrass your father, and he doesn’t deserve it at such a sad time. Now tell me what Rafael Mondragon thought of your American sister.”

“I didn’t pay any attention to him and neither did anyone else. Magdalena simply mesmerized the crowd.”

“And sent you running for my bed,” Ana countered.

Santos wound his hands in her hair to pull her toward him. When their lips were a whisper apart, he asked, “Would you rather have had Mondragon tonight?”

Ana stared at him a moment too long, and, unwilling to provide her with more time to contemplate another man’s affections, he rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I should have given you back to my father months ago.”

His lips burned hers with a searing kiss, and she wrapped her legs around his thighs to welcome his thrusts, but he knew as long as his father was alive, he’d be in the bed with them. Even after Miguel died, Santos feared his ghost would haunt them still.

Chapter Five

Maggie joined her father at the small table on his balcony for a breakfast of freshly baked biscuits and melon slices. It was the Spanish custom to begin the day with a small meal followed later with the more substantial fare of an omelet or sandwich. She sipped her
café con leche
and sampled a few biscuit crumbs.

“The sea is a beautiful woman,” Miguel swore. “I love her in all her moods—violent, serene, brooding. Had I not wanted to follow my father into the bullring, I would have gone to sea.”

He was dressed in dark blue silk pajamas and robe today, but his gestures were sluggish, as though he hadn’t slept well. He had little appetite, and that worried her. She hated to be fussed over and assumed he would as well, so she kept her concerns to herself. She took a last bite of melon and wished she had an intelligent comment to make, but her father seemed content with the one-sided nature of their conversation.

“I’ve owned several yachts but sold them all, or I’d have Santos take you sailing.”

“That’s all right. I’d much rather just stay here with you.”

“Thank you.” Miguel raised his hand to cover a wide yawn. “Forgive me if I’m not very good company today. Dr. Moreno should be here soon. Perhaps you could come back later.”

“Of course.” Disappointed to be dismissed, Maggie left her chair. “Is Moreno your cardiologist?” Her father’s expression darkened, and she wished she’d had sense enough to keep still. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You needn’t apologize. Your concern is natural and appreciated. Antonio is a cardiologist and an excellent surgeon as well. I’ve been gored several times, and he’s stitched me back together. He’s a good friend, and no physician could do more than he has.”

Maggie gripped the back of her chair for support. “My God, I’d no idea you’d ever been gored.”

Miguel shrugged off her fright. “It’s a regrettable occupational hazard. Did you know every matador has fans who donate blood in exchange for free seats at a corrida?”

She slumped back into her chair. “Just give me a minute, please. There was a time when bullfighting fascinated me, but I was just a child with no real concept of the danger you faced. It all seemed wonderfully romantic, but now I couldn’t bear to watch a bullfight.”

“Santos will be badly disappointed. He’s quite good and would enjoy showing off for you.”

She shook her head. “Aren’t you afraid for him? Weren’t you afraid for yourself?”

Miguel turned away to gaze out at the sea. “A man would be a great fool not to be afraid, but overcoming your fear is a thrill that never fades. Tell me, Magdalena, are you afraid of death?”

He appeared perfectly relaxed, and yet the challenging light in his dark eyes warned her to take care. She drew in a deep breath. She would never have chosen such a dark topic for a meaningful conversation. “I believe our spirits are eternal and only our earthly bodies age and die, so I’ve no reason to be afraid. They say the only constant in life is change, and death is merely another change. I don’t believe it’s a final one.”

Miguel nodded thoughtfully. “In my youth, I placed my fate in God’s hands, and he’s given me a magnificent life. If I die today, I won’t feel cheated. Perhaps, as you believe, my spirit will endure; if not, I’ll still have been blessed.”

He might be content with his failing heart, but she couldn’t accept the inevitable so calmly. “Santos told me you’ve refused to consider a heart transplant.”

“He talks too much. Now I believe I hear Antonio at the door. Will you excuse us please?”

“Certainly.” She left the table a second time, quickly crossed the room and opened the door for the physician. He was of medium height with thick silver hair. He smiled as though he knew her, but then slipped by her with barely a nod.

Hoping for time to walk on the beach, she’d dressed in cropped jeans and a lavender cotton shirt over a black bikini. As she left the house through the kitchen door, she found Rafael Mondragon leaning against the patio wall. Even with his hair slicked back and dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked as dangerous as he had the previous evening.

She’d threatened to knee him and wouldn’t apologize how. After the way he’d looked at her, what could he have expected? Quite naturally, she hesitated to approach him. “My father’s with his doctor. Perhaps he’ll have time to see you later.”

Rafael straightened up and moved to block the path to the beach. “I came to see you, not him. Where did you learn to dance so well?”

She thought it odd he hadn’t asked the question last night. “Answer a question for me first. What did you expect when you invited me to dance? Were you hoping to embarrass me?”

His brows knit in confusion. “No, not at all. I would have made you look good even if you couldn’t dance a step.”

“Really?” She doubted it. “I began taking dance lessons when I was small. My mother hoped it would give me confidence and grace.”

Rafael took a step toward her. “Ballet, perhaps, but not flamenco. You dance with a Gypsy’s fire, and there are no lessons for that.”

“I’m half Spanish,” she reminded him.

“You don’t understand.” Rafael cursed under his breath.

He appeared to be sincerely pained, which struck her as odd. “How is a Gypsy different from anyone else?”

Rafael jammed his hands into his pockets. “We’re colorful outcasts, wanderers. You couldn’t possibly understand what it means to be completely alone.”

He’d dismissed her as rudely as he had on their first meeting, and she was doubly annoyed. “Is being obnoxious also part of your marvelous Gypsy heritage?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze narrowed to a dark threat.

“I’m not laughing,” she swore. “I don’t understand why you disliked me on sight. Perhaps your hostility serves you well in a bullring, but it’s inappropriate here. You’ve no idea if I’ve ever been lonely or not. Now, please step out of the way, and I’ll go on down to the beach.”

He moved aside, but when she passed him, he followed. “I don’t dislike you,” he murmured softly.

“Really? You were convincing.”

As they crossed the sand toward the water, he caught up with her in a single long stride. “It’s true I’m not fond of all women the way your father is. Do you like all men?”

“No, not every male on the planet. I do like a few, though.” She couldn’t help herself and laughed. “Please, I’m not laughing at you; this is just a silly conversation.”

“No one ever calls me silly.” Before he could suppress it, a slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

It was such an endearing expression and as surprising as the grin he’d worn while dancing with the two women. “No one dares!” she insisted.

He laughed and didn’t hide it. “You don’t care if I spend time with your father?”

“No, why should I?”

“It means he’ll have less time for you.”

“It’s his choice, not ours.”

He nodded but didn’t appear totally convinced. “How long will you be here?”

Before she could answer, Santos came running up from the damp sand at the shore. “Magdalena, the twins are hoping for dance lessons. They’re up the beach a way. You’ll find them easily.”

Rafael’s expression had fallen into his usual hostile sneer, and Maggie wondered if she’d really seen him smile or only imagined it. She turned to look back at her father’s house, but there was no one standing out on his balcony. She understood why Santos would be so protective and why Rafael would fight for Miguel’s attention. She knew better than to get between them. “All right. I’ll find the girls, and we’ll plan some lessons.” She strode off along the damp sand by the shore.

“Wait,” Rafael called. “We should dance together again.”

She glanced back and was struck by what a handsome pair the men were. Santos had been out for a run and wore shorts and a sweaty T-shirt, while Rafael was neatly dressed, but they were tall, lean and too handsome to go unnoticed no matter how large the crowd. Perhaps they were too much alike to be friends, but Santos was her brother, and she felt she ought to side with him.

“Maybe,” she replied and kept walking.

Antonio put away his stethoscope and closed his leather bag. “There’s been no change.”

“Should I interpret that sorry announcement as good news?” Miguel buttoned his pajama top and reached for the glass of water at his bedside.

“No, it’s merely the status quo, a holding pattern, if you will. You’re still well enough to benefit from transplant surgery, but every day you delay…”

Miguel waved off his warning. “I have my reasons to wait, but many would say I’ve lived too long as it is.”

“Your ex-wives, perhaps, but not your children. Your American daughter has only just met you.”

“Yes, and I wanted to meet her, but I should send her home before she becomes too attached. It’s the least I can do for her.”

Antonio sighed. “She ought to go with a few fond memories.”

Miguel shrugged. “Probably, but it’s kinder just to let her go.”

Maggie found the twins constructing a mammoth sand castle and jogged toward them. They were dressed in florescent lime and tangerine bikinis and baggy yellow sweatshirts. Ready to play on the beach, they wore no makeup and were twice as pretty as they’d been last night. A young man was shoveling sand while the girls provided a running commentary of directions.

“Maggie!” Perry called. “Come meet Fox. He’s dying to meet you, aren’t you, Fox?”

David Hyde-Fox was as blond as the twins but green-eyed. Edging toward six feet, he wore long navy blue trunks and a torn Oxford sweatshirt stenciled with the university’s skyline. He paused to rest his arm against his shovel handle and regarded Maggie with clear disdain. “Yet another sister. This is indeed a pleasure.” He spoke with the distinctive accent of the British upper class, as though he’d eaten breakfast with the queen that very morning.

Maggie smiled. “I’m happy to meet you too, but it’s disconcerting to suddenly have a whole new set of relatives.”

“We aren’t related,” he reminded her crossly.

Maggie saw no point in arguing a boy who’d been adopted by her father was a brother, no matter how heatedly he denied it. “What are you building?” she asked instead.

“The Bastille,” the twins announced.

“The Taj Mahal,” Fox claimed loudly.

“I admire your ambition,” Maggie responded, “but why not create your own fantasy structure rather than copy one that already exists?”

Fox sneered. “What’s the challenge in that?”

“Relying on your own imagination rather than history is the greater challenge by far,” she said. “It’s also a lot more fun.” She waited for Fox to continue arguing, but his attention had shifted down the beach. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Rafael Mondragon twenty feet away.

“Do you know him?” she whispered to the girls.

“Of course,” Perry replied. “He’s one of father’s friends, but he treats us as little kids.”

That was certainly a point in his favor. Maggie stepped aside so Rafael could join their circle. He nodded to her and called the girls and Fox by their names. His manner was relaxed, as though they often met each other on the beach.

Connie propped her hands on her hips. “What do you think, Señor Mondragon; which is the greater challenge, copying something or making something new?”