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“This is such a charming house, I love exploring it. I’ll see you in a minute.” She went on up the stairs and into her room. She’d hung the lavender lingerie in the closet and carried it into the bathroom. She leaned close to the mirror and studied her flushed cheeks. Santos definitely got to her, no matter where they were. She was still embarrassed about the photo shoot that morning, but she envied the way he moved through every day with such natural confidence.
She waited until she heard him come upstairs with Manuel to pull on the nightgown, and then gave him a few minutes before she knocked on his door. He’d pulled off his shirt, and she hugged him just to feel his smooth bare skin. She slipped from his arms and went on out onto the balcony. A light fog hung over the sea veiling the stars, and giving the night a soft romantic mood. “Is every night this pretty?”
She turned to face him as he came up behind her and a laser’s red target dot appeared on his forehead. “Get down!” she screamed. She tackled him so hard he fell back into his room and the bullet meant for him slammed ineffectually into the balcony’s side wall.
Chapter Twelve
Terrified, she grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry, I know I hurt you, but stay down.” She crawled over to the nightstand beside his bed to pick up his phone and turn out the lamp. “Call the police.”
He rubbed the back of his head. “I’d no idea you liked to play so rough.”
“This isn’t a joke, Santos! Someone took a shot at you. If you’d gone out on the balcony first…I’m going to be sick.” She made a mad crawl for the bathroom and found the toilet in the dark. She turned on the light and stood to rinse out her mouth with water. She’d skinned her elbow hitting the floor and blood had run down her arm onto the beautiful nightgown. She used a washcloth to clean up and sponge the nightgown before the bloodstain set. She leaned back against the counter and listened to Santos talking on his phone. The bullet hole in the wall ought to convince the police he was in danger, before death caught up with him.
Manuel sat with them in the den, but he’d been watching television and hadn’t heard the shot. The detective questioning them, Fernando Nuñez, was a red-haired man with a flourishing mustache. He took what appeared to be precise notes but Libby couldn’t understand a word of Santos’s account until he translated for her. When the detective looked at her, she nodded. “That’s exactly what happened. Santos followed me out on the balcony and someone took a shot at him. If I hadn’t been there to see the red laser target dot, we’d need the coroner.”
She’d changed into her jeans and a black sweater, and with her hair pulled back, she looked as serious as she sounded. Her long sleeves hid the damage to her elbow. “This began with a mirror in the arena, then arson here, and now they’re shooting at him.” They’d shown Nuñez the photo Cazares had taken of Victoria Rubio and the man they believed to be the shooter. She lifted it from the coffee table and waved it.
“Find these two, and you should be close to solving the crime.”
The detective nodded thoughtfully. “What makes you believe this pair is behind the attempts on your life, Mr. Aragon?”
Santos translated his question for Libby then replied in Spanish. “She was watching the house earlier this month and attemp
ted to make friends with Libby’s sister. The photo comes from a protest demonstration at the bullring last week. The man followed Libby when she walked to the marina and spoke to her. They’re obviously hovering somewhere nearby. Victoria worked for a boutique down the beach. That’s where we got her name.”
Libby provided the name of El Sol y La Luna, and when the detective did not appear to be impressed, she stood. “Santos, we need to give him the drawings and e-mails sent to your agent’s office.”
“They’re on the desk,” he replied.
She handed the folder to Nuñez. “Look through this, please. The secretary has made a habit of throwing away any uncomplimentary fan mail so Santos never saw it. Now she’s saving everything for him. The horrible drawings must come from the man who took a shot at him.” She’d expected Santos to translate for her, but the detective answered her in English.
“Ms. Gunderson, ugly cartoons aren’t proof.”
“What do you call the bullet in the wall upstairs?” Furiously angry, she paced in front of the men. She now understood why Rafael had walked out of the police station when they’d refused to believe the mirror incident had been attempted murder.
Santos sent her a warning glare. “We appreciate your efforts, Detective Nuñez. If we receive any more threats in the mail, they’ll be sent to you.”
Nuñez rose and carried the folder with him. “Please do. Ask your security service to provide more frequent patrols by the house, and I wouldn’t go out on the balconies.”
Libby had to bite her lip as he left. His men had found no trace of the attack on the beach, and she doubted they’d discover anything new in the morning. They had pried the bullet from the wall to document the shot, but it was unlikely to lead to the shooter.
When the detective left, Manuel sat forward in his chair. “We need lights with motion sensors so if anyone comes too close, they’ll be blinded by the light.”
“He used a high-powered rifle,” Santos explained. “He could have been on a boat a half mile away. I will add the lights, though.”
Manuel rose. “Do you want me to help you up the stairs?”
Santos met Libby’s gaze. “No, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Be careful when you go out.”
“Do you think he would shoot the chauffeur for practice?”
“Yes,” Libby assured him. “We don’t know how long he was watching the house, hoping for a clear shot at Santos. If he was still watching when the police came, he has to know he missed.”
“I will be doubly careful,” Manuel promised on his way out.
Santos propped his right leg on the coffee table. “Pour yourself some Bailey’s, and I’ll have the scotch.”
Libby brought him a glass and retook her place beside him on the sofa. The Bailey’s tasted as smooth as chocolate milk, but she was careful to sip rather than pour it down her throat in a single gulp. “We’re in real trouble here, Santos.”
