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