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Santos strummed it lightly and turned the pegs to bring it in tune. “I learned to play at the ranch when I was a kid and have probably forgotten every song I knew. I need something to do besides read and look at the sea, so I might as well practice.”
“You might want to serenade a woman someday. Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, there’s a pair of binoculars in the bottom drawer of the desk. Take them upstairs and go out on Maggie’s balcony. See if you can catch someone watching the house. Maybe we should ask every matador in Spain if he’s also gotten threats.”
“I have a website but haven’t kept up with the comments. I should shut it down now that I’ve retired. What about the tabloids? They’d print the eyeless portrait on the front page, and it would warn the artist to stay away.”
“I don’t want to go public with it, not yet.” He ran through a few basic chords and looked pleased he could remember them.
Rafael took the binoculars upstairs. Maggie had been staying with him until her parents
arrived, and she was only at the beach house for the week. This was the room she’d used when she’d arrived in Barcelona in June. He stepped out on the balcony and waited a moment to raise the binoculars. There were people on the beach, some with children, sailboats gliding by, a man jogging along the shore. It was a peaceful scene, so if they were being watched, it was being done without causing a ripple of alarm.
He went across the hall to the room Santos’s stepbrother Fox used when he visited. The balcony had a view of the neatly landscaped front yard and the road. Many of the neighboring homes had circular driveways, so few residents parked on the street. There were cars parked nearby, guests, perhaps, and a plumber’s van, but the real life of the houses took place on the shore side. He returned to Maggie’s room for a last look but had nothing to report.
He put the binoculars away and leaned back against the desk. “There’s nothing suspicious, but I could have missed it.”
“That’s reassuring. How does this sound?” He played a few notes and looked up.
Rafael recognized the popular tune. “Very good. Women love music. Keep practicing. I’ll see you tonight.”
Santos let him go and struggled to play more of the song. While he couldn’t dance flamenco, maybe he could impress Libby with music. Playing the guitar would keep his mind off the hideous portrait, but he had the eerie feeling the artist was hard at work on something worse.
The Gundersons arrived home tired after sightseeing all day. The avenue of Las Ramblas stretched longer than a dozen football fields and held tarot card readers, flower vendors and stalls filled with caged birds. All manner of items the sellers hoped tourists could not live without, as well as a huge outdoor market, La Boqueria. The wide street was lined with hotels, historic mansions, including an opera house, shops and cafes. It was a fascinating place to visit, and the day had passed so quickly they’d not realized the time until the sky began to grow dark.
Libby let the rest of her family go on upstairs while she checked the patio for Santos. He’d been in her thoughts all day, and she was disappointed not to find him. She’d seen Mrs. Lopez downstairs and risked going up the back stairs to reach her room. As she passed Santos’s door, she heard guitar music and knocked lightly. He invited her in.
He was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard. “I’m working on a song I’m calling The Matador Blues.” He played a few notes and made a notation on a sheet of paper on the nightstand.
“That’s pretty. Play it again,” she called from the doorway.
“Only if you’ll come in.”
She stepped into his bedroom but left the door open behind her. “There, I’m in.” All day long, he’d occupied her thoughts. She liked him so much it frightened her, but she didn’t want to miss out on what could very well be one of the best experiences of her life. She double-dog dared herself to grab it.
He played it again for her. “That’s the chorus. I’ll write a verse when I get this part right. It has to sound dark and moody, but not pitiful. It’s a challenge.”
“I’d no idea you wrote music.” Clearly the man had no end of talents.
“I hadn’t before today.” He set the guitar aside. “I didn’t understand what you meant this morning. Was it yes or no?”
His relaxed posture and easy smile made him appear G-rated. She knew better. He posed a risk in every possible way, but she’d count on her Viking blood to keep her safe. She perched on the foot of his bed. After a day sightseeing, she could feel her cheeks were flushed. Self-consciously she twisted her long braid but didn’t undo it to catch the stray strands. “I hadn’t made up my mind. Barcelona is a fascinating city, and I’d love to stay longer. But someone tried to kill you last Sunday. I don’t want you to believe I’d stay simply for a chance to play detective.”
“I don’t care why you stay as long as you do. I was joking about your being my bodyguard.”
“I know, but the fact is, you need one.”
Patricia called to her mother out in the hall, and he waited until they heard doors close to reply. “Maybe. I’ll consider hiring one after the wedding.”
“Are you ever serious about anything?”
“I’m dead serious in a bullring, but with three bulls out to kill me every Sunday, another threat to my life isn’t anything new. It is for you.”
He was wearing white socks, and she reached for his left foot and pressed her thumbs into the ball and rubbed. “True. I’m not used to evading death every week. You’ve definitely got the makings of a blues song right there.”
She was paying such tender attention to his foot, he found it difficult to do anything but watch. She had beautiful hands with long slender fingers he’d rather see wrapped around his cock. “I hope so.”
“Let’s say I stay as your personal trainer. Would you object if I asked my dad to write up a contract so we’ll be clear on the terms?”
