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“That I was the one to end our marriage? No. Your dear mother left me, but I cheated on her within weeks of our wedding. I’m not proud of it, but then, I’ve cheated on all of my wives.”
Maggie was amazed by his candor while at the same time positive a father ought not to admit such a failing to his daughter. “How can you be so nonchalant? Santos’s mother took her own life because you’d left her.” She cursed silently, then bit her lower lip. This wasn’t the conversation she’d longed to have either.
Miguel glanced away, and his profile stood out in sharp relief against the orange-tinted sky. His trim build had changed little since he’d posed for Maggie’s cherished photographs, but his posture wasn’t nearly as proud.
“I didn’t leave Rosa; I was sent away. There’s an enormous difference in the two. She was lovely but lacked your mother’s strength. As I said, I’ve made many poor choices, although the sad affair with Rosa could easily be blamed on our youth.”
With that flippant response, he shrugged off Rosa Sanchez’s suicide as though it had been a thoughtless prank. Maggie felt sick. “Santos said the two of you had grown up together. Didn’t you have any deep feelings for her?”
Indignant, she’d moved closer without realizing it, and when Miguel turned toward her, she saw his face clearly. He was nearing fifty but aging well, and the fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes barely marred his extraordinary good looks. The hint of gray at his temples was a flattering accent. As with the photographs, she saw so much of herself in him her anger lost focus. There was nothing feminine in his features and nothing masculine in hers, and yet they were unmistakably kin.
For a long moment, Miguel regarded her with equal intensity, and, obviously pleased with what he saw, he smiled. “Querida, your mother is the only woman I have ever truly loved, and I broke her heart. After all these years, God has extracted his revenge and shattered mine.”
Touched by the sincerity of his sad revelation, Maggie felt as though she had at last glimpsed the real man beneath the legend. Tears welled up in her eyes, and when he reached out to enfold her in a gentle embrace, she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned close.
He rested his cheek against her hair. “Please don’t cry,” he urged softly. “I’ve never known how to deal with a woman’s tears.”
He sounded perplexed rather than troubled he’d been the cause of such abundant sorrow. Maggie had never enjoyed being held and would have pulled away had she not realized how heavily he was leaning on her. She felt the tough leanness of his build, but it was overlaid with a weariness no amount of sleep would quell.
She’d intended to tell him precisely what she thought of him for abandoning her mother and her, but if the truth were different than she’d always imagined, her whole view of him was wrong. Her father’s pajamas and robe were black silk, and snuggled close, she caught the scent of a spicy and undoubtedly expensive cologne. Miguel Aragon was incredibly brave and disastrously flawed, but had a knock not come at the door, she would have stood in his arms until he sent her away.
“That will be my nurse with more useless pills,” he explained apologetically and dropped his arms. “Come talk with me later.”
Readily dismissing her, he turned toward the sea before Maggie had taken two steps away, and she hurried to open the door for a pretty, fair-haired nurse. She was dressed in a closely fitted white uniform that was more beguiling than practical, but Maggie wasn’t in the least bit surprised. She pulled the door closed behind her but left her hand resting lightly on the cool wrought-iron door handle.
She was relieved not to have found her father on oxygen and hooked up to monitoring machines, but their conversation had still left her feeling torn and confused. She wished she knew the house well enough to find a quiet corner to think, if such a place even existed there, but she was a guest and first would have to introduce herself to her grandmother, aunt, and whomever else she might find.
Rather than return to the first floor by way of the kitchen stairs, she continued on down the long corridor to the wide, curved staircase at the center of the house. As she neared the landing, she overheard Santos and another man arguing in hushed voices, but it was immediately clear Santos was attempting to bar access to their father’s room, while the other man was equally adamant he would be welcome.
Maggie had no wish to intrude, but she was curious as to how the dispute would end and leaned over the banister to improve her view. Santos was standing at the bottom of the stairs while the other man had his back toward her. He was as tall as her half brother, dressed in black, and his thick ebony hair brushed his shoulders. He was a grown man, so clearly he wasn’t either Enrique or David Hyde-Fox, and Santos hadn’t mentioned any other men living there.
Perhaps he was Cirilda’s husband and Santos hadn’t had time to describe their uncle. Then, as if sensing her presence, the man turned and looked up at her. Framed by expressive brows, his eyes were as black as his hair, and his gaze traveled over her with an insulting sweep that made her draw back.
Perhaps it was only the stress of the day or the view down the curved stairs, but a wave of dizziness overtook her. She tightened her hold on the coiled wrought-iron banister and held on as the man brushed by Santos and came up the stairs. His defiant gaze remained fixed on her the whole way, and when he paused two steps below her, their eyes were nearly even.
Despite his forbidding glance, he was a remarkably handsome man. His deeply tanned skin was proof he spent his days outdoors, and there was an unmistakable aura of drama surrounding him. She longed to hear him speak.
“I’m Magdalena Aragon,” she offered as a prompt.
He nodded dismissively. “The American. I’ll give you the same warning I gave your brother. Stay out of my way.”
His voice had a harsh edge but
the same seductive depth as her father’s. He’d meant to frighten her, and had succeeded, but she raised her chin proudly rather than let it show. “With that arrogance, you must be another matador. What are you afraid of? That I might steal your best cape to make a cocktail dress?”
Her question brought a howling laugh from Santos, but the stranger’s expression barely softened. “Your sister has a keen eye, Santos. Bring her to my next corrida so she’ll see a real matador fight.”
“I’d sooner escort her to hell,” Santos shouted up at him.
“I’m Rafael Mondragon,” he announced proudly and continued on up the stairs.
The name meant nothing to Maggie, but as Rafael passed by her, she caught a faint hint of the cologne she recognized as her father’s brand. She turned to look up at him, but his sinewy grace quickly carried him down the long corridor and out of view. She found the whole encounter disturbing. As she made her way down the stairs, Santos observed her with an impatient frown. She was embarrassed he’d caught her staring at a man he heartily disliked and even more puzzled she’d been inspired to do so.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “His anger took me by surprise. Should I have blocked his way?
Without his sunglasses, Santos even more closely resembled their father. His eyes were a deep brown and his lashes long and dark, but there was no conceit in his bearing. “You could have more easily stopped a locomotive,” he declared, “and you needn’t have bothered. Father actually encourages Rafael’s visits, but the Gypsy dog doesn’t understand how badly he tires him.”
For the second time that afternoon, Maggie felt unsteady, and she leaned back against the newel post. “Is he really a Gypsy?”
