it was, but it was an icy-cold, deep, dark chocolate. She'd never cared enough about a man to dive into a pint of H?agen-Dazs when he left her, but after one taste of the sinfully rich chocolate, it suddenly made perfect sense.
Chapter Seventeen
"I should have had you drive my car," Santos complained.
"Mine will make it there, and you needn't thank me," Rafael assured him.
"Thank you, for what? Taking me to the hospital when I don't want to go? You didn't save my life yesterday either. I could have walked out of the ring on my own. The bull was already dead."
"Yes, he was, and I could have kicked your good leg out from under you and left you lying in the dirt beside him."
Santos had no quick response to that absurd comment, and they rode in silence for the next few minutes. "You know we're really fighting over Magdalena, don't you?"
"This isn't what I'd call a fight."
"We've never liked each other," Santos declared. "I don't know how Magdalena stands you."
"Have you heard her complain?"
Santos snorted. "No, but she will. She's her father's daughter after all, and you're, well, I can't think of an appropriately repulsive term to describe you."
Rafael swerved to the curb and parked. He turned toward Santos and rested his arm on the steering wheel. "I've been bullied by far worse men than you my whole life, but you keep Magdalena's name out of this."
"Or what? You'll pull a knife on me?"
"No, I'll haul you out of the car and stomp on your sore leg. How'd that be for a start? You'll need a steel rod to repair the shattered bone, and you won't leave the hospital for weeks."
Santos stared at the threatening gleam in Rafael's eyes and raised his hands. "Fine, you win, but if you hurt Magdalena, I'll come after you even if I have to do so on one leg."
Rafael drove the rest of the way to the hospital without another word, and he let Santos make his way into the emergency room on his own. Just as he'd expected, a nurse rushed forward to usher him into a treatment room without asking him to sign in and wait his turn. Rafael leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. He heard someone whisper his name, but they wisely stayed away.
Maggie washed and dried their ice cream bowls and put them away. She felt marginally better and went back into the living room to retackle Augustin's papers. More to keep her mind off Rafael and Santos than for concern for her grandfather, she removed all the Aragon-crested sheets. The dates were written in tiny numbers at the bottom she'd missed earlier, and she slid the pages into order now.
I saw Simone again today, the first sheet began. Maggie moved to the couch, slipped off her shoes and curled up. Augustin had described Simone in as loving detail as he'd shown in his drawing. She'd been a French girl with blonde curls and bright blue eyes. They'd met at a party given by a French friend of the Aragon family. Augustin had called on her the next afternoon, but her father had sternly warned him that his visits were unwelcome.
Maggie laid that sheet aside to read the next few. The tone changed as Augustin recalled their love story in letters he'd never mailed to Simone. He'd written about the times they'd been able to slip away together without her parents learning she hadn't visited a museum alone. They hadn't suspected her sudden interest in art was due to a young man they'd forbidden her to see. Then, without warning, Simone's family had returned to France.
He hadn't followed her and had regretted the decision for what appeared to be the rest of his life. The letters became melancholy poems. Some were separated by several years, others by only a few months, but there was no mention of Carmen or his children. He'd written only sad reminiscences of what some might dismiss as a youthful flirtation, but clearly Augustin considered Simone the great love of his life.
She wondered if Carmen had known he was in love with another woman when they married. Her father had told her his mother was from a fine family, and she'd surely have been a very innocent bride. Maybe while they courted, Augustin had truly believed he could love her, but instead he'd nourished his memories of Simone. He'd never written the French girl's last name, but Maggie would