Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

again. “Mrs. Garcia de la Vega, thanks for a lovely meal, but it’s time I head back to Madrid.”
    “Madrid?” Fernando and his mother parroted together.
    “Yes, Fernando. Madrid. That’s where I have an apartment—with an included Internet connection.”
    Mrs. Garcia de la Vega set aside her empty water glass. “We have an Internet connection.”
    Jess raised an accusatory eyebrow at Fernando. “Here?”
    “Naturally,” his mother continued. “Premium satellite. What else would you expect?”
    What else would she expect, indeed? Nothing more than Fernando’s continued conniving. The man didn’t have an honest bone in his body!
    “But Jessica,” he began, pleading, “our arrangements. You and I should talk…alone.”
    “I think that’s a very good idea,” his mother said grimly. “This situation sounds serious. It is not one you settle in haste.”
    Fernando stood with a gallant air and took her by the elbow. “This way, querida . We wouldn’t want a woman in your condition taxing her nerves.” Then he called back over his shoulder, “I’ll see to it she calms down, Mamá.”
    As viciously as she could, Jess stomped her three-inch heel into Fernando’s loafer.
    “Ouch!”
    “Son?” Mrs. Garcia de la Vega inquired as they slipped out the door.
    “It’s nothing. I just felt a sudden…twinge,” he said, leading Jess from the room.
    “Of guilt, I hope,” Jess spewed under her breath.

    “All right, Fernando,” Jess whispered as Consuelo whisked by them, carting a chilled bottle of water. “What precisely was going on in there?”
    Fernando raked his fingers through his hair, then addressed her with a strained expression. “The truth?”
    “That would be a nice start.”
    “Okay, I’ll tell you, but not here.”
    “Not here? Then where?”
    Consuelo passed back by them, and Fernando called after her. “Consuelo, if you please, ask Don Pedrito to saddle up two horses.”
    Jess stared at him aghast. “First I’m pregnant; next I’m riding?”
    “My mother rode until she was full term.”
    “Oh! That’s what happened to you! Too many prenatal bumps to the noggin!”
    “You can ride?” he asked.
    She set her hand on her hip. “I was raised in a saddle.”
    “That settles it.”
    “ Gracias , Consuelo,” he said to the housekeeper, who studied them agape. Consuelo backed away, clearly not wanting to miss one moment of the action.
    “What’s all the shouting about?” Señora Garcia de la Vega called from outside.
    Fernando pressed his palms together in a prayer position. “Please, dear Jessica, I’m begging you—for only a few more hours of your time. The rest of your life…whatever you opt to do with the information…those choices are yours.”

    Mrs. Garcia de la Vega stood in her spacious kitchen sternly appraising her son. “Are you sure you should take a woman in her condition riding? She’s an American, you know, on the soft side.”
    “She’s as healthy as a horse . Kickboxes, even. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
    “Kicks boxes, eh?” his mother asked. “And then what will she beat up next? Your heart, more than likely.”
    “No, Mamá, you misunderstand. It’s an exercise.”
    His mother frowned, fine lines creasing her brow.
    “Well, I hope she leaves kicking behind once she’s a mother. It doesn’t sound dignified and surely won’t prove any sort of example—”
    He fondly patted his mother’s cheek. “I’ll put her on Valencia, okay? She’s as gentle as a lamb, and too old to trot too fast.”
    “We need to talk about this, Fernando. In detail.”
    “I know,” he said, briefly holding her gaze, “but not yet.”
    “This has all happened so quickly. I didn’t even know you were dating!”
    “We more or less skipped over that part.”
    Señora Garcia de la Vega inhaled a sharp breath and narrowed her gaze. “Does this have something to do with your birthday?” She leaned into the center island as Fernando packed libations for his trip. Some noncarbonated water and a bottle of a regional Rioja. Almost as an afterthought, he tucked a wedge of Manchego cheese and a small hard roll in his satchel.
    “I’m sorry,” he asked blithely, “did you say something?”
    She stood with her arms akimbo, lording over her kitchen. The moment Consuelo had sensed the ensuing fireworks, she’d made herself scarce.
    Señora Garcia de la Vega disapprovingly shook her head. “You’re forgetting the almonds. And, oh yes, the olives.”
    “