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“He won’t mind. He doesn’t use it often. His fan mail goes to his website, where a virtual assistant in his agent’s office handles it.”
Libby’s eyes widened. “His website? Come with me. I want to see it.” She watched Maggie rise slowly from her chair and instantly suspected something was very wrong. “Are you sick? Do you have some deadly disease that’s forcing you to marry so soon?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, I’m perfectly healthy.” She hesitated a moment, and then pulled up her sleeves to show the new scars on her wrists. “My grandmother drugged me and slit my wrists, hoping I’d bleed to death before anyone found me.”
“She did what!” Libby shrieked.
Tomas looked out the kitchen door. “Señorita?”
“We’re fine, Tomas,” Maggie assured him, and the chef shrugged and returned to his kitchen.
“Rafael and Santos can tell the story better than I can, so let’s wait until tonight to talk about it.”
Libby rested her hands on her hips. “I don’t think so, and begin at the beginning.”
Although Rafael was intent upon revealing the truth, Maggie regretted broaching the subject. She returned to her chair and focused on the sea. “I suppose the story begins when our mother met Miguel Aragon.”
Libby pulled a chair around to face her. “Fine, begin there.”
Maggie needed a moment to organize her thoughts. She could only guess what had happened when her mother and father had met, but her grandmother Carmen’s hatred must have begun at that precise moment.
Rather than a suit, as his grandmother had insisted, Santos wore a pale blue silk shirt and gray slacks to dinner. Rafael’s clothes were equally fine, but he preferred black. Maggie wore a long terra-cotta skirt that brushed her ankles with a matching long-sleeved scooped-neck top. Libby’s blue mini-dress had a pretty swirling pattern, but all Santos saw were miles of gorgeous well-toned legs. He had swallowed only sip of a superb cream of broccoli soup when Libby spoke.
“Do you mind if I use your laptop while I’m here? I want to answer e-mail. I don’t plan to compose a thesis on it.”
She’d wound her hair into a knot atop her head and left a few tendrils brushing her neck. She had such beautiful hair he had to fight a primal impulse to rip out the pins and swim in it. “Use it as often as you like.”
“Thank you. Will it spoil your appetite if I ask you about the night Maggie got cut up while we eat?”
Santos set his spoon on his plate and drew in a deep breath. “I swear I can hear Carmen forbidding the topic as most unsuitable for the table.”
“Their grandmother belongs in the category of ‘one who must not be named’,” Rafael added.
“Let’s wait until later,” Maggie urged. “Barcelona is filled with all sorts of wonderful places worth seeing. We ought to make a list.”
“I understand. Attempted murder is off-limits.” Libby swallowed a spoonful of the delicious soup. “I want to see everything, not just the tourist sights.”
“We should take you to the Bailaora café for the flamenco,” Rafael suggested.
“Your sister is a wonderful dancer,” Santos added. “Do you dance flamenco too?”
“Maggie and I don’t have similar tastes. She’s a terrific big sister, but quiet, while I’m into sports and usually too loud. I’ll make it a point to lower my voice so I don’t frighten your countrymen.”
She had no idea how sexy she sounded, but Santos didn’t care what she said. “I’ll remind you,” he offered with a wide grin, and Maggie kicked him under the table. “Hey, I’m tryi
ng to be a good host.”
“You’re trying too hard,” Maggie warned.
Libby laughed. “You two are so funny. Have you hired a photographer for the wedding? We should have photos of you and Santos together.”
“Daddy can handle the photos,” Maggie replied. “Ana Santillan took gorgeous photos of Santos and me at the ranch. Her work is better than many professional photographers.”
Santos snorted. “Ana Santillan ought to stay in front of the camera.”
“The Ana Santillan, the supermodel?” Libby asked.
“Yes,” Rafael answered. “Santos knows many exciting women.”
