“Too late for what?” she asked fretfully.
He glanced around to make certain no one was standing close enough to overhear, and even then barely mouthed his reply. “Miguel’s dying. Why else would he have sent for you?”
That he’d delivered the heart-wrenching news in such a cruel fashion doubled the hurt, and she recoiled in pain. “You bastard.”
“I won’t deny it”—he laughed—“but I’m still the best of your brothers.”
“Then I’m in worse trouble than I thought.” For a brief instant, she was tempted to run back into the terminal and book the first flight home, but she’d come too far to pass up what might be her only chance to meet her father. “Let’s go, then,” she agreed abruptly. “Do you have the limo to go with your uniform?”
This time he took her arm in a gentle grasp and led the way around a man guarding an enormous heap of battered luggage. “I have something even better,” he promised.
“Not your own airplane, I hope,” she replied, fearful he might shove her out with no parachute as soon as they were airborne.
“Not yet.”
She’d worn low heels with a black sweater and jeans for travel, but any woman would have needed track shoes to keep up with the pace set by her brother/chauffeur. She hadn’t slept well all week, and after a tiring flight, she was relieved when they entered the nearest parking structure. Rather than use the elevator, they headed down the ramp toward the lower levels.
They didn’t have far to go before her newfound brother drew her over to a vintage sedan that easily outclassed any standard limousine. Black and low, it called to mind the impossibly romantic times of Rudolf Valentino as well as the notorious Chicago gangsters. The chrome hood ornament was a magnificent flying crane, the most elegant emblem she’d ever seen. The whole car was a stunning work of art.
“You’re right,” she said. “There couldn’t be a more perfect car for a matador.”
“It’s a Hispano-Suiza,” he announced as he opened the trunk. “It’s one of the finest automobiles ever built. There are a few in the States. Have you never seen one?”
“I don’t usually pay much attention to cars, but I would have remembered if I’d ever seen one of these.” She’d thought all her father collected were beautiful young wives, not vintage automobiles.
“Tell me your name,” she coaxed as she circled the car.
“I’m Santos Aragon,” he replied proudly. “While that may mean nothing to you, here in Spain I’m more popular than Brad Pitt. We were lucky to leave the airport before I was recognized.”
He tossed her bag into the car’s cavernous trunk with an easy swing, then peeled off his coat and laid it inside with his hat. There was the mellow thud of fine steel when he slammed the trunk shut, and with a sweeping gesture, he ushered Maggie to the passenger side of the car.
“You’ll sit up here with me so it will be easier to talk.”
It was an order rather than an invitation, but because it suited her purpose, she climbed into the elegant sedan. The leather seat was cool to the touch, and she shivered slightly as she fastened a seat belt that had been added decades after the car had been built. As soon as Santos had eased into the driver’s seat, she issued a command of her own.
“My mother was the first of Miguel Aragon’s wives. Tell me where you fit into the family.”
Santos shot her a menacing glance, then turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the sleek car’s powerful engine to underscore his words. “I’ll tell you what I was told, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He raised his hands slightly from the wheel. “You’ll soon discover Father always prefers a colorful story to the truth, but for now, you’ll have to trust me.”
“That might be unwise,” she shot right back at him.
“Time will tell, but then, you’re not staying long.” He gave his immediate attention to safely exiting the parking structure, then waved as the attendant raised the barrier without charging him. “In Spain, there are many advantages to being the son of a famous matador, or daughter, as well.”
She was embarrassed by the fierce pride of her childhood and shook her head. “Just tell me your story before I fall asleep.”
“It’s a very sad tale. Better take out your handkerchief.”
“I should have just asked what’s the matter with our father,” she responded impatiently.
“It’s his heart,” he replied. “He needs a new one but fears he won’t be the same with another man’s heart beating within his chest.”
Craig had suggested Miguel might want her forgiveness, but she hadn’t dreamed he would have such a tragic motivation. “So he’s not on a transplant list?”
“No, he’s waiting to die and wants his children gathered around him.”
Then she was just one of the many, nothing special at all. She swallowed hard. It was a glorious afternoon, bright and pleasantly warm, but she felt chilled clear through. Santos had entered the freeway, and they were traveling south along the coast. The palm trees and red-tiled roofs reminded her of America’s southwest, but the beautiful view provided no solace.
“Is there a real danger we might be too late?” she asked.