??
“I’ll be glad to. I hope he wasn’t at the arena yesterday.”
“No, I don’t believe he was, but any matador can trip and fall.”
Santos gritted his teeth. “Is that the report, that I tripped?”
She made a note of his blood pressure and took his wrist to check his pulse. “That’s what I heard. Isn’t it true?”
“No, it isn’t.” He supposed that was how it might have looked to anyone who hadn’t seen the blinding mirror flash, but he’d straighten out the story as soon as he could.
A search for Santos’s name in tabloid archives had yielded a list of women’s names, but Libby didn’t want him to believe she’d snooped through his love life merely to satisfy her own curiosity. She left the paper in her purse when she followed Maggie into his room. With the blinds open, it was a bright sunny room, but against a day’s growth of beard, he looked pale. He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual high-voltage grin.
His right knee was heavily bandaged, and Maggie walked around the other side of the bed to kiss his cheek. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“It hurts, but I can take it. I want to get out of here, but the doctor says I’ll have to stay until tomorrow. Would you please go down to the gift shop and buy a paper? I want to read the comments on yesterday.”
Libby stepped toward the door. “I’ll go.” She’d already dropped off the magazine she’d not meant to take and had seen the gift shop on their way in. The first paper she picked up had Santos’s photo on the front page. To her absolute astonishment, the second had Santos’s photo plus the one Ana Santillan had taken of her as she turned back toward Rafael. They were shown in profile facing each other and it looked as though they were exchanging some delicious secret. She quickly paid for the papers and rushed back upstairs.
“Here you are. Both papers have you on the front page. What does it say about Rafael and me in this one?”
Maggie quickly read the description of the photo. “It seems Rafael has left me for an ‘unidentified woman’.”
“Where is Rafael? Don’t tell him I asked for him, though,” Santos cautioned.
“Of course not,” Maggie promised. “He went to the police station to see how they’re following up on what the arena security might have found. He believes one of the protestors was behind this. Apparently when any matador is injured, more people are drawn to the anti-bullfighting cause.”
“He’s right,” Santos agreed, “But I’d rather not die to feed their propaganda.” He noted Libby’s preoccupied frown. “What do you think?”
She moved the visitor’s chair closer to his bed. “Two matadors had already fought without any threats from the crowd. It makes me wonder if you weren’t targeted for another reason.”
He wrinkled the bed’s top sheet in his fist. “I’m better known than they are. Killing me would make a more forceful statement.”
Libby’s breath caught in her throat. “Yes, I suppose. But has anyone threatened you in an e-mail or letter? Or in phone calls?”
“No. Most of my mail is requests for autographed photos and charities requesting my help with fundraising campaigns.”
“If you have a secretary to answer e-mails, does he or she handle written fan letters too?” Libby asked.
He tried to sit up straighter, winced and sank back down into his pillows. “Yes, Sylvia works out of my agent’s office. You met Juan.”
The agent had barely noticed her in the confusion yesterday, but she nodded. “Would your secretary toss threatening letters rather than trouble you with them?” Santos reached for the glass of water at his bedside, and she handed it to him.
“Thank you. Juan would probably tell her not to keep uncomplimentary letters, and someone has to have a favorite other than me. I’ll have to ask him about it when he comes to visit me today. Now give me the papers.”
Libby looked to Maggie, who’d already read them. “What do they say?”
Maggie handed Santos the newspapers, came around the bed, took Libby’s arm and led her out into the corridor. “One writer mentions unconfirmed reports of a mirror. The other paper discounts any such report and states Santos is too impressed with his own importance to maintain his previous style.”
“But that’s not true!”
“Rafael hasn’t left me for you either, has he?”
“Well, no, but that was just silly. Inaccurate accounts might damage Santos’s career.”
Juan Martinez left the elevator and wobbled toward them with a rolling gait. They stepped aside, and he nodded to them as he entered Santos’s room.
“Did you see this?” Santos bellowed, waving a paper.