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."
A tear trickled down her cheek and fell unheeded. "Don Miguel missed all that, Craig. He has no idea if I was an adorable little girl with ribbons in my curls or a waif with long straight hair and sad eyes. He just never cared enough to ask."
When she glanced toward him, she wondered why she'd never realized how much Craig reminded her of her stepfather. He was the