Rafael raked his hair off his forehead with a distracted swipe and paced at the side of the oversized bed. "I have done everything you asked of me. I endured a wretched winter in Mexico and South America, appearing in bullrings so small I could barely twirl my cape without slapping a spectator. As for bulls, many were unworthy of the name. They might as well have been oversized goats. Still, I was praised and could have had my Alternativa in Mexico City. It's because of you that I came home for that honor."
Miguel responded with an amused smile. "I'm deeply flattered, of course, but it was time well spent if you learned how to make your kills in a single thrust. Or are you still hacking the poor beasts to death with your estoque?"
"Don't you dare laugh at me," Rafael warned darkly. "I can handle a sword."
Miguel shook his head sadly. "Yes, you can. But the distinction between a competent matador and a great one is razor fine. If you're satisfied with merely being competent, then you should have stayed in Mexico. If you wish to be among the truly great, the gran artistas, however, you will need another season as a novillero."
"No, I don't." Rafael swore emphatically, then, fearing Santos would hear him and escort him out, he lowered his voice. "I've followed you since my teens. I practiced your moves when I had to steal a tablecloth for a cape. I'm already better than Santos will ever be. I want my Alternativa now."
Miguel sighed deeply and turned his face toward the sea where the light shone with a muted gold. "Shall I tell you what I want, Rafael? At times such as these, it's simply to die in peace."
Appalled to have filled his mentor's head with such a dismal wish, Rafael halted at the foot of the bed. Miguel had taught him more than he realized, and with no family to cheer for him, he desperately needed the great matador's approval.
"Please," he begged softly. "Help me arrange an Alternativa now so that you may attend."
He strained to hear Miguel's reply, but after a long hush realized the ailing man had fallen asleep. He'd never begged for anything before, and although he hadn't been heard, he doubted he could stand the shame a second time. Badly disappointed his visit had gone so poorly, he stepped out on the balcony, but all he could see was the sea's churning violence rather than the soothing view of eternity Miguel Aragon sought.
Too restless to remain while Miguel slept, he was about to go when Santos and his American sister stepped out on the path below, and he lingered a moment to watch them. How he envied the striking pair their perfect lives. They'd been born with more than they could ever want, while he had only his dreams.
Obviously showing off, Santos strutted about, gesturing dramatically while Magdalena stood in a relaxed pose, concentrating on the sea. Her taunting humor had impressed him as much as her beauty, but women were a luscious distraction he intended to postpone until he was at last named matador de toros.
He glanced back toward his sleeping mentor and then pushed away from the balcony rail. He prayed Miguel had many months to live rather than only days, but there were times like this discouraging afternoon when he feared he had mere hours to gain Miguel's approval, and sadly, he'd again failed. If only there were someone he could depend on to further his cause.
An intriguing thought lured him back to the balcony, but Magdalena was no longer in view. He doubted Miguel would be favorably impressed if he seduced his American daughter, and he swiftly discounted the idea. But, like a gentle sea breeze, the enticing possibility teased his senses and stirred a nearly unbearable longing.
Chapter Four
Halfway through dinner, Maggie recognized the pen-and-ink drawings encircling the dining room as Picasso originals. A master of the dancing line, the renowned artist had captured the essence of a bull's grace and power in a variety of dramatic poses. She didn't want to consider the cost of such a spectacular series but could imagine no more appropriate home for the stunning artwork.
Santos gave her a gentle nudge to refocus her attention on their dinner companions. It was difficult to believe the woman seated at the foot of the table was her grandmother. Dressed in black crepe, Carmen Aragon was still a beauty who exuded an aura of dignity a