Maggie was so hungry she could barely wait to be served. Fox sat on one side of her and Rafael on the other, while Santos and Ana again sat opposite them. Just as in the beach house, the chair at the head of the table was left empty. She reached under the table to squeeze Rafael’s knee, and he covered her hand. They had only that evening and another day to get through there, and while he hadn’t been friendly with Santos, he hadn’t gone out of his way to insult him again. She’d thank him later for that, if it continued.
There was a clear mushroom soup served before a well-seasoned rib roast, rare the way she like it. There were fresh green beans with sliced almonds and rice flavored with saffron. She chewed slowly so she wouldn’t be finished well before the others. When Fox asked for more, she relaxed.
Santos sat back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “You must have had some amazing experiences in prison. Why don’t you tell us a few?”
“That was uncalled for,” Maggie stressed, disappointed he’d ask such a rude question.
“No, really,” Ana insisted. “I’d love to hear about it. The rest of us will never know life behind bars.”
Rafael didn’t look up from his plate. “I worked in the prison hospital and took care of men who’d been beaten, stabbed and gang raped. Those stories aren’t appropriate for the dinner table.”
Ana paled slightly, while Santos dipped his head to hide his smirk. “You’ll have to tell us another time.”
“I can’t think of any time such sad stories would be entertaining,” Maggie argued. “Which designer has the best collection for the fall, Ana?”
Ana seized upon the question and gave an animated response that lasted through the rest of the meal. Fox hung on her every word. Maggie tried to listen and was grateful her brother had finally shut up. The dessert was a crema catalana, a rich egg custard, chilled icy cold and topped with grilled sugar.
“This is so good,” Maggie exclaimed.
“You haven’t had this?” Ana asked.
“No, this is my first trip to Spain. Mexican food is more common in America than Spanish.”
“You’ll have to come back often,” Santos suggested.
Rafael laid his hand on her thigh, and she chose her words with care. “Yes, I’d love to.” She waited for Rafael to add his hopes that she would, but he remained silent by her side, and she managed only a tremulous smile.
Chapter Twelve
As soon as they entered her room, Maggie handed Rafael the money. “Please count that to make certain it’s what you paid Ana.”
He quickly thumbed through it. “It’s all here. When did you get it?”
“When you stepped into the den with Santos to talk about tomorrow. She didn’t care who paid her, and she took the two extra pairs of shoes for her friends who dance. She admitted checking the sizes of my clothes and shoes after Santos convinced her to stay. She said all models know what size each other wears, and she did it simply out of habit. She didn’t know I wasn’t going shopping with her until she came back outside, so I think she was simply snooping. She’s a stunning woman, but I don’t trust her.”
“Neither do I, but maybe she’s afraid Santos is too fond of you.”
From Ana’s tearful warning about her brother, she knew it to be a possibility. “Well, at least you’ve been repaid.”
“Which was unnecessary. Maybe I’ll leave it on your dresser.”
“Then I’ll leave it on yours.” As the light darkened in his gaze, she wondered if he’d ever worked as an escort. He had the dashing good looks to attract wealthy women and the physical talent to satisfy them. She wouldn’t ask the obvious question, because some mysteries were best unsolved.
“Did you and Santos agree about tomorrow?”
“Yes, we want to get it over with early in the morning. Ana knows how to use the video camera, and we’ll watch the video to make certain it’s acceptable before we leave so we won’t have wasted our time here.”
She thought they’d put their time to extraordinarily good use, and that stung. They were talking about two different things, but still, it hurt. “What will you do if it isn’t good?”
“We’ll do it again with another bull. I want every chance to convince Miguel I’m ready to fight on Sunday.”
“In that beautiful black suit.” She wondered if a matador was ever buried in his suit of lights. Would her father want to be?
“Yes, that’s what it’s for. Now come into my room. I want you to sleep in my bed.”
Rather than follow him through the connecting bathroom, where her lace panties and bra were hanging to dry, she went out into the hall and knocked at his door.
He opened it wide, and his dark eyes lit with amusement. “Yes, may I help you?”