Catch Me in Castile (10 page)

He grimaced. “Not sure you want to know, unless you like sausage balls filled with blood.”

“Eeww.” I shuddered. “Passing on
morcilla
. What about this,
‘calamares en su tinta’
?”

“Squid in its ink.”

“Double eeww.”

He laughed. “Shall I order for us?”

“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Have you decided?” the waiter asked. I glanced up from my menu to see a short man, on the downhill side of fifty, with slender shoulders and a voluptuous belly flopping over his belt. He was the first overweight person I had seen in Spain.

Straight-faced, Santiago said that we wanted the blood sausage and squid loaded with ink.

“What?” I gasped.

“
Mentiras
. Just joking. Salad, American style. Oysters. And, oh yes, paella.”

“American?” The waiter asked me.

“Guilty as charged.”

“You have come for the Tour?” he asked.

I frowned.

“The Tour de France,” Santiago explained.

“Isn’t that a bike race?” I asked.

The men exchanged glances. Santiago rolled his eyes. The waiter crossed his arms. “Not just any bike race,
señorita
. The best, most important race in the world.”

“Americans are more occupied with that game they call football and that other one where they hit a ball with a stick to follow a real sport. Ignorance.” Santiago’s lips curled above the glass when he took a sip of wine.

“Hey! You’re getting entirely too much enjoyment out of this,” I grumbled at him.

He winked.

“
Señorita
, your American, Lance Armstrong, won the Tour seven times. An impossible feat never accomplished before. He is a world champion! An American hero. All that after conquering cancer. How can you not be a fan?”

“Well, sure, I know who Lance Armstrong is—”

Santiago leaned toward the waiter conspiratorially. “When I lived in America, the Tour de France was hardly televised.”

Shaking his head, the waiter huffed all the way back to the kitchen.

“Jeez, you would think I made a derogatory remark about his restaurant. Or his mother. Why is he upset about a bike ride in France?”

“Race,” he corrected. “We take our European sports very seriously. I am happy we were not asked to leave.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes, I am.” He laughed. “Still, he’s the owner, try to stay on his good side. He might spit in your paella.”

“Maria says that too. I can’t believe that you Spanish people go around spitting in each other’s food.”

“What? I was kidding.”

“Gotcha.” I laughed. “All right. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

When he took a long drink, a wave of insanity washed over me. I forced myself to peel my eyes off the Adam’s apple moving with each swallow and vanquish all thoughts of nibbling kisses along his smooth neck.

“Why haven’t you brought more women here, to this beautiful spot?”

Those green eyes bored into mine. “Segovia is a special place for me. My parents used to bring us here for the day before going up the mountains to ski. After the accident, I didn’t want to share Segovia with anyone else. Before today.”

“Oh, Santiago, that means a lot to me. Thank you.”

After a long moment he said, “I was engaged to be married. Once.”

Cristina.
“I know.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you went through. You never heard from her again?”

He shook his head, staring at the fork he twirled with his fingers.

“What do you think happened?”

“I wish I knew, Erin. I hope she’s happy. Wherever she is.” Pain was etched in his eyes.

Lightly, I put my hand on his. “You deserve happiness too.”

A shadow passed over his face. He turned his hand over so our fingers were linked. “What about you? A beautiful woman such as yourself must have many
novios
.”

“Not when she’s married to her career.” Sadness crept in and settled heavily in my chest. “There’s not much time for a social life.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“I have a fish named Hairy.”

He grinned. “Never known a woman to be in love with a fish.”

I snorted and the wine I had just sipped went up my nose. “You’ve never met Hairy. The world’s most handsome Beta.”

“Hmm. Is it strange to be jealous of a Beta?” The darned twinkle in his eyes was getting my hopes up.

“What about Helena? Nothing romantic between you two?” I stared long and hard at him, searching every pore for the truth.

He didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. “We dated a while. She’s a wonderful lady, just not what I’m looking for.”

“Ah.” I swallowed. “Looking for someone in particular, are you?”

“Yes.” His gaze was intense, his answer saying it all. “I’m tired of being alone.”

Me too.
The thought popped up so fast in my brain I almost shouted it. Was the loneliness driving me insane?

He studied my face as if something remarkable and/or scary had just flashed across it.

Good grief, had I said any of that out loud?

I groped for humor to diffuse the situation. “So who is she? Describe this woman you seek. Or better yet, let me do it.”

He sat back in his chair, the grin slowly spreading. “All right.”

“Okay.” I pretended to push up my short sleeves and rubbed my palms together. “She’s got to be perfect, right? Size four everywhere, but the top.”

“Not necessarily. Someone your size would certainly do.”

That nearly knocked me off my chair. “Okay, so body perfection is not the issue. Let’s see. How about intelligence?”

“Smart, yes. For thought-provoking conversations, such as this one we are having right now. Who says your body isn’t perfect?”

I cleared my throat. “All right then. How about a woman who is devoted to her career and better at business than most men?”

He shook his head. “I’d love a woman who is good at whatever she does, even staying home and being a mother—”

“Oh no.” I groaned loudly. “You want a stay-at-home mother, preferably pregnant and barefoot, right?”

He raised his hand. “She can wear shoes.”

“Just what I thought.” I shook my head. “Most men either want a vixen, or a mother. You’re looking for—”

“A beautiful woman, inside and out, to help me provide a loving, stable, safe home for our family.” His gaze dropped with his voice. “All the things I never had.”

That got me. “Oh.”

“I don’t mind if she has a career, only our life together comes first. That’s all. She could be a stockbroker.”

“A stockbroker?” The bravado in my voice was gone.

“As long as she comes home at a decent hour each night. To me.”

I took a deep breath, willing my heart to beat slower before it arrested.

To him?

Thoughts of meeting him at the front door with nothing on but a hot pink negligee danced in my head. But then, that meant I would be the one at home waiting. Career-woman waited for no man.

Still, the goddess in me liked the pretty dream.

The waiter placed the basket of piping hot bread on the table.

“Good gravy! Did he just glare at me?” I whispered.

“Think so. You’d better try some of the fancy sweet talk you Americans are famous for.” Santiago grinned in earnest.

When he tore off a piece of bread I had another lovely opportunity to watch him. God, what a gorgeous man. That square jaw, those perfect lips…
Jeez, it’s hot in here.

“Tell me about your family.” He offered me the chunk of bread.

I took a few sips of ice water before answering. “My parents are both retired. They love to travel and even came to Spain a few years back. Now they’re off in some remote area of Africa. Peace Corps.”

“Very honorable. And you resemble, your father, or mother?” He studied my face, which was becoming warmer by the minute.

“Mom and I are like sisters. Except for the Southern drawl thing. We moved to California when I was two, but Mom still has the Texas-belle goin’ on.”

“You miss them.”

“Terribly. Mom and I talked every day until they ventured off to places where the land lines are few and cell phones rarely get signals.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“Maria’s the closest I have to a sister.”

A flood of emotion washed over his face. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that. She’s had some difficult times.”

“I know,” I said softly.

“You do? All of it?”

“She told me how you took care of things after your father passed away.”

His jaw tightened.

“What is your mother’s…condition?”

He took a deep breath. “A long story.”

I covered my mouth with my hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. Forget I asked.”

He held up his hand. “It’s okay. Mama can be frightening at times.”

“I am not afraid of her—well, not really anyway, a little, maybe. Is there anything that can be done?”

“The medicines for schizophrenia help with the symptoms but are no cure.”

I rubbed his knuckles with my thumb.
Poor guy, he’s got a lot to deal with
.

“The cold gray months of winter are the hardest on her. My father was the only one who could draw my mother out of the darkness. When he passed away…” He swallowed hard. “Papa was the love of her life. He died in a head-on car crash.”

“I am so sorry.”

“It was too much. Papa kept all the strings together in her head.” He laced his fingers together. “With his passing, her mind…” He opened his fingers and let his hands fall to the table.

“A great loss like that can ruin the best of us.” My Uncle Charlie stopped wearing clothes after Aunt Nancy passed.

“When the person is already fragile, like Mama was, it can break them.”

I thought about Maria and her rotting memories. “Can a person have a breakdown much later after a tragic loss?”

“Post-traumatic stress can show up years afterwards. This sort of thing happens to war veterans or survivors of a natural disaster.”

Hmm. Was Maria’s breakdown a result of her father’s death after all?

“Mama just slipped away from us. At seventeen I was suddenly responsible for Mama, Maria, me, everything. Then the doctors took over.” He turned his head from me.

I wanted to curl up in his lap, tell him everything was going to be fine and kiss away his pain.

When he turned his face to me again, I was shocked to the core. There was murderous fury in his eyes when he said, “Have you ever wanted to kill someone?”

“The doctors made me commit my mother to a mental hospital. Not a nice one, Erin. A place of torture, neglect, putrid death. That’s where they put my broken mother.” He choked up.

My hand flew to my mouth in shock.

After swiping at his eyes, he focused on his glass. He swirled his wine. I didn’t say a word. I knew he would talk through the pain on his own terms. People ate and laughed around the crowded room. At our table the silence grew thick between us. Dishes clanking all the way in the kitchen sounded loud.

His voice was low and hoarse when he continued, “My mother stayed three months before Maria and I were allowed to visit. They told us she was a danger to herself and to us.” He blew threw his lips in disgust. “We trusted the doctors. Doctors who didn’t care if she lived or died.”

He gulped his wine like it was water. I reached out and touched his hand.

His eyes didn’t meet mine as he relived the memory. “Clothes hung off her body, her hair was matted. Bedsores oozed across her back and legs. She stank like something unimaginable. Her eyes—”

I stopped him. I couldn’t bear for him to say more. “Horrible. What did you do?”

When his eyes rose from his glass to finally meet mine they were narrowed slits full of dark rage. “I carried her out of there. The doctors and nurses ran after me. I was young and scared, but I would not let them have her. I threatened to bring the police. Or a gun.”

“Did you have a gun?”

“There was one in Papa’s cabinet,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure how to use it, but I would have done anything to protect Mama.”

“Even if it meant going to jail?”

Fury washed across his face, coloring his cheeks, tightening his jaw. He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and glasses. “I wanted to kill them for what they did to her.”

I took his fist and opened it, my fingers lacing into his. Time passed slowly as I waited for him to recover himself. Eyes closed, he pressed his other hand to his forehead for a long moment. When he opened them, they were bloodshot and weary.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, the rage seeping away.

“Please, don’t apologize. You were very brave.”

“I swore to her she would never see inside one of those places again. That’s why I keep her at home, with a nurse. I became a doctor because no one deserves to be treated like old garbage. No one.”

“You’re a good man.” I blinked back the wetness filling my eyes.

Taking my hand, he brought it up to his cheek and rested his head on it. “I try to be, but some things are out of my control.” He turned my hand over and gently pressed his lips against my palm. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“I promise not to bring up any more difficult topics.”

“No problem,
querida
. I’ll answer any question you have.” He squeezed my hand gently.

The warmth from his touch rushed through my core. My whole body hummed. It didn’t make much sense to be falling so hard for a guy I had only known for a few days.

Not just any guy,
I told myself.
Look at that gorgeous, sweet, courageous, complex man. Who wouldn’t fall for him?

The waiter slopped my oysters down before me. Something had to be done. “
Señor
, listen.” I tugged on his shirtsleeve. “What if I promise to watch the, um…Tour…on television?”

“You can do better,” he said.

“What?”

“You two must come to my family’s lodge in the Sierra de Guadarrama foothills. In the morning my family and friends come to the lodge and we watch the race on a big-screen TV.”

“What?” It was Santiago’s turn to be surprised.

“Tomorrow is an important day,” he said. “One of the hardest stages, up the Pyrenees. The racers cross the border from France to Spain. You come and watch the greatest bike race in the world. With us.”

We both stared at him.

“Daniela tells me you saved her brother’s life,” he continued. “Diego is a national hero. He was chosen for the national
fútbol
team and will assuredly go to the Cup next year. We all owe you a debt, Doctor. Let us repay you a tiny portion.”

Santiago actually blushed. “Your offer is generous. Unfortunately, we came up from Salamanca for the day only.”

The man pressed on. “How do you expect your
novia
to learn? She needs to watch the Tour with Europeans to learn the nuances. The intrigue. Besides, we will have
tostón
—roasted suckling pig and
judiones
—huge white beans. You’ll never taste anything better.”

“Oh, the last time I had
tostón
—” Santiago’s eyes glazed over.

“It sounds like fun,” I said.

“You want to go?”

“Sure. I mean, if you do.” My ears were still echoing the “novia” part. “I’m on vacation, remember? You’re the one with responsibilities.” I folded my hands in my lap and waited for a sign. If he had feelings for me, he wouldn’t turn this opportunity down. I waited, biting on my lip.

He swirled the wine in his glass, his face unreadable. Debating. Weighing something in his mind, but what?

“
Señor
, do you have rooms to spare?” Santiago asked.

“Call me Rodrigo. My brother and I close the lodge in July for vacation, so friends and family can come and stay to watch the Tour together. You will enjoy it.”

“Very generous. Thank you.” Santiago’s smile was crooked. It was obvious this new predicament had caught him completely off guard.

“We love company. Although, beware my wife. She’s liable to talk your ear right off. I’ll go now and bring the salad—American style.”

I was afraid to ask how “American salad” differed from what the Spaniards ate.

Santiago shook his head in disbelief. “This is the first weekend I’ve had off in a month.”

I raised my glass. “To fate then.”

His smile remained crooked. What was going on up there in that beautiful head of his?

When Rodrigo brought the salad he smiled generously at me and I found a little rosebud alongside my plate.

“You’ve done it. He’s in love,” Santiago whispered.

“Don’t know, but maybe he won’t spit in my paella.”

“Unless he already did.” His dimples deepened.

“Santiago! You’re incorrigible.”

He leaned forward. “And you have amazing eyes. Sometimes brown, green, the color of honey. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”

Maria had said something about my eyes too. Her comment had not made me giddy nor dried my throat so I could barely swallow my delicious food.

Along with the bill, Rodrigo shoved a makeshift map into Santiago’s palm. “Here are the directions. No one will be there until tomorrow, so—”

“No one?” Santiago repeated.

“You two enjoy. Please feel at home,” Rodrigo said.

“I can’t believe this. Thank you so much,” I said.

“It is nothing,
bella
. Until tomorrow.” He kissed my cheek.

We walked out into the bright sunlight. I waved to Rodrigo who was still watching as we crossed the street.

“Come on, there’s more to see before we head up to the lodge.”

“Another surprise?” Swinging my leg over his bike, I wrapping my arms around him.
This day gets better and better.

“I have to admit, I’m enjoying this bike of yours,” I whispered in his ear.

He parked the bike. “Gets under your skin doesn’t it?”

“It plays havoc with my hair, that’s for sure.” I unstrapped my helmet and ran my fingers up my scalp to fluff the flattened strands.

“I’ll let you drive next time.” He waved the keys before my nose.

“Ah, no. Thank you. No.”

“It’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

“Nope. I’ll only ride this thing with an expert on the front. And you, Mr. National Champion—” I tossed the helmet to him, “—are the only expert I know.”

He grinned like a schoolboy. “Good.”

“I still can’t believe you raced, though. Motorcycle racing looks suicidal. What made you want to do that?”

The dimples disappeared, making me sorry I’d asked.

“When you feel out of control, when life turns on you…” He cupped my cheek with his hand. “You fight back. It seems reckless, but I didn’t want to die. Riding, fast and furious, was my way of punching death in the face.” He smiled, just a little. “I stole back the control he stole from me. And lived.”

I pressed my hands to my chest to still the tremor of panic.

He frowned. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

I nodded like a bobble-headed doll. “I’ve been out of control.” And strangely enough, my response was to drive fast and furious too. “Before.”

His thumb caressed my cheekbone. “Want to talk about it?”

I blew out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Not in this lifetime.”

He took a moment longer to read my face. “All right. I want to take you somewhere special.”

We walked several blocks. Every now and again I’d steal glances at him and he’d smile at me. It felt so…right. Like we’d always walked this way, my fingers curled around his. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“That’s it up there, the Alcázar,” he said.

The cream-colored palace with its sharply sloping blue-tiled roof was out of a dream, or off a Hollywood set. A wave of something not so fairytale-ish passed over me. “I’ve seen this palace before.”

“Disneyland? Walt Disney used this castle for his inspiration.”

“That’s probably it,” I lied.

“Come, let us go inside.” Santiago took my hand.

I hesitated on the stone bridge draping across a deep ravine. Dear God, a moat. A dry, unbelievably deep moat. I swallowed hard as a wave of phobia rolled over me again, just as it had on the balcony.

Stop this,
I screamed at myself. Just because Grandma Grace suddenly developed a fear of elevators while on one—requiring three men to carry her off by her elbows—did not mean I was catching a fear-of-heights.
I won’t allow it.

With half-closed eyes I took halting baby steps, concentrating on Santiago’s broad back until I’d made it across.

Santiago paid for a guide to take us on a private tour. He and I walked hand-in-hand behind the man, who rattled off historical events and the names of kings and queens who’d ruled Spain.

I murmured to Santiago, “The only Spanish monarchs I’ve heard about are Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand. Because of Columbus, of course.”

“Please to follow me,” the guide said. “Careful inside. The steps are narrow.”

“Steps?” I squeaked. “We’re going inside the tower?”

Santiago lightly touched my shoulder. “Do you want me to go first?”

“Can I wait down here?”

“And miss the amazing view?”

I gritted my teeth, focused on my feet climbing the stairs and wondered how in the world I was going to live through this one. It wasn’t just the heights. Something worse was triggering my panic button.

Santiago stepped out of the stairway first and took my hand. “Look at this.”

Blood drained out of my head. “I don’t think so.” I hid behind his broad back.

He cocked his head at me. “Don’t you want to see out the window?”

“Not in a million years. Look, I should probably tell you, today I’ve got a problem with heights.”

“By problem you mean—?”

“An uncontrollable, freakish, heart-stopping sort of thing.”

“That bad?” He stretched his hand to me. “Trust me.”

I wanted to, with every quivering fiber in my being. “Sorry, can’t.”

He frowned and his hand dropped to his side. “Maybe after a while.”

Not likely. My feet were cemented to the tiles. It was just too damned high. And there was no glass in the window. Who could possibly feel safe?

“Jeez, the wind blowing through there—” I shivered, pointing to the man-sized gaping hole, “—sounds like a woman crying.”

“They say it is the scream of a ghost.” The guide came up behind me.

My mouth went dry. “This is where she died.”

His head swung toward me. “You know of the legend?”

“Huh?” What would I know of Spanish legends? It was a feeling. No, not a feeling really, a thought, crystal clear like a flash—a young woman died here.

“Of the nursemaid ghost,” the guide continued. “Over five hundred years ago a servant fell to her death out of this tower window. They say she was in charge of Queen Isabel’s grandson and jumped when the prince died.”

I frowned at the man. “The child’s death was her fault?”

“No, historians think he died from natural causes. Smallpox, most likely.”

“You’re kidding! Nursemaids were expected to kill themselves when royal babies died?”

“From all accounts, she simply jumped,” said the guide. “She had no family of her own and loved the tiny prince very much.”

“How sad,” I said, still hiding behind Santiago.