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He was polite and yet cool. Libby recognized the cause of his standoffish attitude. She’d inspired it often enough. “Yes, on lakes.” She moved close as he opened the door for her. “Did you really think I’d sleep with you last night?”
“What? No. I don’t need to hit on houseguests.”
She’d braided her hair in a single plait and swung it over her shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Then again, houseguests will soon be gone, and you can go on to the next woman on your list with no lingering regrets.”
Santos leaned against his car and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you deliberately trying to pick a fight?”
“No, just thinking aloud. Did Rafael have a lot of girlfriends before he met Maggie?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve only seen him around a bullring and when he came to visit my father.”
“Didn’t the detective cover his private life?”
“Let’s talk on the way.” Once they were in his SUV, he waited until they were a couple of blocks from home to begin. “Rafael grew up hustling on the streets. He may have worked here and there, but there’s no record of it. When he left prison, he was set on becoming a matador, and for whatever reason, my father encouraged him.”
Santos swung into the marina’s parking lot and found a space. He cut the engine and turned toward her. “He’s as slippery as smoke, and other than the time he spent in prison, it’s impossible to track his movements.”
“Could he have been a government agent?”
He laughed. “No, before prison he would have been too young. He’s simply a Gypsy. They come and go as they please.”
When they left his car, he keyed in the code for the gate, and she walked beside him along the dock, carrying the canvas bag. The marina was home to both elegant sailboats and sleek cabin cruisers, with the wealth of the owners as deep as the sea.
“Could Rafael have used another name?”
“Maybe. But if he’d had another identity, someone who’d known him would have tattled to the tabloids when he became a matador. Those papers thrive on sleaze. Here’s my boat. She was named La Tetera Azul a couple of owners ago. The Blue Teapot makes no sense to me, but I haven’t thought of a better name.” He pulled off the blue canvas cover, folded it and tossed it into the storage chest on the dock. He handed her a lifejacket and helped her into the boat before rigging the sails.
“Don’t change the name. The Blue Teapot has real potential for a children’s book,” she mused. “One fair day, a matador set sail in the Blue Teapot. There could be a storm, and he’d use his cape for a sail. The artwork could be dazzling.”
“My agent is always seeking new ways to sell my image, but as the hero in a children’s book hadn’t occurred to either of us. Now let’s just sail along the coast and not think about anything other than the sea and breeze.”
Libby understood. He wanted her to shut up. At nineteen feet, La Tetera Azul had two bunks below, but she’d thought he’d own a larger boat. Not a replica of the Cutty Sark, but something more impressive. She supposed he was used to being impressive enough on his own, and he certainly was. No matter what he did, he moved with the same confident swagger as Rafael. Maybe it was a Spanish thing. Whatever it was, both men had an abundance of sex appeal. From what she’d seen of Santos, he could also back it up with performance.
She smiled sweetly to hide the totally inappropriate direction of her thoughts. He took his place on the port side bench with his hand on the tiller, and she sat quietly opposite him. He handled the boat with a practiced ease to guide them out of the marina into the sea. His gaze remained fixed on the sails and water, while hers settled on him. She’d dated plenty of cute boys, but Santos Aragon was a passionate, good-looking man.
The breeze ruffled his hair, giving him a wild look that was all too attractive. He was definitely too much for her. She caught herself staring and looked away, wishing there were far more to him than movie-star looks. Then again, Maggie had warned her there wasn’t. She could find out for herself, although that wasn’t why she’d come to Spain. She’d try and think of him as a dangerous detour, but he was so damn tempting.
She leaned back to catch the water spray with her fingers. “Do you suppose Rafael knows how to swim?” she asked.
He looked at her askance. “What are you suggesting, that I take him sailing and let him drown?”
“No, of course not. I was merely thinking there might be some limit to his charms.”
“Think in another direction.”
Libby nodded. “Aye, Captain.” The Thermos bottles they’d brought were by her side. She poured coffee for him and some for herself. The cool morning breeze tugged at her braid. Gliding over the water appealed to her sense of adventure. After all, she had a Viking heritage. Of course, it had been the men who’d sailed and the women who’d run the farms while they were away. She wouldn’t have liked being left behind and was grateful she’d been born in the twentieth century, where life held a different type of challenge. She glanced toward him and found him regarding her with a curious gaze.
“What?” she asked.
“I thought you liked sailing, but you look a thousand miles away.”
All in an effort to distract myself from you, she couldn’t dare admit. “It’ll sound silly, but I was daydreaming about Vikings.”
He laughed. “Seafaring gangsters? Is that your type of man?”
“I’ll thank you not to malign my Scandinavian ancestors. I prefer to think of Vikin
gs as explorers and adventurers.”
