How to Marry a Matador (Exclusive Sneak Preview) by Ginny Baird

cathedral. Rumor held that when the
Catholics drove the Moors from Spain, they’d razed everything
connected to Islam, save a few lovely relics they’d found too
abundantly beautiful to destroy. There was the Alhambra Palace in
Granada, the famed mosque in Córdoba, and this charming tower here,
which the Catholics had bastardized by transforming the place once
used for calling Muslims to prayer into a bell tower aimed at
beckoning Catholics to mass.
    It was a warm and sunny afternoon, a
comfortable glow settling over the ancient part of the city and the
whitewashed former Jewish Quarter flanking La Giralda’s edge. All
afternoon, they’d meandered cobblestoned streets, stopping here and
there for a chilled white sherry or a pitcher of sangria, with
small rations of snacks, or tapas , offered on the side.
Fernando had checked them into a nice hotel with a lovely courtyard
behind a wrought-iron gate, stating it was never wise to do
business in Seville in the afternoon. Seeing a magistrate was best
reserved for the severity of morning, before people had enjoyed
their midday meal, a nice bottle of wine, and the accompanying siesta. With him being the local and all, and more familiar
with the landscape, Jess had naturally decided to defer to his
judgment. They clearly couldn’t have some magistrate mucking things
up on account of a good Rioja.
    Fernando pointed out other landmarks around
them, including the buildings of a more modern Seville across the
waters of the Guadalquivir, and the remnants of an ancient maritime
fortress situated on this side of its banks.
    “I thought tonight we’d take in a flamenco
show,” he told her.
    “But we saw one of those in Madrid.”
    “Imposters!” he declared with a laugh.
“Flamenco comes from the south. It’s a blend of historical regional
dance influenced by our Moorish cousins. What you saw in Madrid is
adequate but for the tourists. What I’ll take you to here, you’ll
also see children dance in the streets, especially at Feria.”
    “Feria?”
    “It’s the big festival in the spring,
connected to the sherry harvest. You’d love it, I think.”
    She gazed back at him over her shoulder,
captivated by hypnotic green eyes.
    “There are lots of horses…” he tempted.
    “Why are you so sure I like horses?”
    “Because,” he said, giving her a little
squeeze, “I’ve seen how you ride.”
    “Oh? How’s that?”
    “Like a woman who was born to the saddle,” he
said, giving her neck a kiss.
    A group of school children had paraded onto
the parapet. A couple pointed and giggled at Fernando’s public
display of affection while their teacher scorched them with a
disapproving glare.
    “Come on,” he said, breaking away and taking
her hand. “Let’s go have a late lunch.”
    “And think about taking a siesta?” she asked
hopefully.
    “Absolutely,” he said with a grin.
     
    Eve gawked as the cabbie pulled through the
gate of the expansive hacienda.
    “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
    “Casa Garcia de la Vega, sí. ”
    “Maybe we’ve got the wrong one.”
    “There’s only one family in town with that
name.”
    He came to a halt at the height of the
circular drive between a flowering rose garden and an imposing
front door. For the first time since she’d book her Iberia flight,
Eve felt a sense of panic. What if she’d done the wrong thing in
coming here? What if these people were lunatics and stocked the
place like a fortress with knives and guns? Even worse, what if
they were terribly good people, high-bred and well-mannered, and
Jess became furious at her for becoming involved? Eve swallowed
hard and stepped from the cab, thinking it was no time to chicken
out now.
    She rapped three times, and, after what
seemed like an eternity, an old man in dirty britches and holding
garden tools answered. “ Bueno ?” he said by way of
greeting.
    “Ah yes,” she answered in crisp, clear
Castilian. Eve was very proud of herself for being the first