Fierce Love

Dedication

Fierce Love
is dedicated to our dear family friend Mark Torcasso, who inspired my imagination when he married a bullfighter’s lovely daughter.
 

Chapter One

Come to me.

Had Miguel Aragon not signed the checks for Maggie’s college tuition and expenses, she wouldn’t have recognized her father’s bold, angular writing.

Come to me.

The single sheet of fine vellum was embossed with the golden crest of the medieval kingdom of Aragon. She ran her fingertips lightly over the hastily inked signature.

Come to me.

The threat of tears stung her hazel eyes. She set the precious letter aside rather than allow the salty drops to ruin the only personal note she’d ever received from the father who had been so generous with his wealth but not his time. Her hand trembled as she tucked a long sable curl behind her ear.

Come to me.

Why had he summoned her now? she agonized, when she was a grown woman who’d successfully silenced the painful longings of a child’s lonely heart. Was it mere curiosity that had prompted this urgent summons? He would be sadly disappointed if he imagined her to be as lovely a blonde as her mother, a woman he’d divorced with heartless haste more than twenty years ago.

Come to me.

Repelled by the usually soothing view of the Tucson Mountains, she left the comfortably cushioned window seat and paced the living room. Peter Gunderson, her mother’s second husband, was the only father she’d known, although their relationship had been an awkward one.

She’d always been acutely aware that she wasn’t truly his, and now regretted not loving him as a daughter should. In the evenings, when he’d come home from his law office, her half sisters would erupt in gleeful giggles and throw themselves into his wide-open arms. She’d shyly glance up from her homework, wait for the end of Libby’s and Patty’s exuberant exchange with their beaming father and voice a soft, painfully self-conscious, “Hello.”

Her mother had never described her brief marriage to Miguel Aragon, and Maggie suspected the dear woman was ashamed to have ever known the Spaniard, let alone borne him a raven-haired daughter. Maggie had been too bright not to reach the logical conclusion that her existence created a lingering source of shame. They lived in Edina, Minnesota, a Swedish enclave, and she was surrounded by children with angelic, fair coloring. Her exotic looks often inspired cruel teasing.

The year she’d been in second grade, her mother had made her a Gypsy costume for Halloween with a beautiful black velvet skirt and vest. Her classmates had taunted her as though the word Gypsy itself were obscene, and she’d run home in tears. Her mother had been appalled her classmates had not appreciated the charming costume and had silenced her sobs with a captivating description of beautiful Spanish Gypsies who danced with a fiery grace. It was an image Maggie still cherished, and although the nickname Gypsy had stuck, she regarded it as a compliment.

She returned to the window seat, looped her arms around her bent knees and let her memories drift to a far more profoundly affecting conversation with her mother. Instantly, the remarkable afternoon came back in pristine clarity.

Her little sisters were napping, and after a whispered plea for silence, her mother had drawn her into the bedroom she shared with Peter. It was decorated in creamy peach wallpaper strewn with white roses. The girls were never allowed to play there, so being invited into her parents’ sanctuary was a rare treat. Unlike the traditional décor throughout the rest of the house, their bedroom was furnished with elegant antiques, and against the pervasive silence, the faint tick of the brass alarm clock atop the marble-topped table created a raucous din.

She’d held her breath as her mother knelt beside the wide bed to reach underneath for a mahogany box similar to the one holding their holiday sterling silver. They sat together on the thickly cushioned rug. Maggie was disappointed when the box held only faded newspaper clippings and old photographs.

“Perhaps I should have shown these to you before now,” her mother murmured apologetically, “but when you were small, you wouldn’t have understood who this man is.”

Now intrigued, Maggie had moved closer while her mother sorted through the family photographs. At last, her mother found two showing her at eighteen with a handsome, dark-haired young man. They were at a crowded fraternity party, and the photographer had caught them with their heads together, laughing as they shared the fun. In the second, they were dancing with their lithe bodies so closely entwined neither was recognizable except for their clothes. The third was a group of men, and Maggie easily picked out her mother’s boyfriend by his ready grin.

Her mother handed her a glossy eight-by-ten of the same young man dressed in a fancy gold suit decorated with dazzling embroidery. He’d slung a saffron-lined red satin cape over his shoulder and waved a small black hat in a jaunty salute.

“Is he dressed for Halloween?” she asked.

“I wish that he were, but no. That’s Miguel Aragon, your father, and he really is a matador, a bullfighter, as were his father and grandfather before him. He is praised as one of the finest to have ever practiced the sport, if such a ghastly enterprise can even be described as such.”

Even now, the memory of finally being allowed to see her father’s face inspired the same guilt-laced thrill she’d felt on that memorable afternoon. She at last had a face to go with her father’s name, and it was a marvelous surprise to discover how closely she resembled him. She’d wanted to hug the precious photograph to her heart, but she’d heard the anger in her mother’s voice and hadn’t dared make such a disloyal gesture.

“This must be our secret, precious,” her mother stressed. “I’ll leave the photographs here in the box, and you may look at them whenever you wish. Please don’t share them with your sisters or friends so I won’t be pestered with questions I’d rather not answer. Don’t mention them to Peter either. He’s such a good man, and you mustn’t hurt his feelings.”

Maggie nodded. She’d had only a shadowy impression of her father, but to know not merely how handsome he was but that he must surely be enormously brave and undoubtedly famous overwhelmed her with pride. That meant she wasn’t simply a lost Gypsy child as she liked to pretend, but a bullfighter’s daughter, and she could not imagine anything more exciting. It had to be a secret, though, as her mother had warned. Although she couldn’t tell another soul, her heart had filled with a nearly delirious joy.

No longer a dreamy child, her throat tightened with a renewed threat of tears. “What an idiot I was.”

The doorbell’s jarring buzz forced a glance at her watch, and, startled by how completely she’d been lost in childhood memories, she rose and hurried to the door. She was still wearing the simple gray knit dress she’d worn to school and apologized to her date.

“I’m so sorry. There was a department meeting after school, and I got home late.”

Craig Sager stepped into her apartment and pulled the door closed. His green eyes held a doubting gleam. “You drove out of the parking lot a couple of cars ahead of me, so you couldn’t have gotten home all that late. What’s up? You look as though you’ve been crying.”

She turned away, but in a single stride he caught up, slid his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. “Come on, I thought you’d learned it’s safe to confide in me.”

She tensed briefly, then gradually relaxed against him. Comforted by his warmth, she covered his broad, capable hands with her own. Her slender fingers brushed his freckled skin. “I’m sorry, but I’ve just received the strangest letter from my father.”

“I hope your mother’s not ill.”

She shook her head, and he nuzzled her cheek with teasing kisses. His sandy hair tickled her ear as he pulled away. “No, my mother and stepfather are fine. The letter is from the magnificent Don Miguel Aragon. Do you believe that? He waited twenty-six years to invite me to come for a visit, and even then he didn’t say please.”

Craig’s embrace melted into a warm hug. He was such a sweetheart, and so generous with his affection, but it wasn’t what she needed today. She took his hand and led him into the living room. She’d bought the condo for the stark mountain view and decorated it with a calming blend of pale neutral shades. She’d bought the spring bouquet on the glass-topped coffee table at the market yesterday, her weekly effort to make the place look like home.

“Will you show me the letter?” he coaxed. “Maybe I’ll read something between the lines you missed.”

She sank into the far corner of the cream-colored couch and traced the nubby fabric with her fingertips. “Will you please save your counseling skills for the troubled kids at school?”

He joined her on the couch but wisely kept his distance. “Sorry, but you’re the real challenge. Now show me the letter.”

She’d learned resistance was futile where he was concerned and leaned over to scoop the single sheet from the adjacent window seat. “The bastard’s a man of few words.”

“
Come to me.
” Craig shook his head. “I thought I’d have to ask you to translate, but he apparently speaks enough English to get his point across. How does he expect you to get there?”

“He included a voucher for an airline ticket, but I won’t use it.”

“Why not? It will do you a world of good to tell him to go to hell to his face.”

She swept her hair off her forehead and wished her feelings were as easy to control. The letter had surprised her, given her a jolt of hope, but there wasn’t even a hint of the love she’d always missed from her father. A threat of tears stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. “It probably would, but defying him might feel even better. God, when I think of how I worshipped him while growing up, it makes me ill. I read every book I could find on bullfighting when I was still in grade school, but I didn’t dare use them for book reports. There’s no more hero worship left in me now. If he didn’t care anything about me then, why should I cater to his whims now?”

Craig studied the brief command. “
Come to me,
” he repeated. “This doesn’t sound like an idle whim, Magdalena. It could be a desperate plea.”

She tossed her head, sending her silken mane into flying disarray. “What could he possibly want from me?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The obvious: forgiveness. But regardless of what he might need, you need him more.”

Her thick, dark lashes shaded her narrowed glance. “He was no more than a sperm donor, and it’s too late now for him to bounce me on his knee.”

He laughed. “Now there’s an image. Do you suppose now that he’s retired from the ring, he still wears his fancy suits?”

She leaned into the sofa cushions and closed her eyes. “Probably. I’m sorry. Do you mind if we skip the movie tonight? I adore the Coen brothers, but I just don’t feel up to going out.”

“Damn,” he cursed under his breath. “I want to be the one you adore.”

Maggie opened one eye. He was teasing her, but she knew it pained him she wasn’t ready to be more than an affectionate friend. She reached out and took his hand in a fond clasp. “What could my father have been thinking, Craig, that after all these years I’d be so hungry for a crumb of attention I’d leap on the next flight for Barcelona?”

He pulled her hand to his lips. “It must have been his hope. You’re an independent woman, Maggie, but your father’s influence colors everything you do.” She shot him another dark glance, and he promptly provided examples. “It’s no coincidence that you attended the University of Arizona where your parents met, or that you majored in Spanish and remained here in Tucson to teach. You’ve even taken flamenco lessons and dance so beautifully you could turn professional.”

She ignored his pointed references and shrugged. “I do have long legs, but I’m not tall enough to be a Las Vegas showgirl.”

“Don’t make a joke of this. You might not have toured Spain, but you’ve stalked your father your whole life.”

Upset with him now, she yanked her hand free and buried it in her lap. “As a child that’s certainly true, but I had an epiphany the year I turned seventeen. I’d been invited to the prom and when Peter brought out his camera to photograph my date and me, I realized my father had no pictures of me. He’d never requested my portrait nor sent his to me.

“It was such a simple thing. As we were growing up, Peter must have filled a dozen albums with photographs of my sisters and me, but that night, his passion for photography took on a whole new meaning. I saw it for what it truly was: a valiant attempt to capture the moment before the children he loved were grown and lost to him forever.”