“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.”