“But it’s a very beautiful violence,” he argued. “You might learn to appreciate it.”
“I’d be more likely to sprout wings and fly home.”
He dropped his voice to a more sympathetic tone. “You should be more open to new experiences.”
“Does that line work on other women?”
“With me as the experience? I’m too busy to chase women. I want to know you; that’s a different thing.”
If her father weren’t Miguel Aragon, they’d never have met, and she couldn’t help but feel her father was a huge factor in his interest. “Thank you.”
When they reached her father’s home, he walked her up to the front door and leaned down to kiss her. It was another mere token of a kiss, as brief as the one when they’d danced. She knew he could do better, but turned away to reach for the doorknob and found the door locked.
“Oh no, I didn’t think to ask for a key and I hate to wake Mrs. Lopez.”
“Do you have a cell phone to call Santos or the twins?”
“I didn’t bring it with me, and I don’t know their numbers. Let’s go around to the back. Maybe they left the kitchen door open for me.”
He took her hand in a soft clasp. “I’ll stay with you if you can’t get in. We could sleep on the beach, and you’d be able to sneak back into the house when the kitchen help arrives in the morning. No one would have to know you’d been out all night.”
The evening was pleasantly warm, but sleeping on the beach with him for company couldn’t possibly be as innocent as he made it sound. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He tried the back door. “It’s locked too.” He stepped back to look up at the second floor, but no lights were showing. “Maybe Santos isn’t home yet. We could wait for him here.”
She moved farther back to also search the dark balconies. The shutters that closed them off from the sea at night were all shut. “The twins said they’d wait up for me. Maybe they’re watching a movie downstairs. I’ve not been through the whole house, so I’m not sure where to look. There should be a nurse on duty. Maybe she’ll come into the kitchen.”
“So the house is full of people?” he asked.
She swallowed hard but still felt as though she’d been deliberately shut out. It brought a familiar ache, and she shook it off. “It could be, but I’d rather not wake my grandmother or Cirilda.”
“Or Santos?” he added softly.
“Are matadors ever friends?”
He looked out toward the sea. “We must take care of ourselves first. That doesn’t leave much time for friends. Although I have jumped into an arena a time or two to distract a bull when another matador has slipped and fallen.”
“I’m sure no one doubts your bravery.”
“Of course they do. Every time I fight, I must prove it all over again. Fans keep screaming for more and more. The trick is not to listen.”
“Is that something my father taught you?”
“Yes, he taught me everything I know. He’s the reason I love bullfighting. You should have seen him.”
Clearly Rafael was an adrenaline junkie who lived for increasingly dangerous thrills. Her father had survived, even if others hadn’t. Some women were drawn to daredevils of every sort, but she wasn’t among them.
A glass-topped patio table and chairs, a chaise and padded stools were clustered together on the patio. He gestured toward the chaise. “We should make ourselves comfortable.”
“Someone will turn up sooner or later. I’d rather walk on the beach.” She kicked off her shoes.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
She sighed. “No. Bullfighting has been popular for centuries in Spain. You’ve grown up loving it, and I can understand the need some people have for excitement.”
“But you don’t approve?”
“How you choose to live your life is no concern of mine. Are you trying to start a fight?”