blame you for feeling as you do. I must admit that I share your opinion of Valdis. I must tell you also,” he reached for her hand and squeezed it, “that I accepted his invitation tonight only because I wanted to meet you. Now that I have accomplished that, I am tempted to go home rather than be in the company of Valdis and his spoiled sister. I have had the best of this night, I know.”
She said candidly, “I’ve heard that Maretta is in love with you, and that you won’t marry her. Valdis is very unhappy about it.”
He made a face. “Who would want to marry such a contrary woman? And she does not love me. She only wants to be Señora Mendosa. If I were a poor peasant, she would not give me a second look.”
Amber said nothing, feeling that it was not her place to comment further.
“Tell me,” he went on. “Why are you still here? I assumed you would return to America after your father’s funeral.”
She bit her lip to hold back the torrent of words. How easy it would be to pour out all her troubles to this man. He seemed so kind. But she did not know him, so she merely said, “I will leave…when the time is right.”
He gave her a strange look, as though he knew there was much more to be said.
As they reached the top of the garden, they heard the lilting guitar music, and the glow of dozens of lanterns spilled down on them.
Armand stopped abruptly, spinning Amber around to face him. “Before we go inside,” he whispered, grinning, “I want you to know how happy I am that we met. I am glad we had some time alone together, and I am sorry it must end now. I wish…” He took a deep breath, warm, hungry eyes on her face. “I wish I did not have to take you inside.”
Amber became light-headed. Here was a famous man, a fearless man, a most attractive man, and he desired her. They were standing very close, and since he was only a few inches taller than she, their lips were almost touching. “I…I thank you for saving my life…” she began, unable to think of anything else. It was an unnerving moment.
“I thank el toro for giving me the opportunity to place you in my debt, señorita.” He smiled. “If ever I should meet that one in the arena, I would be tempted to be merciful, for he has done me a favor.”
“I should think a fierce bull like that one would be just what you matadors want,” Amber said in a rush, grateful for a chance to step away from him.
He laughed, taking her hand and leading her to a nearby marble bench. They sat down together. “Let me explain,” he began. “That bull will not fight again. You see, he has won.”
She was genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. I thought the bull always had to die.” She stopped as she saw the look of pain on his face.
“When the matador dies, the bull wins,” he said sadly. “You heard Cord say that the bull has killed. It was last year, a great matador named Gosa Huerto. He bled to death in moments. By custom, the bull should have been put to death afterward, but he was Alezparito stock, and Valdis stubbornly insisted he be saved for use as a seed bull. In one year, he has sired twenty-seven offspring, so Valdis’s thinking was shrewd even if it went against custom.”
“So why can’t he be used in the ring again? There must be many matadors wanting to avenge Señor Huerto’s death.”
“You have much to learn.” He sighed Then, crossing left leg over right, he stared into the night as though wondering where to begin. Finally, he said, “A matador has but fifteen minutes to kill his bull. If the matador takes longer…if the bull is allowed to increase his knowledge of the matador…if he is allowed to fight again, then many matadors would die.
“You see,” he went on, “bullfighting is based on a first meeting between a wild animal and a man on foot. The bull has never been in the ring before. They are not taken to the ring except to be tested for bravery, when they are exactly two years old.”
“Why two
She said candidly, “I’ve heard that Maretta is in love with you, and that you won’t marry her. Valdis is very unhappy about it.”
He made a face. “Who would want to marry such a contrary woman? And she does not love me. She only wants to be Señora Mendosa. If I were a poor peasant, she would not give me a second look.”
Amber said nothing, feeling that it was not her place to comment further.
“Tell me,” he went on. “Why are you still here? I assumed you would return to America after your father’s funeral.”
She bit her lip to hold back the torrent of words. How easy it would be to pour out all her troubles to this man. He seemed so kind. But she did not know him, so she merely said, “I will leave…when the time is right.”
He gave her a strange look, as though he knew there was much more to be said.
As they reached the top of the garden, they heard the lilting guitar music, and the glow of dozens of lanterns spilled down on them.
Armand stopped abruptly, spinning Amber around to face him. “Before we go inside,” he whispered, grinning, “I want you to know how happy I am that we met. I am glad we had some time alone together, and I am sorry it must end now. I wish…” He took a deep breath, warm, hungry eyes on her face. “I wish I did not have to take you inside.”
Amber became light-headed. Here was a famous man, a fearless man, a most attractive man, and he desired her. They were standing very close, and since he was only a few inches taller than she, their lips were almost touching. “I…I thank you for saving my life…” she began, unable to think of anything else. It was an unnerving moment.
“I thank el toro for giving me the opportunity to place you in my debt, señorita.” He smiled. “If ever I should meet that one in the arena, I would be tempted to be merciful, for he has done me a favor.”
“I should think a fierce bull like that one would be just what you matadors want,” Amber said in a rush, grateful for a chance to step away from him.
He laughed, taking her hand and leading her to a nearby marble bench. They sat down together. “Let me explain,” he began. “That bull will not fight again. You see, he has won.”
She was genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. I thought the bull always had to die.” She stopped as she saw the look of pain on his face.
“When the matador dies, the bull wins,” he said sadly. “You heard Cord say that the bull has killed. It was last year, a great matador named Gosa Huerto. He bled to death in moments. By custom, the bull should have been put to death afterward, but he was Alezparito stock, and Valdis stubbornly insisted he be saved for use as a seed bull. In one year, he has sired twenty-seven offspring, so Valdis’s thinking was shrewd even if it went against custom.”
“So why can’t he be used in the ring again? There must be many matadors wanting to avenge Señor Huerto’s death.”
“You have much to learn.” He sighed Then, crossing left leg over right, he stared into the night as though wondering where to begin. Finally, he said, “A matador has but fifteen minutes to kill his bull. If the matador takes longer…if the bull is allowed to increase his knowledge of the matador…if he is allowed to fight again, then many matadors would die.
“You see,” he went on, “bullfighting is based on a first meeting between a wild animal and a man on foot. The bull has never been in the ring before. They are not taken to the ring except to be tested for bravery, when they are exactly two years old.”
“Why two
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