He had bragged he was popular, but she hadn’t stopped to consider why. The most obvious reason terrified her. “Dear God, Santos, are you a matador too?”
“Of course,” he responded with a booming laugh. “What else would the eldest son of Miguel Aragon be?”
Maggie just shook her head and shuddered.
Chapter Three
The other lavishly appointed villas hugging the Golden Coast also had whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs, but those were the only features they shared with Miguel Aragon’s imposing estate. Obviously inspired by Barcelona’s visionary genius Antonio Gaudí, the architect had foresworn right angles for undulating curves. Exposed beams, stained glass and bougainvillea bearing a profusion of magenta flowers adorned the exterior, and had Maggie not been so eager to meet her father, she would have insisted upon an immediate tour.
Santos parked the Hispano-Suiza at the front of the garage, and a tall man clad in overalls came out to meet them. “That’s Manuel. He serves as chauffeur for our grandmother and aunt and keeps all our cars running. Let’s hurry. I want to take you up to Father’s room before anyone else notices we’re here.”
Maggie had already stepped out onto the gravel driveway before he reached her car door. Her arrival in Spain hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped, and she feared the strangeness of her father’s beach house did not bode well for her stay. “Does this place have a name?” she asked as they entered through an arched doorway.
“It’s La Casa Contenta, the House of Contentment, which makes it ill-named for our family.”
Maggie hadn’t needed the translation, but after Santos had greeted her in English, their conversation had become heated so rapidly she’d failed to mention she was fluent in Spanish. Now concerned her grandmother and aunt might actually be as self-serving as he’d described, she fought a brief twinge of guilt, then decided to keep her linguistic ta
lents a secret awhile longer.
Santos led her through a starkly modern kitchen decorated in arctic white and matte-finished steel without speaking to the chef and his helpers, but an exotic mixture of savory aromas provided convincing proof the man was preparing a culinary masterpiece for supper. Maggie hadn’t eaten on the plane, but despite the rush of enticing scents, she felt more hollow than hungry.
Santos gestured for her to precede him up the narrow rear staircase to the second story, but now that she was just seconds away from meeting her father, her mind went maddeningly blank. She’d been too angry with him to memorize a set speech, which might have been a foolish oversight, but she hadn’t known he was ill. Shaking slightly as she reached the landing, she drew in a deep breath and moved aside for Santos to lead the way. All too quickly, he paused before a door set in a deeply recessed arch and rapped lightly.
Before they heard a welcoming response, Maggie had time to note the door’s wrought-iron hinges were adorned with swirling arabesques and attached to the wood at odd angles. The strange house made her feel as though she were a character in some dream-set play, and she wished she’d had sense enough to freshen her makeup and comb her hair before meeting the star.
“How do I look?” she whispered.
Santos leaned down to brush her cheek with a mere hint of a kiss. “You needn’t worry. Father will be proud,” he breathed out against her ear. He then opened the door, gently propelled her on through it and closed it softly behind her.
The large master bedroom faced the sea and was aglow with the radiant light reflected off the water. Momentarily blinded, Maggie looked down at the bare hardwood floor, then toward the massive bed. The four posts had been carved to resemble gracefully twisting tree trunks topped with delicate branches sprouting upwards to form a lacy canopy. A forest green duvet covered the matching sheets and tumble of pillows, but the rumpled bed was empty.
“Magdalena,” Miguel called, his voice low and deep.
Maggie turned toward the sound and was startled to find the opposite end of the room completely open to the balcony overlooking the shore. Leaning back against the rail, her father stood out as a dark silhouette against the brilliant sea. She could make out only a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in dark pajamas and a matching robe, but his face was hidden in shadow.
“It was good of you to come,” he murmured softly. “How was your flight?”
He had posed the casual question without the slightest effort at dramatic effect, as though good manners required it. Because her mother spoke no Spanish, Maggie had expected him to speak English well, but the rich timbre of his voice was a surprise. It was a deep, seductive baritone an actor would kill to possess, and it carried easily over the low roiling rumble of the sea. The sound played on her senses, coaxing her near while wary instincts held her back.
“I’ve never enjoyed flying,” she replied, hesitantly moving closer, still unable to make out her father’s face clearly.
“Neither have I, but my work required it.”
Maggie took another cautious step. Did he actually regard bullfighting as work? she wondered, as though it were merely a way to earn a living, as long as he survived. “That makes it no easier,” she replied.
She felt the cool, salt-scented breeze against her face and dug her nails into her palms. She hadn’t expected a welcoming hug and kiss from the man who’d forgotten all her birthdays, but this sterile exchange troubled her.
“Oh, but it does,” Miguel argued, “because I had no say in the matter. But then I have a regrettable tendency to make foolish choices whenever I do.”
Maggie’s voice rose as she lost all hope of controlling her temper. “Are you referring to your marriage to my mother?”
Miguel’s response was a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “No, querida. She was an excellent choice. Marrying her was one of my few good decisions.”
“Then why did you leave us?” Instantly ashamed of the pathetic question, Maggie swung her gaze past him to the sea. Sailboats glided by in the distance, their colorful pennants a reminder of all the childhood parties he’d missed.
Unfazed by her bitter accusation, Miguel tightened his loosely belted robe, then folded his arms across his chest. “Is that what your mother told you, that I left her? I’m surprised. I believed Linda incapable of deceit.”
Maggie remained aloof, but her traitorous body took another step toward him. “She never speaks of you, but I’ve always assumed…” Her voice faded to an uncertain hush.