Page 127 of Fierce Pride (Bullfighter's Daughter 2)

Santos glanced around the sparsely furnished living room of Maggie and Rafael’s new apartment and shook his head. “Do you need a furniture allowance?”

Maggie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “No, we don’t, and don’t you dare say that to Rafael.”

“I’ll not risk being thrown out the window, but you’re an Aragon and should expect better.”

“I’ve already got the best, and furniture doesn’t matter. I’m glad to see you off your crutches. How does your knee feel?”

“Better every day, but I’m not ready to take up flamenco yet.”

“You’d be good if you did.”

Rafael greeted Santos as he came in and hurried to kiss his wife. “I’m glad you could come tonight. Maggie’s a great cook.”

“It’s difficult to ruin a chicken,” Maggie replied. “Santos brought some incredibly good wine. Would you like a glass?”

“Let me clean up and then I will.”

Santos waited until Rafael had left the room to whisper, “Is he always this nice?”

Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Yes. Did you think he’d shout and clomp around like a caveman?”

Santos shrugged. “With him, one never knows.”

Maggie came close to hug him. “We’re happy together. Why does that surprise you?”

“I surprise easily.”

Maggie stepped back to study his sorrowful expression closely. “Is that the problem? You’re surprised by how much you care for Libby, when you’ve never been serious about another woman? Is that what’s twisted you in two?”

He pulled away. “I’ll leave now if you’re going to torture me all night over Libby.”

He was well dressed as always, but his hair had grown too long, and he looked so sad and thin it broke her heart. “You’ve lived the life you had to. Now you have a choice. Don’t be like Grandfather Augustin and spend the rest of your days longing for the woman you let get away.” She raised her hand. “I promise not to say another word about Libby.” She returned to the kitchen to toss the salad.

Rafael came into the living room, rolling up the sleeves of a clean shirt. “Have you heard from Libby?”

; “We’re not mentioning her,” Maggie called from the kitchen.

Rafael stepped close to whisper, “You look so damn good, but there’s nothing inside.”

Santos caught his temper at a controllable smolder. “Out of respect for my sister, I’ll ignore your ignorant opinions.” He took a step toward the kitchen. “Maggie, Cirilda sent a postcard from Tahiti. It took it a couple of weeks to get here, but she and Alfonso were married there and are in no hurry to come home. They might be back by now, but I’ll wait for her to call me.”

“I’ll wait too,” Maggie replied. “I feel sorry for Alfonso, but he behaved so badly at our wedding, maybe they deserve each other.”

“Maybe,” Santos agreed. He stayed by the kitchen doorway to talk with her rather than pretend to converse with Rafael.

He did his best to be a pleasant dinner guest, and the rosemary chicken was superb, but Rafael’s insult and Maggie’s attempts to be helpful echoed in his mind until his head ached badly by the time he left. He’d driven the SUV himself and felt totally and miserably alone.

He’d grown up missing the people who’d come and then disappeared from his father’s life, so the painful emotion was nothing new. He just hadn’t expected sending Libby home to hurt worse every damn day. He had to continue to strengthen his knee so he wouldn’t limp into a bullring. He had to make certain little Miguel Angel had a good home. He worried about the twins being pushed into the fashion world too young. Then there was Fox, whom he’d given the worst possible advice on women. Thankfully, Fox didn’t appear to be following it with Patricia, who’d probably tear out the kid’s heart any day.

With the problems he had to handle, he didn’t understand how anyone could marry and intentionally welcome the inevitable problems children would bring. It would be like committing suicide in tiny, excruciating increments.

He pulled his car into the garage and walked out onto the patio. The nights were cooling, and a chill wind blew off the water. Libby would be back at the university, probably dating guys who knew how to ski or dance in snowshoes or whatever guys did in Minnesota to impress girls. But no matter how many times he told himself he’d done the honorable thing, he wished with all his heart he hadn’t had to send her home.

Sunday afternoon, Patricia came running up the stairs and burst into Libby’s room. She waved the new Cosmopolitan magazine. “Have you seen this?”

Libby looked up from her computer. Her sorority sisters were more into their classes and sports than celebrity fashion, and she doubted any of them subscribed to the magazine. She knew what Patricia was going to show her, though. “I didn’t realize they were buying ads here.”